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 THE FIELD OF 
 HONOUR
 
 'By the Some ^Author 
 
 LOVE'S LEGEND 
 
 Demy 8vo. ios net 
 
 "Nothing in his book is more wonder- 
 fully done than his manner of showing 
 the community of all living things." 
 
 Saturday Review 
 
 " We can only thank the author for a 
 book worth at least a dozen ordinary 
 novels." — Standard 
 
 CONSTABLE & CO. LTD., LONDON
 
 THE FIELD OF 
 HONOUR 
 
 BY 
 
 H. FIELDING-HALL 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 "THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE," ETC. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 CONSTABLE & CO. LTD. 
 
 1915
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. THE CALL AND THE ANSWER 3 
 
 II. HOW BRADFORD REJOINED HIS 
 
 REGIMENT 11 
 
 III. THE BELL-RINGER 43 
 
 IV. FROM FATHER TO SON 71 
 V. HANNAH 105 
 
 VI. THE FIELD OF HONOUR 133
 
 THE CALL AND 
 THE ANSWER
 
 THE CALL AND 
 THE ANSWER 
 
 W 
 
 HEN the harvest time was 
 
 near, 
 When the wheat was in the 
 
 ear 
 And the fruit was growing mellow with 
 the kisses of the sun, 
 Through the lazy dreamy haze 
 Of those golden summer days, 
 From the East there echoed suddenly the 
 warning of a gun. 
 
 With a flash of lurid flame 
 Right across the sea it came, 
 And its echoes broke in thunder with the 
 surf along our shore, 
 Saying, " Give, be quick and Give, 
 Every nation that would live 
 Must spend life and blood and treasure, or 
 must die for evermore."
 
 THE CALL & THE ANSWER 
 
 At the summons hoarse and deep 
 England raised herself from sleep 
 And looked out across the Channel to 
 the battle-field afar. 
 "Did I hear a gun ? " she said, 
 " I have fleets, I'm not afraid. 
 I will give my ships and seamen as my 
 sacrifice to war." 
 
 So she turned to sleep again, 
 But from off the Flanders plain 
 Came the battle thunder louder, more 
 insistent in its call : 
 " If ye would that England live 
 Ye must Give and Give and Give, 
 For I cannot sate my hunger with a 
 sacrifice so small." 
 
 All the island breezes heard, 
 All the winds took up the word, 
 And they spread it from the Channel to 
 the far off western sea : 
 
 4
 
 THE CALL & THE ANSWER 
 
 " If you would that England live 
 You must Give and Give and Give. 
 You must pay the price of freedom that 
 your island still be free." 
 
 All the English heard the call 
 From the noble in his hall, 
 From the merchant at his counter to the 
 banker by his till, 
 From the shepherd on the downs 
 To the shopman in the towns, 
 To the miner in his gallery and mill-hand 
 in his mill. 
 
 Gallant lads in thousands came. 
 " War," they said, " is but a game. 
 We will play for England's honour while 
 our bodies hold our breath. 
 All our boyish days are done, 
 Change our bat into a gun. 
 You must give us shells for footballs and 
 we'll kick the goals of death." 
 
 5
 
 THE CALL & THE ANSWER 
 
 Still the summons did not cease : 
 " Would you keep your island peace 
 Then the wife must give her husband and 
 the father give his son. 
 You must send to me as food 
 Of your dearest flesh and blood 
 And I'll drink the tears of orphans," said 
 the angry battle gun. 
 
 Then rose England in her might, 
 " Tell me straight and tell me right 
 All the things the Battle needeth, tell me 
 now and tell me plain. 
 Do not think I'll be afraid 
 Of whatever words are said ; 
 Now I know the need is urgent you 
 won't have to ask again. 
 
 " Is it treasure, bring the scale ; 
 
 Is it soldiers, tell the tale ; 
 Is it sweat of workmen working till their 
 
 hands can toil no more ? 
 6
 
 THE CALL & THE ANSWER 
 
 Do not echo Give and Give, 
 Take your fill, but while I live 
 You must keep the ancient freedom of 
 the seas about my shore."
 
 HOW BRADFORD 
 REJOINED HIS 
 REGIMENT
 
 HOW BRADFORD 
 REJOINED HIS 
 REGIMENT 
 
 THE inn at the top of the market- 
 place was not new at the time of 
 the Wars of the Roses, when 
 Godolphin was shot in its porch ; the 
 church, rebuilt in the sixteenth century, 
 is said to have been originally built in the 
 twelfth century, and the market cross is 
 so old that no one can give it a date ; but 
 the market-place itself is older far than 
 any of them. 
 
 When the Normans came here they 
 found a Saxon village; and the Saxons, 
 when they came, found Britons here. 
 They say that the monuments on the 
 moor were raised three thousand years ago, 
 and that some of the men who built them 
 lived in this village. It is one of the oldest 
 
 1 1
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 villages in the oldest part of England — 
 the West Country, where Arthur lived. 
 
 Even now there is not much that is 
 modern in the village. The main street 
 is still called Holy Street, and the market- 
 place is paved with cobbles at the side. 
 There is no railway, and the news comes 
 still by coach — a motor-coach, but still a 
 coach. 
 
 In the early morning the market-place 
 awoke in busy mood. The little shops 
 were opened ; there were boys who passed 
 with milk and bread, and the children 
 clattered along to school. Then it relapsed 
 into emptiness and silence for a while, to 
 fill again before eleven. But this time the 
 people were different, and their purpose 
 not apparent. 
 
 Two or three dogcarts drove in and 
 waited along one side, and there was a 
 motor-car ; men and women came along 
 the road from the little villas built beyond 
 the church ; shopkeepers appeared at their 
 
 12
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 doors. The curate arrived, the doctor 
 from his surgery ; the one policeman 
 found that he had duty there ; some 
 workmen momentarily left their work 
 and came. So that when the church 
 clock pointed to eleven there may have 
 been fifty people in the place, standing 
 about, waiting and doing nothing. They 
 did not even talk. They waited. 
 
 They waited for news of the war, just 
 as men and women had waited there in 
 bygone centuries for news of bygone wars, 
 of Cressy, of Agincourt, of the Great 
 Armada, of Malplaquet and Ramillies, of 
 Sedgemoor, of Trafalgar and Vittoria and 
 Waterloo, of the Alma, of the Mutiny, of 
 Pretoria. If the stones of that market- 
 place could speak ! It is likely enough 
 that there were men from here in all 
 those wars, soldiers, perhaps, seamen 
 most certainly, for the young men from 
 here, rich or poor, did not go either 
 to great towns or to America, but always 
 
 13
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 to the King's service. It was a tradi- 
 tion. 
 
 So whatever war was on, the market- 
 place was always interested, and waited 
 for the coach to bring news of it to them 
 along always the same road. From the 
 market-place you could see a piece of the 
 road as it crossed the shoulder of hill before 
 dipping down to rise again to the village. 
 In the old days the coach was drawn by 
 horses, and when it brought news of victory 
 it was decorated with flags. So had come 
 the news of Waterloo and the fall of Delhi. 
 Nowadays the coach had neither horses nor 
 flags. But no matter. They were but 
 details under which the human reality 
 remained the same. 
 
 Then, with a noise and rattle, the motor- 
 coach rounded the corner, snorted up the 
 hill, and drew up at the post-office. The 
 bundle of papers was thrown off and it 
 went on. 
 
 And now indeed the people were alive. 
 
 H
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 They thronged the street, the doorway 
 whence the papers would be issued ; they 
 formed a queue that extended past the 
 lich-gate of the churchyard. They were 
 excited, anxious, but silent still. 
 
 And each one, as he got his paper, just 
 went away a few yards from the throng 
 and opened it. What news of the war 
 to-day ? The scanty bulletin was quickly 
 read, and they formed in little groups and 
 talked. 
 
 " Well, and what do you think of it ? " 
 the doctor asked. 
 
 Colonel Bradford shook his head. " Not 
 good," he said, c£ not good. They tell us 
 little, and behind that little there is much 
 — untold. Not good. Except always 
 that they are gallant lads." 
 
 " No news of Dick ? " 
 
 " None since the card last week, and 
 that only to say he was well." 
 
 " And what more do you want ? " said 
 the doctor cheerily. " He will keep well, 
 
 15
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 and one day he will come back and tell us 
 all about it, eh ? " 
 
 The old man brightened up and smiled. 
 " I hope so. Yes." Then, as a friend 
 beckoned to him, he said, " There's 
 Stevens, impatient as usual. Are you 
 coming ? " 
 
 The doctor shook his head and went 
 away, and Bradford joined three other 
 friends, old retired officers like himself, 
 and together they went to the inn. There 
 they had a map upon the wall of the bar 
 parlour, and each day when news came 
 they moved the flags. Then they dis- 
 cussed the situation, and then the little 
 coterie of veterans parted. Each went 
 home to tell his family, to read the paper 
 through and through again, and so pass 
 the day — for indeed their day held little 
 else for them than this. 
 
 Bradford had not far to go — just up 
 Holy Street and to the right, and he came 
 to his cottage. There was a garden at the 
 16
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 front and back, and that was all he cared 
 for. That the cottage was but small never 
 occurred to him, never had occurred to 
 him even when, over twenty years ago, 
 he had come here with his wife and baby 
 boy — never would occur to him. Such 
 things mattered to him not at all. Money, 
 luxury, reputation, advancement, amuse- 
 ment, all these things which are so much 
 to most men, had never been anything to 
 him. Even his wife, although he loved 
 her, had not been much. For most of 
 his life there had been only one thing that 
 mattered — his regiment, and what he 
 could do for it ; still there was but one 
 — the regiment and his son who served 
 in it. 
 
 When, at forty-five, he had been obliged 
 to retire, all desire of life went out. To 
 go at forty-five, a young man still — and 
 why ? The doctors said his heart was 
 bad — they said that all the malaria and 
 hardships of an Indian frontier campaign 
 
 b 17
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 had so affected it that it was too weak to 
 do its duty. Taken care of, it might last 
 him many years, but a sudden strain might 
 burst it. What matter that ? Let it fail 
 and break and make an end. But leave the 
 army ? No. 
 
 And when they made him go he nearly 
 died. For he had no interest in life, no 
 knowledge of life, no desire for life. He 
 was a soldier, and when he ceased to be a 
 soldier he ceased to be anything — so it 
 seemed to him. He was motiveless in a 
 world he neither knew nor cared for. Why 
 live on ? 
 
 And indeed he probably would have 
 died through sheer unhappiness if his wife 
 had not married him. How it happened 
 he didn't know. It was none of his doing. 
 She simply came and took charge of him 
 and married him, and that was all he knew. 
 And having married him she tried to bring 
 him back to life. She loved him and she 
 hoped that her love and care would stir in 
 18
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 him a new pleasure in life and that he 
 would awaken. She studied him and 
 tried to rouse him to some new work, 
 something to take the place of the old 
 regiment. 
 
 She failed. Bradford had, during all of 
 his life that he could remember, lived to be 
 a soldier ; since he had joined his regiment 
 he had lived for it, and now he could not 
 change. No new love could replace the 
 old. The regiment and Bradford's heart 
 were one. 
 
 But his wife was a wise woman and she 
 still had hope. She still laughed ; she 
 still was happy. She was not jealous that 
 she could not replace the regiment in her 
 husband's love. She tried no more to fight 
 the old devotion. No. She had now a 
 wiser plan : she would enlist it on her 
 side. Then she would win. But mean- 
 while she would be silent and endure. 
 
 And so in truth her victory did come. 
 It came one spring morning very early, 
 
 J 9
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 when, the doctor having given leave, 
 Bradford went on tiptoe to his wife's 
 room. She lay exhausted on the bed, her 
 face pale and twisted with the pain she 
 had endured. But when she heard his 
 step and felt him bending over her, she 
 managed just to look at him and smile. 
 And as he bent still lower, " Look," she 
 whispered, and she moved her arm, " look 
 at your new recruit — for the old regiment," 
 and dropped into unconsciousness again. 
 And as Bradford looked upon the tiny face 
 it seemed to him that something of the 
 glory of the spring without had come 
 into the room — new life, new hope, new 
 happiness. 
 
 From that moment Bradford was young 
 again. His interest in life returned ; the 
 tie with his old regiment, which he 
 thought broken for ever, was renewed. 
 The chain he thought had snapped, had 
 only slipped from one link to another. 
 
 He was the soldier once again, the 
 20
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 colonel with a recruit to train, a draft for 
 the old regiment. Well, he must see 
 about it. Here was work for him to do. 
 He did it. He wanted to begin at 
 once indeed, and it required much per- 
 suasion from his wife to make him see 
 that the recruit must be brought on 
 slowly, and at first by her. He could 
 superintend, of course, if it so pleased 
 him, whistle bugle-calls to stop the recruit 
 from crying, and carry him about in a 
 martial manner. But the spare time 
 Bradford could put in by getting himself 
 up to date again. Drill was altering, and 
 strategy and tactics, and if he was to 
 bring up his recruit to be a good officer 
 he must make himself a good teacher. 
 He must study the history of the past 
 and the evolution of the present. So all 
 his interest in life returned and he became 
 a happy man. He adored his son, and 
 because his wife had given him this son 
 he loved her ; and because she was still 
 
 21
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 for many years to be the recruit's com- 
 manding officer he respected her. No 
 other children came ; they were content 
 with him they had. They lived in the 
 boy. They left their house at the seaside 
 and came to live in this village, to save 
 money for his education and to help him 
 when he joined. They cared nothing 
 for themselves, only for him — to bring 
 him up to be a worthy successor to a 
 line of soldiers. And they succeeded. 
 The boy grew up strong and active. 
 He was not spoiled. And in due time 
 Bradford's opportunity came and the boy 
 grew up in an atmosphere of soldiering. 
 He did not go out with his father for a 
 walk, but for a route march ; he got up 
 at reveille, and at night " First post," 
 " Second post," and " Lights out " fol- 
 lowed each other in due succession. He 
 learnt to ride and shoot as soon as he was 
 strong enough. But above all he drank 
 in with his very milk the essence of a 
 
 22
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 soldier's duty. He learnt to obey orders 
 not because he must, but because he 
 wanted to, because the ability to obey 
 simply, honestly and eagerly was a neces- 
 sary step to being able to command. And 
 he became imbued with the very spirit 
 of soldiering, that of understanding that 
 he did not live for himself nor to himself, 
 but that he was but an item in a great 
 whole, but a cell in a great organism 
 whose purpose was to live and die gladly, 
 freely, eagerly for his country. And in 
 learning all this he learned also to regard 
 his father not only as his father but as one 
 with him in that both were soldiers, his 
 father leading and he following on the 
 road that leads to honour. 
 
 Thus they were friends as well as son 
 and father because they marched along as 
 comrades, soldiers of the King. 
 
 The boy did so well at school that his 
 headmaster wanted to send him to Wool- 
 wich. But Bradford would not have it. 
 
 *3
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 Had he not been announced from the 
 beginning as a recruit for the old regi- 
 ment ? So into the old regiment he must 
 go. The boy passed out of Sandhurst, 
 and in due time was gazetted to his 
 father's regiment. He served a couple 
 of years at home, then two in India, and 
 the battalion had been at home again 
 only a few months when war broke out. 
 Then he was sent to France. The Brad- 
 fords received a post-card from Boulogne ; 
 then silence ; and so we come to this day 
 in September where we began. 
 
 24
 
 II 
 
 BRADFORD walked slowly up to 
 his front door. There was a 
 wealth of creeper on the porch, 
 and the roses were still in bloom, but he 
 did not notice them. He was thinking 
 always of the war — of the retreat from 
 Mons, now at length known ; of the battle 
 of the Marne, now in full progress. His 
 wife came out and met him. 
 
 " Well ? " she said. 
 
 He shook his head. " We hold our 
 own they say, Mary, and that is all they 
 say. They will not tell us much." 
 
 " And Dick is too busy to write," she 
 answered. 
 
 "Aye, aye," said Bradford. "When 
 you are using the sword and rifle all day 
 the pen is forgotten. Don't blame him, 
 Mary." 
 
 " I don't," she answered, " only I want 
 to know. And Mrs. Allen heard last 
 
 2 5
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 night that her boy was killed." Tears 
 rose in her eyes. 
 
 "The fighting's hard," said Bradford. 
 " I thought I had seen service, but it was 
 nothing to this. The losses are terrible, 
 they say. Whole regiments gone. But 
 we will get through all right." 
 
 She did not answer, and the two stood 
 there in silence gazing on the scene. The 
 golden sunshine filled the valley to its 
 brim, making the corn more golden and 
 grass more green. There was a great 
 peace that held the hills. She gazed 
 upon them ; and then her eyes came back 
 to the road below. A boy on a red 
 bicycle had just appeared. She gripped 
 Bradford's arm, her heart grew cold. 
 
 " Harry," she said, " there is the tele- 
 graph boy." 
 
 " There are many wires nowadays," said 
 Bradford. " It will be for Johnson. He 
 is always getting them." 
 
 " But he has passed Johnson's house," 
 26
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 she whispered. " He is coming here. It 
 is for us. O Harry, Harry." 
 
 There was a garden seat close by, and 
 Bradford took her to it. Then with a 
 firm step he went down to the gate. The 
 boy had dismounted from his bicycle and 
 held the telegram. 
 
 " For me ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. Shall I wait for an answer, 
 sir ? " 
 
 But Bradford shook his head. He was 
 not a business man and rarely got tele- 
 grams. It could be but one thing. He 
 put the telegram unopened into his pocket 
 and went up to his wife. " Let us go in," 
 he said. 
 
 She took his arm and the two went in. 
 The sunshine seemed to have gone cold 
 and dim, and the door closed. 
 
 27
 
 Ill 
 
 IN the very early morning of next day, 
 Bradford stood in his bedroom look- 
 ing down into a trunk. There came 
 from it a scent of naphthalene and camphor, 
 and a gleam of red and gold. How long 
 since last he wore it ? He forgot. There 
 was a hot hard feeling in his brain that 
 made him forget everything. The past 
 seemed obliterated ; only the future re- 
 mained. Well, he knew what he was 
 going to do in that future. It was clear 
 enough. 
 
 He bent down and took out his uniform, 
 that of a bygone age. Now they wear 
 khaki, but they did not then. He tried 
 it on. Yes, he had not grown fat, he 
 could wear it still, to appear in at the War 
 Office. He would have to get a khaki 
 uniform, of course, at once. He would 
 do that after. He might have gone to 
 the War Office in mufti, as he was retired, 
 28
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 but the thought never came to him. 
 Dick was dead. The old regiment was 
 short of a Bradford ; therefore he must 
 go himself, to rejoin. From the moment 
 of Dick's death he was called on. It was 
 a pity that rules and regulations prevented 
 his starting at once for the front, and 
 made it necessary to lose valuable time at 
 the War Office getting permission to go. 
 But that could not be helped. 
 
 While he was dressing himself Mrs. 
 Bradford went over to see her friend 
 Dr. Kestell. He, too, was an old army 
 man retired before they gave military 
 titles to army doctors. So instead of 
 being Surgeon-General Kestell he was 
 simple Dr. Kestell, or in his own more 
 severe nomenclature Mr. Kestell. That 
 did not prevent him from being a good 
 doctor. 
 
 " Can't you stop him ? " asked Mrs. 
 Bradford pleadingly. " Please try and 
 stop him. It will kill him to go to 
 
 29
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 London. He will not listen to me, but 
 he will listen to you." 
 
 Kestell shook his head, his eyes almost 
 full of tears. 
 
 " Will you not try ? " she urged. 
 
 He took her hand in kindliest com- 
 passion. " He would not hear. Nothing 
 we could say would reach within him. 
 He is listening to a greater, stronger call 
 than mine, even than yours, and his ears 
 are full of it." 
 
 She looked at him. 
 
 " What call ? " she whispered. 
 
 He did not make answer to her ques- 
 tion, but continued : " Did we try in any 
 way to stop him it would be worse. We 
 must let him go — help him to go." 
 
 " Should I go with him ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " He may faint or die on the way." 
 
 " I think not. He will return." 
 
 " And then ? " 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 3°
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 " Come and see him off," she said. 
 
 " I will certainly," he answered ; " only- 
 he must not know you have been con- 
 sulting me. Run back quick. I will 
 come in ten minutes." 
 
 When Kestell came to Bradford's gate 
 he found Bradford ready to start. His 
 uniform was on, his sword, his medals. 
 He held himself erect and strong. Only 
 his eyes seemed strained as if looking for 
 something he did not see. 
 
 "Hollo," said Kestell. "Just in time. 
 I'll walk down to the coach with you, 
 Bradford." 
 
 " I too," said Mrs. Bradford. 
 
 " No, no," said Kestell. " I'll see him 
 off. He'll be back to-night, you know." 
 
 Bradford nodded. "Yes. They're hard 
 to move at the War Office. It'll take a 
 few days before I get my orders no doubt. 
 I'll be back to-night. Good-bye, Mary." 
 
 She kissed him, and he walked off with 
 Kestell down to the market square. At 
 
 3 1
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 first Bradford said nothing. Then suddenly- 
 stopping and looking at Kestell : " Why 
 don't you rejoin, man ? " 
 
 Kestell shook his head. " We're not 
 all so fit as you, Bradford," he answered. 
 " I've a game leg, you know. They'd 
 laugh at me." 
 
 " True. I forgot," said Bradford. " I'm 
 a lucky man. I never felt more fit." 
 
 " You're twenty-five and not a year 
 more," said Kestell, clapping him on the 
 shoulder. " You'll make the Boches run 
 yet. 
 
 Then they came to the coach office and 
 Bradford mounted to a seat. A warning 
 hoot and the coach was off. 
 
 In the train, people stared at this old 
 man in his old uniform, but he did not 
 notice. In London the taxi-driver smiled, 
 but Bradford did not see. His eyes were 
 fixed. He came to the War Office and 
 went in. 
 
 Then came the disappointment. 
 
 3 2
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 The Military Secretary could not see 
 him. " Have you an appointment, sir ? " 
 he was asked, and when he shook his 
 head, " The Military Secretary sees no 
 one except by appointment," he was told. 
 " You must write and wait." 
 
 They did not want him. Surely they 
 did not want him ; and he had thought 
 they would admit his claim at once. He 
 must " write and wait." And the old 
 regiment ? 
 
 He leaned against the wall of the 
 corridor. His heart seemed cold and his 
 head was giddy. Tears rose in his eyes. 
 Well, he would write and wait. He would 
 go now. 
 
 A sound came down the corridor and 
 the ring of feet. Some men came down, 
 a tall stern soldier at the head, followed 
 by other soldiers. And Bradford drew 
 himself to the salute. The tall soldier 
 glanced at him and smiled and passed — 
 
 c 33
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 and stopped and turned. " Have you 
 seen any one ? " he asked. 
 
 " No, sir, they say that I must write." 
 
 " Then come with me." 
 
 The great soldier went on again and 
 Bradford followed. They came to a room 
 and entered. " Now," he said, " sit down 
 and tell me." 
 
 Then Bradford told him. " Let me 
 rejoin," he added at the end, " as anything, 
 to take my son's place. I do not want 
 my rank. I want the regiment, and it 
 wants me." 
 
 The great soldier's eyes half closed as if 
 he had been hurt, and opened again. 
 
 " I am old," said Bradford urgently, 
 " but I am strong and well. And age 
 makes me all the fitter to stop a bullet, 
 instead of a young man. Yes, I am 
 strong." 
 
 And he felt strong for a moment, yet 
 suddenly the room got misty and dark, 
 quite dark. 
 
 34
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 Then some one out of the mist said, 
 "Drink this," and he drank. It was 
 brandy ; and then the room came slowly 
 back again to him, and the great soldier 
 and two other officers came into view. 
 One by his shoulder-straps was evidently 
 an army doctor, and gave Bradford brandy 
 from a cup. He had been holding his 
 wrist, but dropped it now. 
 
 And Bradford felt himself ashamed and 
 afraid. They would never now let him 
 rejoin the old regiment, because he was 
 ill — ill, and they would scorn and reject 
 him. 
 
 But no, they smiled at him. The doctor 
 said, " There, there. It's nothing. You 
 were excited, that is all." 
 
 And the great soldier said, " Good-bye. 
 You shall have your wish. You shall 
 rejoin your regiment." 
 
 " In France ? " 
 
 There was no answer to this question, 
 but Bradford did not notice. 
 
 35
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 " And at once, sir ? " he continued, a 
 glow of happiness filling all his veins. 
 
 " Not quite at once. Go home and 
 wait for orders — they certainly shall 
 come." 
 
 Then Bradford rose, and although they 
 offered him an arm, he would not take it. 
 No, he would walk alone. He saluted 
 and went out. 
 
 The soldiers looked at one another. 
 
 36
 
 IV 
 
 BRADFORD got back at ten 
 o'clock. He was very weary, 
 more weary than he had ever 
 been before, and his head was bad. It 
 would turn giddy now and then. That 
 was excitement, so he thought. Well, 
 he must fight it. 
 
 Kestell was waiting for him at the 
 coach office with his motor-car that he 
 used for visiting patients. Only he did not 
 say that he had come to meet Bradford. 
 He said with apparent surprise : 
 
 " Hollo, Bradford ! You here ? Why, 
 of course, you're back from town. I've 
 just been visiting Mother Harris, who is 
 ill again. Get in my car and have a lift 
 home." 
 
 Bradford went with him willingly. 
 
 " What news ? " asked Kestell, as the 
 car went on. 
 
 " They said ' Wait.' " 
 
 37
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 " For orders ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 And that was all he said to Kestell. 
 Even to his wife he only added : " The 
 orders may come at any time — to-morrow, 
 or even to-night. A soldier must be 
 ready. There is much to do." 
 
 " Rest first," she said. 
 
 But no, he would not. He must be 
 ready when the orders came. His Will 
 — that was already done, but there were 
 other matters. She must go to bed. He 
 would work an hour or two, but she must 
 go to bed. And so, to please him, she 
 went away, but not to bed. She went out 
 into the garden and met Kestell there. 
 And, standing hidden, in the summer 
 night she watched. 
 
 She saw him open his desk and take out 
 many papers. Some of these he tore up ; 
 some he replaced. It took him a long 
 while, for every now and then he 
 would let the papers fall and seem to 
 
 38
 
 HOW BRADFORD REJOINED 
 
 sleep a little, but, recovering, would 
 continue. 
 
 The papers finished, he sat down again 
 and began to write. But now his weari- 
 ness overcame him, and after struggling 
 against it for a little he gave in. He put 
 his face on his hands and seemed to sleep. 
 
 She watched him. 
 
 Then suddenly he woke again. He 
 raised his head as if he heard a call — a 
 bugle-call. 
 
 He rose suddenly to his feet — stood for 
 a moment at " attention," his face bright 
 with joy, and fell. And when she and 
 Kestell ran to his assistance he was dead. 
 
 So did Bradford rejoin his regiment. 
 But not in France. For, indeed, save for 
 a few wounded, the old regiment was not 
 in France. He found them where he 
 went. 
 
 39
 
 THE BELL-RINGER
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 i 
 
 4 LTHOUGH it is marked on the 
 / \ maps as part of France, and 
 1. jL although it is divided from its 
 northern neighbour by the usual black line 
 on the map and line of customs and sentries 
 on the land itself, it really forms part of 
 Flanders. For this broad, flat plain, 
 drained by slow, oozing streams, is in fact 
 an outlying portion of the great Flanders 
 plain which has been from time immemorial 
 the battlefield of Europe. Its soil has been 
 fertilized for thousands of years with the 
 ashes of brave men, its rivulets run slow as 
 streams of death. And the people, too, 
 are somewhat of the Flemish type. They 
 are not so hot and brisk as Frenchmen of 
 the centre or of the Midi ; they are slower, 
 more solid, but they are good Frenchmen 
 for all that. 
 
 43
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 The villages are usually built on a piece 
 of higher land, a little swell in the great 
 flat plain, and so are visible from a distance 
 as an island is at sea. They are built 
 sometimes, certainly the village of which 
 I have to write was built, about a church 
 which formed the nucleus of the village. 
 And in this particular village, although the 
 church itself was a new and insignificant 
 building enough, it had a belfry that was 
 the pride of all who lived within its shadow. 
 For it was built in the great days of Flemish 
 art six hundred years ago, and designed by 
 one who put into his work his heart, a 
 human heart that loved and beat not so 
 much with the dogmas of a church as 
 with the sorrows, fears and hopes of 
 the humanity that made it. So that it 
 seemed almost a living thing instinct 
 with the soul of all the centuries of men 
 who had been born and lived and died 
 around it. 
 
 The village itself was a gay little place, 
 
 44
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 with red-tiled roofs indicative of warm 
 homes beneath ; there was a square with 
 plane-trees round it, and there were cheery- 
 little cafes where the villagers exchanged 
 ideas. It gave one the same general im- 
 pression as did its buxom matrons, that it 
 was clean and tidy and fairly prosperous; 
 and if a little commonplace, happy and 
 busy. 
 
 And on this hot August afternoon of 
 1 9 14 it seemed, again like its matrons, 
 taking a siesta. The streets were empty. 
 For most of the men, and many of the 
 women, too, were in the fields working at 
 the harvest, and those who remained were 
 resting indoors. From the belfry top, if 
 you had climbed up there, you could have 
 seen these fields, mostly of beets and man- 
 golds and swedes, but with patches of yellow 
 corn in places, and green rugs of lucerne. 
 Here and there were clumps of trees, 
 poplars for the most part, and in their 
 shadow the labourers were waiting till the 
 
 45
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 heat somewhat abated. The horses were 
 unharnessed from the wains, resting till 
 the load was finished. Bathed in the 
 golden light the landscape seemed a dream 
 of peace, of immemorial peace. War 
 there had been, but that was long ago, 
 and now wars were no more. The scars 
 were healed. A haze shut in the distance, 
 but overhead the sky was deep and 
 blue. 
 
 Even Jean the humpback was abroad. 
 He had a little garden of his own beyond 
 the village where he grew vegetables for 
 himself. It was but a tiny square of land, 
 but Jean's breath was short and his arms 
 weak and his legs crooked, so that it was 
 as much as he could cultivate himself. 
 And as he only had himself to feed it 
 sufficed for all his necessaries in the way 
 of garden stuff. For the rest he gained 
 a few francs a month as bell-ringer, which 
 was all the work he could do. But Jean 
 had only one mouth to feed, his own, and 
 
 4 6
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 he never would have any more than that 
 one. Other men were different, but Jean 
 sufficed to himself and always would 
 suffice — because he had to suffice. He 
 was only twenty-five, but if he lived to 
 seventy-five it would make no difference. 
 
 Jean was resting now. Not that he 
 had done much work, but because he 
 was tired. He always was tired as far as 
 he could remember, and life did not resolve 
 itself for him as for others into freshness 
 and tiredness, into work and play, into joy 
 and grief, into holidays and work days, but 
 into being more tired or less tired, into 
 feeble attempts to work and long periods of 
 watching others work. Indeed life seemed 
 to Jean to consist for him of one long 
 watch, a watch of others growing up and 
 working hard and making love and being 
 gay ; the contemplation of a life amidst 
 which he moved as a stranger without 
 belonging to it in any way. As a child 
 he could not play with other children 
 
 47
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 and as a young man he could not work 
 with other young men nor be friendly 
 with the girls, so that he lived in a 
 solitude that had no bounds. 
 
 4 8
 
 II 
 
 IT was a little cooler now and Jean came 
 out from the shelter of his trees. He 
 would do a little more weeding, as 
 much as he could, and then he would go 
 back to the village. He stretched his limbs 
 and took up his hoe. But before he could 
 get to work he saw a girl of about sixteen 
 come running out of the village. "Tiens," 
 he said to himself, " there is Desiree. 
 What does she want ? " She ran down 
 the path towards where Jean was stand- 
 ing, running hurriedly as if afraid. 
 
 "Jean," she called out, "Jean, Jean." 
 
 He did not answer, but simply stood 
 and watched her stupidly. 
 
 "Jean," she gasped out as she came up. 
 " You are to come at once." 
 
 He only shook his head and the girl 
 got vexed and seized his sleeve and pulled 
 him. "The maire has sent for you, Jean. 
 Come at once." 
 
 d 49
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 " For why ? " asked Jean, resisting. 
 
 "To ring the tocsin. Come." 
 
 " For why ? " he repeated. " I see no 
 fire." 
 
 " For why ? " she cried indignantly. 
 " Don't you know anything, then ? It is 
 to call the folks from the fields to come at 
 once to the village. Jean, the war has 
 come." 
 
 He nodded slowly. What was the war 
 to him ? Nothing. It did not affect him 
 in any way. Why should he be excited 
 about it ! But he was wanted to ring the 
 bell. So he would do it. He put on 
 his misshapen coat and started down the 
 path. 
 
 "Jean," said the girl again, "it's war. 
 The news has come." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he answered. 
 " And all the young men must go 
 away." 
 
 He looked at her. " Not me," he 
 answered. 
 
 5°
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 She stared at him surprised, as much 
 surprised as if a gargoyle on the tower 
 had classed itself with young men. For 
 to her, as to all the other villagers, Jean 
 was neither a man nor was he young. He 
 was a monstre, that was all. Then she 
 forgot Jean and returned to her own affairs. 
 
 " Andre will go," she said, " and 
 Gustave. All the young men first, and 
 then the older men. Perhaps father even 
 will have to go. All, all the men." 
 
 " Yes," said Jean. 
 
 " And many will be killed," said the 
 girl sadly. Then, with a sudden return 
 of her thoughts to Jean : " Are you not 
 glad not to have to go ? " 
 
 He stopped and stared at her. To 
 ordinary misunderstanding and misjudg- 
 ment he was accustomed, and they hurt 
 him no longer. But to such misjudgment 
 as this, such cruel misunderstanding, what 
 could he oppose ? Even his stoicism had 
 its limits. 
 
 5 1
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 "Jean," said the girl sharply, " you are 
 crying." 
 
 " My back hurts," he said stolidly. 
 
 " Can't you ring the bell ? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh yes," he answered. " I can ring 
 the bell. I can do that." 
 
 " Then I'll run on," she said, " and tell 
 them you are coming." 
 
 Without another word she left him and 
 went on, and he followed as fast as he 
 could. For there was haste, evidently 
 haste. The village, half an hour ago 
 asleep, was throbbing now with life. The 
 streets were filled with people ; all the 
 population who were not in the fields 
 were in the streets, talking, discussing, 
 moving about. 
 
 So Jean climbed up the belfry stairs and 
 rang — not the slow measured call to mass, 
 nor the gay jingle for a marriage, but a 
 sharp, insistent, chiding discord, that 
 broke into the summer silence like a cry. 
 It seemed to rend the brooding peace as it 
 
 5 2
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 shrieked its way across the sunlit fields. 
 And the farmers heard it in their stock- 
 yards and the peasants in their fields ; 
 they heard and they obeyed. For they 
 knew, they knew. For days they had 
 awaited just this shrieking summons, 
 waited in fear, in hope, in a mute sus- 
 pense that wished an answer of either 
 Peace or War. 
 
 And now the bell called War, and to 
 it men answered War. A storm swept 
 across three continents and cried "To 
 Arms, To Arms," and twice three hundred 
 million throats said " War." 
 
 53
 
 Ill 
 
 IT was the early night. The sunset 
 had not quite faded from the western 
 sky but still burned reluctant fires. 
 Above the stars were slowly gathering for 
 their watch. The air was still, filled with 
 the incense of the night, the fragrance 
 of the clover fields, the scent of hay, 
 the odour of the land. The place was 
 thronged with people, every window 
 held its eager lookers-on, even the side 
 streets were full, for all the village was 
 abroad. 
 
 In the middle of the place was a long 
 line of men in uniform, their rifles in their 
 hands, their packs upon their backs. 
 Commands rang out and wheeling to the 
 right the march began, that march that 
 would end for each no one could tell when 
 nor where. 
 
 Yet the young men were gay. They 
 laughed, they waved their hands ; and 
 
 54
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 then, as the head of the column passed 
 out of the square and down towards the 
 great white road that led to the railway 
 station six miles away, they began to 
 sing. 
 
 Come, comrades all, 
 And hear the call 
 That from the bugle rings. 
 Haste, haste, oh haste, 
 No time to waste, 
 That is the song it sings. 
 The enemy is at the gate, and oh ! his 
 heart is black. 
 It is his will 
 Fair France to kill, 
 And we must drive him back. 
 To France, fair France, 
 This is our glad reply. 
 For France, our France, 
 Hear all your children cry. 
 We'll drive the Boches home again, and 
 win the fight or die 
 As we go marching to victory. 
 
 55
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 The reaper leaves 
 His half-bound sheaves, 
 The miller leaves his mill. 
 The lawyer's words 
 Are turned to swords, 
 The merchant shuts his till, 
 The cure has resigned his cure, the doctor 
 left his sick. 
 
 For hark ! the drum 
 Commands to come 
 And we must answer quick. 
 To France, fair France, 
 This is our glad reply, 
 For France, our France, 
 Hear all your children cry. 
 We'll drive the Boches home again and 
 win the fight or die 
 As we go marching to victory. 
 
 France notice gives 
 To all good wives 
 That duty must be done. 
 No matron can 
 
 56
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 Retain her man, 
 No mother keep her son. 
 The maid her lover must resign although 
 her heart may break. 
 All, all must go 
 To meet the foe 
 Or he our land will take. 
 To France, fair France, 
 This is our glad reply, 
 For France, our France, 
 Hear all your children cry. 
 We'll drive the Boches home again and 
 win the fight or die 
 As we go marching to victory. 
 
 And as they sang and marched the crowd 
 who accompanied them to see them off, 
 their fathers, mothers, sisters, sweethearts, 
 sang too till the dark vault of the night 
 was filled with the strong defiant min- 
 strelsy. 
 
 And Jean sang too, Jean who had never 
 sung before, who did not know how to 
 
 57
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 sing. The great wave of enthusiasm, of 
 love, of courage, of devotion, came surging 
 into Jean's soul, moving it, as it had never 
 been moved before, teaching him in a few 
 minutes the greatest mystery of the world. 
 He lived now for the very first time in 
 all his weary years. His soul had wakened, 
 and it went with these young strong men 
 to war. All his soul went with them, 
 only his crooked body stayed behind. 
 
 58
 
 IV 
 
 THEN began for all that country- 
 side, as for so many country-sides, 
 the terrible endurance of silence. 
 
 A war was going on, the greatest war 
 of all history, a war that threatened all 
 their existence, and they knew nothing 
 of it. 
 
 Their sons had marched away to this 
 war, were in this war fighting, suffering, 
 dying, and they had no news of them. 
 They had disappeared into a great red 
 mist that held everything. The papers 
 were censored and there was no news. 
 
 Only out of that great red mist came 
 rumours formless and terrible. There 
 were rumours that the Boches had come 
 into Belgium with fire and sword and 
 rapine, and that they were driving down 
 in huge masses upon France. 
 
 Every time when Jean went up to ring 
 his bell he gazed to the north and east, 
 
 59
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 along the great white road. That was 
 the way the Boches would come. He 
 gazed with eager eyes. 
 
 For Jean was changed. He had been 
 shaken by the shock of war out of his 
 apathy and resignation into a new exist- 
 ence. His soul was filled with an exalta- 
 tion he could not understand, and burned 
 with a poignant despair that was a daily, 
 nightly agony. He began to hate this 
 body that confined his soul, to hate, to 
 hate, to hate. He asked questions. Why 
 was not he like other men ? Why had 
 he been cursed from out his very mother's 
 womb. Was that the justice of God ? 
 Was that the goodness of God ? He 
 asked the cure and the cure could not 
 answer him. Well : he could go straight 
 to Christ and ask him. So he went and 
 knelt before the crucifix, and asked and 
 asked — " Christ," he cried, " was it then 
 fair to make me as I am ? to put my soul 
 into this useless cage ? to live and die in 
 60
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 it. Surely it is not true what they say, 
 that even death will not release me from 
 this dread deformity. It is not true the 
 body rises again. It is not true, I say, 
 not true, neither for you nor me. Tell 
 me it is not true." But the Christ upon 
 the cross was dead and answered not. 
 
 So Jean rose up. Well, he would go 
 on ringing the bell because he lived by 
 it ; but for the rest, No. He would not 
 believe that the body rose again, nor in 
 any one who said such everlasting cruelty. 
 When Jean died he would have done with 
 his crooked body. He was sure of that. 
 For it was only this deformed cage in 
 which he lived that divided him from 
 humanity. His soul was one with the 
 Soul of all the world. He had felt it first 
 on that night the young men marched 
 away ; it had come on him like a light- 
 ning flash, illuminating all his life and 
 future. But it did not pass as lightning 
 does. It remained within him as a great 
 
 61
 
 THE B ELL- RINGER 
 
 light, a great truth, an everlasting hap- 
 piness. 
 
 So some weeks went on. The battle 
 grew nearer, and sometimes they heard 
 far off the mutter of great guns. 
 
 Then one day some Uhlans came to the 
 village, riding down the road. They went 
 straight to the maire and then to the inn. 
 The people stared at them with fear and 
 shut themselves within their houses. But 
 the Uhlans only stayed an hour or two 
 and went back again. 
 
 A few days later, in the evening, some 
 French troops arrived and camped behind 
 the village in some farms. There were 
 cavalry and infantry, and a report went 
 that there were more behind. But no 
 one knew. The secrecy of war was over 
 all. 
 
 Next morning Jean went up the belfry 
 to his morning task to ring the matins 
 bell. He climbed with difficulty, stopping 
 often to take breath. And when he stopped 
 62
 
 THE BELL-RI NGER 
 
 he looked out through the belfry windows 
 at the view. 
 
 At first he noticed nothing new. The 
 day was bright and sunny, but a haze lay 
 on the fields. It lay unequally, and there 
 were open patches in it where the ground 
 was visible. 
 
 At last he came to the chamber where 
 the bell-rope was and leaned out of the 
 window for a moment's rest. He looked 
 up to the north-east over the low mist. 
 It seemed a white sea spread beneath him, 
 still and silent as the dawn. The poplar 
 tops stood out like submerged bushes. 
 
 His breath came back, and he was about 
 to turn away and pull the bell, but stopped 
 half-turned. What was there he had 
 seen ? The mist had thinned a moment, 
 and he saw, then again thickened. He 
 waited. And again the mist swayed on 
 one side, uncovering a hundred yards of 
 road. But it was not empty road. It 
 was crowded with grey figures, horsemen 
 
 6 3
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 with infantry behind. Jean drew a long 
 breath. " The Boches ! " They were a 
 mile away, and in a few minutes would 
 be here. " Well, and what matter ? " If 
 they came they came, and that was all. 
 And then he suddenly remembered the 
 French detachment in the farm behind. 
 They did not know. Their sentries could 
 not see because of the mist. Jean alone 
 could see. 
 
 It came to him like a shock that fate 
 had given him a sudden importance, and 
 a deed to do. The French troops must 
 be warned ; but how ? He could not run. 
 And the Boches were so near that they 
 would catch any one he sent. They would 
 be at the belfry door in a few minutes. 
 He must act alone. 
 
 He did not think what he must do, but 
 acted out of some volition. He threw 
 himself down the stairs and slammed the 
 thick door and bolted it. That would 
 keep them out. Then he climbed up 
 
 6 4
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 again, his heart beating like to burst. No 
 matter, let it burst. He seized the rope 
 and rang, not the call to prayer, but that 
 to arms. The bell clanged and rattled 
 harshly and angrily, and from the belfry 
 tower its message went out on the still 
 air in deadly discord. It was the tocsin 
 call. 
 
 In a moment the village had awoke to 
 danger. There were shouts and cries. 
 The Boches too awoke to the fact that 
 they were discovered and that the bell 
 was giving the alarm. The cavalry gal- 
 loped towards the belfry ; bullets began to 
 pelt upon the stones. 
 
 But Jean rang on. Would the troops 
 hear ? 
 
 Yes ; from the farmhouses bugles 
 answered in alarm. They rang their 
 challenge through the mist. Jean could 
 not see, but he knew he had been heard. 
 After all, then, he had been good for 
 something. He would ring on. He 
 
 e 65
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 rang, clinging to the rope as if clamped 
 to it. He rang and rang. 
 
 And down below the thinning mist 
 allowed the country to be seen more and 
 more clearly. There were men in lines 
 across the fields running and shouting. 
 There was the rifle rattle and the rat-tat- 
 tat of mitrailleuse. And then the angry 
 boom of bigger guns. The morning's 
 stillness was filled with all the sounds of 
 anger, hate and fear — and above the bell 
 rang on. 
 
 Down through the village street, tirail- 
 leurs ran and drove the Boches out and 
 lined the walls beside the cemetery. On 
 the left, cavalry swooped down across the 
 fields. The battle din grew fiercer, but 
 the bell rang on and dominated all. It 
 seemed to raise a fury in those that heard ; 
 it cheered the French, it angered the 
 enemy into frenzy. It seemed like a 
 furious woman screaming incoherent wrath 
 upon the combatants. 
 66
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 Then it changed suddenly. From being 
 an angry call it slackened to a slower 
 measured note. It became a peal of 
 triumph. It was Jean's triumph — his. 
 Despite his crooked body, he had shown 
 that he was a man, a son of France, that 
 in him too there was a spark of that 
 humanity that is everlasting life. 
 
 The Boches fell back sullenly across the 
 fields. Their guns retired. But before 
 they went they sent one salvo at that 
 belfry tower. At least they would stop 
 its triumph. 
 
 Four angry guns rang out, four bursts 
 of flame, and when the smoke had drifted 
 on the bell was still, the belfry disappeared. 
 And Jean ? His body lay a crumpled, 
 bleeding mass crushed out of all semblance 
 to humanity. What matter ? It was dead, 
 dead, dead, never to rise again in its 
 deformity. And Jean was free again. 
 
 Never any more, Jean, shall you want 
 for father, mother, sweethearts, comrades. 
 
 6 7
 
 THE BELL-RINGER 
 
 Never any more shall you be solitary Jean, 
 cut off, apart, alone. For you now are 
 one with them, Jean, one with humanity, 
 one with the Soul of all the World. The 
 body that divided you is dead. 
 
 68
 
 FROM FATHER 
 TO SON
 
 FROM FATHER 
 TO SON 
 
 i 
 
 NOT very far outside the village 
 wherein Bradford, of whom I 
 have already written, died, there 
 is a Manor House. It is not a great house, 
 but, like most things in this part of the 
 country, it is old. How old its original 
 beginnings were I do not know, for when it 
 was rebuilt in the age of Elizabeth the old 
 building was quite destroyed and its founda- 
 tions hidden, so that nothing now remains 
 whereby to judge. Indeed, the Elizabethan 
 building fell into ruins in its turn when its 
 owner was impeached after Sedgemoor, 
 and so it lay for nearly a hundred and fifty 
 years. Then about six years ago a very 
 young married couple called Ormonde 
 came and bought the whole estate, and set 
 
 7 1
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 to work to make the old house habitable. 
 So they rebuilt and patched and renovated 
 until the house was suitable for modern 
 ideas, and then they came to live there. 
 
 With them they brought two servants, 
 Mrs. Ormonde a maid and Mr. Ormonde 
 a groom. The maid was called Joyce and 
 the groom was called Bob. She had bright 
 red hair and a pleasant freckled face and a 
 jolly laugh, and was always as gay and full 
 of life as a chaffinch, while Bob was dark 
 and self-contained and silent. So that 
 Nature, who makes her marriages with a 
 view to correcting extremes and restoring 
 the average, ordained that they should fall 
 in love with each other, a proceeding on 
 Nature's part which was bound to create a 
 great deal of trouble for other people. 
 
 They not only fell in love, which as 
 they could not help it was quite easy, 
 but they even avowed that love to each 
 other. 
 
 That was, of course, a very different 
 72
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 matter. To this result Nature the con- 
 spirator could only contribute the necessary- 
 emotions in each, the opportunity of a 
 summer night and a full moon, while Bob 
 had to contribute great courage and quite 
 a number of words. Joyce's part was 
 simpler ; she had only to keep silence and 
 at last say Yes. Bob got over his diffi- 
 culties much as if they were blind fences, 
 some of which he jumped, others he forced 
 his way through, but he did it. Joyce, 
 on the other hand, looked down and 
 blushed and said " Yes " as naturally and 
 sweetly as if she had done it often before 
 — which she had not, for Bob was her 
 first love. Then Bob and Joyce kissed 
 each other, and as their duties called them 
 they had to part. 
 
 The trouble immediately began. 
 
 73
 
 II 
 
 JOYCE," said Mrs. Ormonde sud- 
 denly. Joyce was brushing Mrs. 
 Ormonde's hair before she retired 
 for the night, was doing it slowly and 
 carefully, but gave a start when she was 
 addressed. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Is anything the matter with you, 
 Joyce ? " 
 
 " Oh no, ma'am." 
 
 Joyce could have very well met Mrs. 
 Ormonde's eyes in the looking-glass as she 
 replied, and when they talked together at 
 night she usually did. For they were on 
 the very best of terms. But to-night 
 Joyce was too busy looking down. 
 
 " There is something in your touch 
 that is uncomfortable," said Mrs. Or- 
 monde. " Have you caught a cold out 
 there in the wood ? " 
 
 "A cold? Oh no, ma'am." But 
 
 74
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 Joyce's face became very red and she 
 stopped brushing. " It wasn't cold in 
 the wood." 
 
 Then Mrs. Ormonde reached round and 
 caught Joyce's arm and drew her in front 
 and looked at her and laughed and looked 
 again. And Joyce, who would have given 
 worlds, in fact the whole solar system — 
 but not Bob — to be able to disappear 
 through the floor, became perfectly 
 crimson, and though Mrs. Ormonde had 
 said no single word Joyce answered for the 
 second time that night " Yes." 
 
 " I knew," said Mrs. Ormonde trium- 
 phantly. " My husband said there was 
 nothing in it. He said Bob was too steady 
 ever to fall in love." 
 
 "There is no one in the whole world 
 more steady than Bob," said Joyce hotly. 
 
 Mrs. Ormonde laughed. cc We have a 
 great opinion of him," she said. " And 
 you said ' Yes,' Joyce." 
 
 But this time there was no answer, only 
 
 75
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 Joyce broke away and went to the corner 
 of the room to get something, it did not 
 matter what apparently, for she stood there 
 awhile doing nothing. Her absence re- 
 called to Mrs. Ormonde her own personal 
 interest in the proceedings. 
 
 " But who will do my hair, Joyce ? " 
 Joyce came back out of the corner. 
 " Why not me, ma'am ? " 
 " When you are married, Joyce ? " 
 " It won't make any difference, ma'am, 
 to me. Unless you want me to go," said 
 Joyce. 
 
 And eventually this was the view that 
 was accepted all round. Bob and Joyce 
 were to marry and to have three weeks' 
 leave for their honeymoon, and were then 
 to return to their duties as before. 
 
 They were to have Sundays off which 
 they could spend either at the cottage of 
 Bob's mother, who lived in the village, 
 or at some other convenient rendezvous. 
 And of course all the week they met at 
 
 7 6
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 meals and no doubt at other times also. 
 If the future should bring a complication 
 it could be grappled with on arrival. So 
 matters went on very comfortably for 
 some months, and then the war broke 
 out. 
 
 7?
 
 Ill 
 
 JOYCE came out of the kitchen door, 
 looked warily about to see if there 
 were any onlookers, and crossed the 
 yard to the stable. 
 
 " Bob," she said, " Bob." 
 
 Bob, who was grooming a dusty horse 
 inside, stopped for a minute. 
 
 " Well ? " he asked. 
 
 " Well ? " asked Joyce in reply, slipping 
 into the shadow of the stable. 
 
 " Did he get anything ? " asked Joyce 
 anxiously. 
 
 Bob shook his head. " I don't think 
 so. He was gay and cross coming 
 back." 
 
 " I'm very glad," said Joyce with great 
 relief. 
 
 " What for are you glad ? " asked Bob 
 gruffly. 
 
 " It's not for married men to go and 
 get themselves killed in this war," said 
 
 78
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 Joyce decidedly. " What would the 
 mistress do ? " 
 
 Bob went on rubbing and hissing for 
 a little. Then he stopped again and said: 
 
 " It's her you're thinking of." 
 
 " Of course," said Joyce. " He ought 
 never to have thought of it, him a married 
 man. Let the boys go. Well, it's all 
 right now." 
 
 It took Bob another three or four 
 minutes of rubbing to get his answer 
 ready. But when it came it was effectual. 
 
 " He ain't give up," said Bob. " He 
 couldn't get nothing at Belminster so he's 
 going to London to-morrow." 
 
 " No ? " said Joyce with great disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 " Yes," said Bob. 
 
 Joyce leant against the stable wall de- 
 pressed and agitated. Bob looked at her 
 sideways once or twice ; and then : 
 
 " Why don't she stop him then ? " 
 
 Joyce in return gave him a glance of 
 
 79
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 such contempt that if it could only have 
 been consolidated it would have pierced 
 not Dick's skin alone but a super-Dread- 
 nought's armour. 
 
 "Anyhow," continued Bob, "what 
 master does ain't any of your business." 
 
 That finished Joyce. She stared at him, 
 then turned and flounced out of the stable 
 and disappeared. But Bob smiled grimly 
 to himself. 
 
 " They're deceiving creatures," he 
 muttered to the horse, " but they aren't bad 
 neither. They aren't bad," and he sighed. 
 Then he went on with his work. 
 
 Meanwhile Ormonde was explaining to 
 his wife. 
 
 " Belminster's no good," he said. 
 " Colonel Rudley has orders to take only 
 men under twenty-five. I saw lads there 
 getting their commissions, and I was 
 refused. So I'll try the War Office now. 
 Nothing like the fountain head. I hear 
 Linton got a cavalry commission last week." 
 80
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 Mrs. Ormonde moved restlessly about. 
 
 " Is it any use ? " she asked nervously. 
 " You've done your duty. You've offered 
 and been refused." 
 
 " Don't you want me to go ? " he 
 asked wonderingly. 
 
 She came behind him and put her arms 
 about his neck and her face to his. "Jim, 
 I want you to go, and I don't want you to 
 go, and it is very hard for me. I want 
 both so much — so awfully much." 
 
 " I know," he said. 
 
 " If we had a child, a son, Jim, I could 
 bear it better. But I have no one — only 
 you. 
 
 He patted her arm and there was 
 a silence. Then presently she went 
 and sat on her chair and smiled and 
 said : 
 
 "Joyce is worse than me. She's furious 
 with you for leaving me." 
 
 "Joyce?" And Ormonde opened his 
 eyes. " What business is it of hers ? " 
 
 F 81
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 " Loyalty to me," suggested Mrs. 
 Ormonde slyly. 
 
 "Stuff!" said Ormonde. 
 
 " You stupid boy. Can't you guess ? " 
 said Mrs. Ormonde with a laugh. " If 
 you go Bob will go with you. I am sure 
 of that although no word has been said. 
 And Joyce knows and she is desperate." 
 
 " With me," and Ormonde laughed. 
 " I don't want Bob to come. If he likes 
 to come well and good, but I have not 
 even suggested such a thing." 
 
 " If you go he will go," said Mrs. 
 Ormonde. 
 
 " I don't see that," said Ormonde. 
 " He is a free agent." 
 
 " Oh, don't you see," said Mrs. 
 Ormonde, " that if it is proper for you to 
 go it is proper for him. But if you stay 
 he can stay also with a clear conscience. 
 The onus is on you. So Joyce says you 
 ought not to go." 
 
 "Joyce should mind her own business," 
 82
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 said Ormonde. " I am your business, Bob 
 is hers. Let her talk to Bob." 
 
 " Oh, Jim," said Mrs. Ormonde, " she 
 would never do that." 
 
 " Why not ? " asked Ormonde. 
 
 But Mrs. Ormonde only smiled and 
 tapped her fingers on her chair, and said 
 to herself, " Because . . . because . . . 
 because." 
 
 83
 
 IV 
 
 THERE was to be a meeting in the 
 village. There were posters on 
 the Market Cross and at the iron 
 doors and at the coach office advising the 
 villagers that Colonel Rudley from Bel- 
 minster would address the meeting and 
 that there would be other speakers. It 
 was understood, though not stated, that it 
 was a recruiting meeting, and the posters 
 had Union Jacks at the top and " God 
 save the King " at the bottom. The 
 village fancy-shop had a great supply of 
 small flags, British, French, Russian, 
 Serbian and Japanese, and young men 
 were urged to buy these and attend the 
 meeting, which was fixed for eight o'clock. 
 At half-past seven Bob looked in at the 
 kitchen and found Joyce there. 
 
 " Are you coming, Joyce ? " he asked. 
 
 "Where to?" 
 
 " The meeting, surely. I've got a flag 
 
 8 4
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 for you," and he handed her a little flag 
 brooch. 
 
 " No," she answered decidedly. " Nor 
 you neither, Bob." 
 
 " Oh yes," said Bob awkwardly, " I'm 
 going." 
 
 " What, with master and mistress ex- 
 pected back every minute from Belminster ? 
 And you'll have the car to wash and I'll 
 have the mistress to dress ? " 
 
 " Car can wait till to-morrow," said Bob. 
 " And mistress told me before she went to 
 meet master that I could go if I wanted, 
 and you too." 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said Joyce huffily. " Told 
 you, did she ? About me ? " 
 
 " The man's the head of the woman," 
 said Bob dogmatically, though with a 
 secret consciousness that he was occupying 
 an advanced position which he had not 
 fortified, and which he was hardly in 
 strength enough to hold from a deter- 
 mined counter-attack. 
 
 85
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 " Is he ? " said Joyce, with a sniff. 
 " Well, I am not going, nor you neither. 
 It's our duty to be here when they return." 
 
 " Good night, then," and Bob turned to 
 go. " I'll tell you about it to-morrow." 
 
 " Bob, you aren't going." Joyce stamped 
 her foot. 
 
 "I am," and Bob moved towards the door. 
 
 The cook, who had perfectly understood 
 all that lay under this conversation, looked 
 at Joyce. " Best go with him," she whis- 
 pered. " You can't trust them men alone. 
 Run on, lass." 
 
 Bob had stopped just outside the door, 
 ostensibly to light his pipe, which required 
 several matches, and before he had got it 
 going and was able to move away some one 
 put her arm in his. 
 
 " Is that you, cook ? " he asked airily. 
 
 A very sharp pinch brought him back 
 from jesting to reality. 
 
 " Eh ? " he said, with feigned surprise. 
 "Joyce ! I thought you wasn't coming." 
 86 '
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 " As you want it so much I'm coming 
 too," said Joyce. " I really wanted to 
 come all the time, but didn't like to be out 
 when mistress returned. But as she told 
 you . . ." 
 
 " Aye, she did," said Bob. 
 
 " Then come along," said Joyce. " Only 
 first," very confidentially, " I have some- 
 thing I want to tell you," and she squeezed 
 his arm. 
 
 "Well," said Bob, stopping, " tell on." 
 
 " Oh, not here," said Joyce, looking 
 round. " Come into the wood, Bob," 
 leading him far into the wood where no 
 one could see. " It's something very very 
 confidential and secret." 
 
 " Yes ? " said Bob, when they were 
 well hidden in the trees. 
 
 She put her arm round his neck and so 
 as to draw his ear down to her lips, and 
 she whispered a few words. 
 
 " Eh ? " said Bob. " 'Tis true, girl ? " 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 87
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 Bob looked at her reflectively for a 
 minute or two, and then kissed her. 
 
 " You're a good lass," he said. 
 
 " And now," she said, " I don't mind 
 going to the meeting." Evidently she 
 thought the news she had given Bob 
 .would inoculate him against any danger 
 of infection at the meeting, and she 
 marched him off, her mind quite at ease. 
 
 The meeting was a good one. The 
 schoolroom was crowded, and there was 
 a big overflow meeting outside that, how- 
 ever, gradually drained away by some force 
 of gravity into the bar of the " Crown." 
 Colonel Rudley made an interesting if un- 
 impassioned speech explaining the causes 
 of the war and asking for volunteers. Then 
 a county magistrate made a speech in 
 which he spoke of the honours won by 
 the county in former wars, and the neces- 
 sity of upholding its reputation for the 
 future. A local farmer said a few words, 
 and then came the surprise of the meeting. 
 88
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 The chairman rose and said : " And finally, 
 before asking volunteers to step forward, 
 a friend of yours, Lieutenant Ormonde, 
 will say a few words." 
 
 There was a movement of surprise in 
 the room. Who was he, this Lieutenant 
 Ormonde ! Squire Ormonde they knew, 
 but Lieutenant Ormonde ? They looked 
 at each other, but the surprise did not last 
 long. Ormonde, returned from a week in 
 London, a lieutenant now in the cavalry 
 and dressed in khaki uniform, stepped on 
 to the platform. He was accompanied by 
 his wife, and when the fact that he, the 
 rich man of the neighbourhood, had 
 entered the army and was a lieutenant 
 had entered their minds they gave him a 
 rousing reception. " Now," said the 
 chairman, tapping, "silence for Lieutenant 
 Ormonde." 
 
 Ormonde stepped forward embarrassed, 
 looked at the sea of faces, coughed, and 
 then with an effort made his maiden public 
 
 8 9
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 speech. " Men," he said, " I have not 
 much to say. Only this. I'm only asking 
 you to do what I've done myself." 
 
 He stopped, and before the response 
 could come Mrs. Ormonde stepped for- 
 ward to his side. 
 
 " And I," she said, " when I ask the 
 girls and women to let their men go, I'm 
 not asking them to do what I have not 
 done myself." 
 
 She took her husband's arm and bowed. 
 And Colonel Rudley seized his chance. 
 " Now, lads," he cried, " there's a lead for 
 you. Who's for their King and Country ? 
 Come." 
 
 There was an uneasy movement and a 
 rustle in the room. People were looking 
 at each other ; there were whispers, there 
 was much scratching of heads sympto- 
 matic of much searching of hearts. But 
 for a time no one came forward. 
 
 I think those critics who have com- 
 mented adversely upon the slowness of our 
 90
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 young manhood to leap to arms and have 
 inferred from it a want of patriotism or 
 energy have misjudged them because they 
 have failed to understand them. 
 
 It must be remembered in the first place 
 that " patriotism " has never been made a 
 cult in England, never will be made a cult 
 let us hope. That chauvinism, that arro- 
 gance of mind which thinks itself a chosen 
 people, that intoxication which sings " our 
 country iiber alles " which other nations 
 have at times cultivated and which has 
 been the prelude always to defeat and 
 disaster, has never had any root in England. 
 Imperialism has failed. If there is a 
 quality inherent in our English flesh and 
 blood it is " Live and let live." We do 
 not want to go conquering our neighbours ; 
 we find it very hard to believe that they 
 want to come conquering us. We are 
 not a politically minded people. We do 
 not know nor care about foreign politics, 
 and our rulers keep their foreign policy so 
 
 9 1
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 secret that we could not know if we 
 wished. They prefer to lull us with fair 
 words. Therefore, when they suddenly 
 cry to the country, " You are in mortal 
 danger. Come and fight," the people are 
 more astonished than convinced. They 
 say to themselves : " Our Rulers were 
 wrong a very short time ago when they 
 cried Peace, Peace, and reduced our army. 
 Are we sure they are right now when 
 they call War, War, and demand our 
 lives ? They would not trust us. Can 
 we trust them ? " 
 
 In the early months of the war many 
 people were thinking that — very many 
 people. 
 
 Again, for a young man to throw up 
 his career and enlist is a very serious step. 
 And he is not accustomed to vital deci- 
 sions of this nature. Most men's careers 
 are the result of outward forces, their 
 education, their parents' orders, circum- 
 stances, and not of decisions made by 
 92
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 themselves. The immense majority of 
 mankind never have had cause to make 
 a great decision, never have done so. Yet 
 at these recruiting meetings young men 
 were suddenly urged to give up at a 
 moment's notice their careers and their 
 lives on a bare assurance that the country 
 needed them, not for aggressive but for 
 defensive war. 
 
 It was trying them very highly. How 
 true and sound the Englishman's heart is 
 the answer proved. All honour to the 
 lads who led the way. 
 
 But naturally and inevitably there was 
 hesitation at first. So it was at this 
 meeting. There was a pause that grew 
 more painful as the moments passed. 
 Success or failure ? It trembled in the 
 balance. 
 
 And then suddenly there was a movement 
 in the back of the room, a stifled exclama- 
 tion, a little scuffle as of a man shaking 
 himself loose, and Bob emerged from the 
 
 93
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 crowd. He walked straight up to the 
 platform, climbed up and advanced to the 
 table. To the audience only his back was 
 visible and they did not recognize it. But 
 when he had shaken hands with the colonel 
 and turned round, every one recognized 
 him, and there was a roar. Then the 
 enthusiasm spread like wildfire, and the 
 meeting was a great success. 
 
 Bob and Joyce walked back from the 
 meeting in a deep silence. She did not 
 even take his arm, but walked by his side, 
 her shoulder touching his. So they went 
 out of the crowded market-place and down 
 Holy Street towards the manor. At the 
 bottom of the dip the main road goes 
 straight on, but there is a road which 
 turns to the right and almost immediately 
 crosses the stream by an old stone bridge. 
 By some unspoken agreement Bob and 
 Joyce took this road, and when they came 
 to the bridge they sat down on the low 
 wall in the curve above the pier. He sat 
 
 94
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 down squarely enough, but she half turned 
 away from him, though still touching him. 
 The summer night was full of beauty, and 
 the water lapped against the pier. There 
 was a silence, and then Bob said accusingly : 
 
 " You wanted to prevent me, lass." 
 
 She did not answer, and after Bob had 
 waited a due time he turned towards her 
 and bent round to look at her face. 
 
 " Eh ? " he said, surprised, relapsing 
 into the more intimate county speech. 
 " Thou'rt crying." 
 
 " No ! " said Joyce stubbornly. " I'm 
 not crying." 
 
 " Eh ? " said Bob again, still more sur- 
 prised. 
 
 " What should I cry for ? " she de- 
 manded. " Because you want to go away ? 
 I don't mind." 
 
 " Don't 'ee ? " said Bob sadly. " But I 
 do mind. Joyce, lass, my heart's just like 
 the water down there. It's soft and 
 twittering inside me. It's you, aye, and 
 
 95
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 more than you, it's him that's coming that 
 I want. But I must go." 
 
 " Why must you go ? " 
 
 Bob did not answer. 
 
 " Let the lads go who have no wives. Let 
 even the married go who have no family. 
 Let the rich go who can leave fortunes for 
 their children, but not you, Bob." 
 
 Bob did not answer. He knocked his 
 heels against the stones and looked up into 
 the night. 
 
 She turned to him coaxingly. " Why 
 must you go ? " 
 
 "Joyce," said Bob reflectively, "did 
 thee never hear a voice ? " 
 
 " What voice ? " 
 
 " I dunno," and Bob shook his head. 
 
 " What does the voice say, Bob ? " she 
 asked very low. 
 
 " It says c Go,' " answered Bob, looking 
 at the hills outlined against the stars. 
 
 " Is it stronger than my voice, Bob ? " 
 
 " Aye, lass." 
 
 9 6
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 " Is it " — very softly — " is it stronger 
 than his, Bob ? " 
 
 Bob reflected yet. It was sore work to 
 him talking — explaining. It is so much 
 easier to feel than to explain. 
 
 " Thee thought that when thee had 
 telled me about him just now it would 
 stop me going ? " he demanded. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " But he says ' Go ' too," said Bob. 
 
 " No, no," said Joyce. " You hear 
 wrong. He says ' Stop.' He will want 
 his father. Bob, you cannot leave 
 him ? " 
 
 " But he says ' Go,' " reasserted Bob. 
 
 " Why should he say ' Go ' ? " asked 
 Joyce. 
 
 There was a longer silence, as if Bob 
 were listening and trying to make out. 
 The night was very still. There was only 
 the murmur of the water, and far off an 
 owl that called. 
 
 " Lass," he said suddenly, " would 
 g 97
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 thy son like to have a father he was 
 ashamed of ? " 
 
 " No, Bob, no," and she cuddled close 
 to him. " But he won't be ashamed." 
 
 " Then I must go," said Bob. 
 
 She cried silently. " Who will look 
 after him," she asked, " if you are shot ? " 
 
 " Lass," he said softly, trying hard for 
 words. " Whether is it better " 
 
 " Better ? " 
 
 " Better for thy son to have, to look 
 arter him till he grow up, a living dad 
 he is ashamed of and who is ashamed of 
 himself " 
 
 " No, no," she murmured. 
 
 " Or the memory of a dad he honours." 
 
 " Bob," she cried, " is it like that ? " 
 
 " Aye, Joyce," he said. " It's like that 
 wi' me. I don't know about other folk, 
 but from the first I knew. You tried to 
 stop me." 
 
 " Bob," she said, drying her tears 
 quickly, " I am sorry. I was wrong. I 
 
 98
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 — I didn't know about the voice. I won't 
 do so no more." 
 
 " Sure, lass ? " and he looked in her 
 face. 
 
 " Sure," she answered. 
 
 " It's hard enough for me," he said 
 gruffly. " D'you think I want to leave 
 thee and thy bairn to come ? Dinnot 
 I love thee both, Joyce ? I curse the 
 war that calls me from 'ee. But I mun 
 listen." 
 
 " Then," she said, rising, " I will help 
 you, Bob, and you will help me too." 
 
 "Aye, lass." 
 
 So under the seeing stars they made 
 their compact. 
 
 99
 
 V 
 
 A FEW days later Ormonde and 
 Bob both left for their training 
 camp, and from there Ormonde 
 wrote occasional letters to his wife. He 
 would have written oftener but that he 
 was very hard worked. Bob too wrote, 
 but his letters were very brief. They 
 ended always : " Take care of thyself, lass, 
 and keep up thy heart. He must be a 
 merry laddie." There was no slacking 
 in these camps where men were made 
 into soldiers with a speed and a success no 
 one would have believed possible. 
 
 At Christmas both Ormonde and Bob 
 came home for a few days' leave, and 
 every one noticed the change, the harden- 
 ing of fibre both physical and moral, the 
 erectness of carriage, the simplicity of aim. 
 Those too few Christmas days will remain 
 for ever in the memory of their wives as 
 quite different from all the days that had 
 ioo
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 gone before, all the days that were to 
 come after. They were filled with an 
 emotion too deep, too strong, too sweet 
 for explanation. They were days with- 
 out record when nothing was done and 
 hardly anything said. The two couples 
 sat together, or they rambled two and 
 two beneath the leafless trees beside the 
 babbling water. They held each other's 
 hands and listened to the Song of All the 
 World. Their souls were dipped in that 
 harmony which is hid within the crash 
 and discord of great pain and suffering, 
 to soon rise above it and beyond it. Then 
 they parted, silent still, and in February 
 both were sent out with a draft to France. 
 From the front they wrote but seldom and 
 then shortly. They had other work to do. 
 
 In March came the news of Neuve 
 Chapelle. The two women looked at each 
 other. They were very near together now. 
 
 And when five days later the telegrams 
 came they were not unexpected. 
 
 IOI
 
 FROM FATHER TO SON 
 
 It was a fortnight or so later that Mrs. 
 Ormonde got a letter from the front. It 
 was from the colonel of the battalion 
 and it said : 
 
 " Your husband fell leading his men, 
 and no one could have died more gal- 
 lantly. His orderly, Private Hill, tried 
 to carry him back, but he too fell. Later 
 they were rescued by the ambulance, but 
 both died in a few hours." 
 
 And upon Bob Hill was found a letter 
 which was forwarded to Joyce. It con- 
 tained only these words : " Good-bye, 
 Joyce. Mind you tell the lad. It will be 
 good for him to know." 
 
 Aye, it will be good for Bob's son when 
 he comes — for surely he will be a son — 
 to know. There is no treasure to a son like 
 the memory of his father. In the golden 
 treasury of hearts where live things that are 
 eternal there is no jewel greater than this is. 
 102
 
 HANNAH
 
 HANNAH 
 
 i 
 
 SOME day if you are down in Devon 
 and you walk along a lane I know, 
 a lane sunk deep between banks of 
 ivy and of moss, you will come to a brown 
 church. The church is old, so old that I 
 think its attribution to the fifteenth 
 century is a mistake. It seems indeed 
 hardly to be a building set up by man at 
 all, it is so natural to the scenery, it might 
 have been built by nature as the tors are 
 up above and the cliffs are down below. 
 Lacking therefore though it is in all 
 architectural splendour, it has more than 
 that, it has the grandeur and dignity of 
 complete simplicity and perfect harmony 
 with all about it, the tors far up beyond 
 the rolling downs, the meadows, and even 
 with the sea. It is not ecclesiastical at all 
 but human, and so a far closer approach to 
 
 105
 
 HANNAH 
 
 the divine than any vain striving after the 
 magnificent. 
 
 About the church there is a God's acre. 
 It is shaded by great elms and the grass 
 that grows above the graves is very green. 
 A part of this acre is old, so old that 
 the stones were weathered into illegibility 
 centuries ago. But there is a corner 
 still left to be filled ; and if you will 
 go in at the lich-gate and turn to the 
 right beyond the church you will find 
 it. 
 
 There are but few graves here and 
 those of poor people, for the rich do not 
 either live nor die nor are buried in this 
 parish, but in the pleasure city a few miles 
 away. Most of the graves have no head- 
 stone at all, for the money of the poor is 
 better spent in buying bread for the living 
 than stones for the dead. There is indeed 
 only one carved headstone and that quite 
 recent. It is a very modest stone and it 
 was put up, I am told, by a stranger who 
 106
 
 HANNAH 
 
 also wrote the inscription. It is as 
 follows : 
 
 SACRED 
 
 To the Memory of 
 
 HANNAH YEO 
 
 Born in this parish April 7th 1838. 
 
 Dead on the Field of Honour 
 
 Dec. 14th 1 9 14. 
 
 That is all. There is no explanation of 
 v/here the Field of Honour was, nor how 
 a woman of seventy-six came to die there, 
 nor why. There are only these words, 
 and you feel that they are true. They 
 hold a pathos and a dignity that more 
 words could not add to, nor enhance. I 
 fancy that he who put up the stone did 
 so to satisfy some feeling of his own and 
 not for her sake. In the place where she 
 has gone they will want no explanation 
 because they will know, and down here 
 the tombstone is so small, so hidden, that 
 
 107
 
 HANNAH 
 
 probably not twenty people will ever see 
 it. It is not an advertisement but the 
 salute of one soul to another. Ishin 
 Denshin, as they say in Japan. 
 
 Nevertheless, I came to know the story, 
 and I want to write it, not for her sake, 
 nor my own, nor that of any person, but 
 for the sake of England. I do not think 
 England knows how proud she ought to 
 be of many of her sons and daughters. It 
 is a good thing for a nation to be humble 
 and modest towards the world, but it is 
 good also when your children love you 
 and suffer for you to remember them, and 
 to remember also that it is not always 
 those who wear your honours who have 
 best deserved them. It is good — not for 
 them, but for you. 
 
 108
 
 II 
 
 THIS, then, is Hannah Yeo's life- 
 story. It is a short story because, 
 although she was seventy-six when 
 she died, she really lived only during the 
 last four months. Her previous years had 
 been an existence without any dominant 
 motive which could give them that pur- 
 pose or colour which is life. 
 
 Her father was a farmer, and he was 
 twice married. Hannah was born of the 
 first wife, and Hetty of the second. There 
 were fifteen years between the half-sisters, 
 and, though of the same father, they were 
 very unlike. Hannah was always thin 
 and plain. Even as a child she had no 
 beauty, and she seemed cold and not given 
 to affection. But she was hard-working, 
 entirely dependable, and full of common 
 sense. Hetty was comely, affectionate, 
 idle, thoughtless, and not useful. It will 
 be understood that no criticism is included 
 
 109
 
 HANNAH 
 
 in these words. It was no more Hetty's 
 fault that she was idle and thoughtless 
 than it was Hannah's fault that she was 
 uncomely and cold. Matters of tempera- 
 ment are no more under our control 
 than matters of appearance. Hetty and 
 Hannah did not make themselves ; they 
 were as birth and education and circum- 
 stances made them, just as are the rest 
 of us. 
 
 Hetty had much the best of it. As a 
 child she was petted, as a young girl she 
 was admired and courted, as a woman of 
 twenty-five she was married, at thirty she 
 had a son. 
 
 Hannah was never petted nor courted 
 nor admired nor wooed nor married. She 
 knew nothing except by hearsay of what 
 these words mean. She lived with her 
 father till she was fifty, when he died 
 leaving her three thousand pounds. Then 
 she went to live with Hetty, who was a 
 widow with one son, and who was not 
 1 10
 
 HANNAH 
 
 much better off than herself. But they 
 lived carefully and comfortably together 
 — for the sisters were attached to each 
 other — for ten years, when they lost nearly 
 all their money. 
 
 How this happened I don't know, but 
 their ruin was nearly complete. There 
 remained to them both only the furniture 
 of their house and six or seven hundred 
 pounds. Hannah was sixty, thin, hard, 
 cold ; Hetty was forty-five, fat, pleasant, 
 given to nerves and hysterics. They 
 neither of them had any knowledge ot 
 anything but housekeeping in their own 
 way. 
 
 So they decided to utilize their one gift 
 by taking a large house in the neigh- 
 bouring pleasure city of Idlecombe and 
 receiving lodgers. It was all they xould 
 do. 
 
 And they did it fairly well. They took 
 a house in a good part and furnished the 
 house handsomely. Hetty was the cook ; 
 
 1 1 1
 
 HANNAH 
 
 Hannah was all the rest, with the assist- 
 ance of a young girl. For the house had 
 three suites of rooms one above the other, 
 so that stairs were a trouble. 
 
 So sixteen years passed. The boy grew 
 up and went into some pottery works in 
 the neighbourhood, where he was an idle, 
 jolly, reckless young fellow " who would 
 come to no good." 
 
 Hannah was now seventy-six, thin as a 
 skeleton, with dull cavernous eyes, but 
 still active for her years. Hetty was 
 sixty-one, so fat as to be almost helpless, 
 an excellent cook, and still more liable to 
 nerves than before. 
 
 They had a bright, active little country 
 girl as maid to help them, called Betsy. 
 She had been with them three or four 
 years when this story really opens in July 
 1914. 
 
 1 12
 
 Ill 
 
 EARLY in that month of July a 
 middle-aged man came to the 
 door of The Cedars, as their 
 house was called, and rang. Hannah 
 answered the bell and to his inquiry as to 
 whether she had rooms to let for a month 
 or two replied that she had. It was the 
 beginning of the season, but by some 
 chance the first floor was just vacant ; 
 would the gentleman step in and look 
 at the rooms ? He did, and was satisfied. 
 The bedroom and sitting-room adjoined, 
 and were both fine rooms with big bay- 
 windows opening on a private park, with 
 a view of the sea beyond. The terms 
 were also reasonable, but — He stood and 
 looked doubtfully at Hannah. 
 
 For indeed she was not attractive, 
 and for many reasons he would have 
 preferred to be waited on by a younger 
 woman, or even by an older woman 
 
 h 113
 
 HANNAH 
 
 who seemed a woman and not a stone 
 gargoyle. 
 
 "You do the service yourself?' he 
 asked. 
 
 " I have a maid," Hannah answered, 
 " but I usually do the service of this suite 
 myself. It is well done," she added half 
 proudly, half pathetically. 
 
 " I do not doubt it," said the man, even 
 more doubtfully than before. 
 
 " Would you prefer the maid ? " Hannah 
 asked. Perhaps she understood ; perhaps 
 some such thing had happened before. 
 " You could have the maid, but the suite 
 above this, which she has now, is rather 
 high up and " 
 
 " It is a matter of indifference to me 
 who waits," said the man with strict un- 
 truth, " provided the rooms are well done 
 and the bell is answered quickly." 
 
 " It will be answered," she replied 
 briefly. 
 
 And at length, though still with great 
 114
 
 HANNAH 
 
 doubt, he took the rooms. " If I get 
 tired of being waited on by a centenarian 
 death's-head," he said to himself, " I can 
 always move." But he knew also that he 
 did not like moving. 
 
 So a day or two later he came in. Idle- 
 combe was even then fairly full of visitors, 
 but of course the full season did not 
 begin till August. It was from July till 
 Christmas that the hotels, the boarding- 
 houses and the lodging-house keepers 
 looked to make their profit. The rest 
 of the year was uncertain. 
 
 The man was satisfied. The cooking 
 was good, really good, and the service 
 was good. His bell was answered with 
 rapidity, and though he never got over a 
 feeling of discomfort that so old a woman 
 had to run upstairs for him, he learned to 
 bear it. Indeed he learned to do more 
 than bear with her, he learned to respect 
 her in a distant and abstract way. Her 
 immediate presence always annoyed him. 
 
 IJ 5
 
 HANNAH 
 
 When she came in at half-past seven in the 
 morning and brought him hot water and 
 pulled up his blind, he always kept his 
 eyes tight shut till she was gone. It was 
 the same at meal-times. He tried to 
 avoid looking at her, for there was some- 
 thing about her that was not merely un- 
 attractive but repellent, a something that 
 came not merely from her age and emacia- 
 tion, but from something aggressive in 
 her utter plainness. It seemed to say : 
 " Life has never had any relation to me 
 but a hostile give-and-take and so I return 
 the same to life and therefore to you. All 
 the beauty and comeliness and pleasant 
 things that others find in life have never 
 been there for me, nor are they in me. 
 I parley with life at the end of a fixed 
 bayonet." 
 
 But he respected her. She never failed 
 in her duty, never by word or inflection 
 made the excuse of her age for any short- 
 coming. She returned in service the 
 116
 
 HANNAH 
 
 uttermost penny he paid her. She ran 
 up the stairs to his bell and came into his 
 room with trembling limbs but with a 
 spirit of steel. She never asked for pity, 
 would not have accepted it, would have 
 resented it as an insult. She played the 
 game. 
 
 Then came August, the rumour of war, 
 the declaration of war between Germany 
 and Russia, and then our declaration 
 against Germany. It all came like a bolt 
 out of the blue. 
 
 On August 5 the man's lunch was late 
 and when it arrived it was badly cooked. 
 It was brought up, too, by the maid 
 Betsy, and not by Hannah, which was a 
 notable thing. He looked at the omelette 
 with disfavour. Then Betsy spoke : " Miss 
 Yeo is sorry the lunch is late. She had to 
 cook it herself too." 
 
 " Is Mrs. Farrant ill ? " 
 
 Betsy sniggered. " She's afraid of the 
 Germans." 
 
 117
 
 HANNAH 
 
 " Afraid of the Germans ? " 
 
 Betsy nodded. " It's war now, and she 
 thinks they'll come and cut our throats. 
 She's gone to bed." 
 
 " Tell her there's no danger," said the 
 man. 
 
 " We all tell her that. But Lor' ! she 
 don't believe us. She just has hysterics. 
 Miss Yeo's very sorry, sir. She can't 
 cook like her sister." 
 
 " I will dine out," said the man. 
 
 He dined out, and next day he lunched 
 out also as Mrs. Farrant had not recovered. 
 And already in twenty-four hours Idle- 
 combe had changed. The railway station 
 was packed not with arrivals but with 
 departures. There was a stampede from 
 the coast. The bathing beach, so thronged 
 two days before, was now almost deserted. 
 The declaration of war had fallen into 
 this watering-place like a shell, scaring 
 away from it all those who had just 
 come. 
 118
 
 HANNAH 
 
 For indeed in those early days no one 
 knew what war meant nor the changes it 
 would bring. The wildest ideas and 
 rumours were afloat. There was a great 
 battle raging in the North Sea, the coast 
 was all mined either by the enemy or by 
 ourselves. The sands were dangerous as 
 mines might wash up. There would be 
 a famine soon because our supplies would 
 be cut. Frightened housewives rushed off 
 to the grocers' and bought up their stocks 
 of flour, bacon, cheese, and stored their 
 cellars, so that there was indeed in many 
 places a temporary artificial famine. Gold 
 disappeared. Silver nearly disappeared, 
 and for some days the only cur- 
 rency was postal orders. The banks 
 were closed for nearly a week and no one 
 could cash cheques. The train service 
 was curtailed in fact, and abolished in 
 gossip. Spies were said to swarm and 
 many arrests were made. Local papers 
 brought out hourly editions, with nothing 
 
 119
 
 HANNAH 
 
 in them because all news was censored. 
 And until this suspense was passed every 
 one thought it best to stay at home, or if 
 away to go home and stay at home. So 
 the holiday season just begun was killed, 
 and many many poor people ruined in 
 consequence. 
 
 The occupants of the other two suites 
 in The Cedars fled, and future visitors who 
 had booked rooms almost till Christmas 
 cancelled their bookings. Only the man 
 stayed on. 
 
 120
 
 IV 
 
 IT was the dinner this time that was 
 spoiled, and the man looked at it 
 in annoyance. 
 
 " I am very sorry," said Hannah, " very 
 sorry." 
 
 "Mrs. Farrant ill again ? " 
 
 Hannah shook her head. " She keeps 
 thinking the Germans will come." 
 
 " What nonsense ! " said the man. " Tell 
 Mrs. Farrant I'll promise to give her due 
 notice before the Germans come, provided 
 she cooks my dinner till they do come. 
 But if not I must go." 
 
 Hannah's hands trembled. " I — I wish 
 I could cook. But you won't go, please." 
 
 It was the first time the man had heard 
 any note of emotion in Hannah's voice, 
 and even so it was hardly perceptible. 
 
 " Then warn Mrs. Farrant." 
 
 " I have done my best. Her son went 
 for a soldier yesterday." 
 
 121
 
 HANNAH 
 
 " Right," said the man. " I will stay 
 on, then, at present." He knew very well 
 that he was their last hope. The other 
 suites were empty. The holiday season 
 was killed. Betsy had gone to London, 
 but with only the man there was not much 
 work to do. 
 
 " How did it happen Mrs. Farrant let 
 her son go ? " he asked. 
 
 " She didn't want him to go," said 
 Hannah. 
 
 " No," thought the man, " it was this 
 old death's-head made him go, I don't 
 doubt. She is a grenadier in a winding- 
 sheet." 
 
 " It is for Devon," said Hannah simply, 
 removing the plates. 
 
 For Devon ! Hannah knew Devon, 
 but England she did not know. She was 
 born in Devon, had lived all her life in 
 Devon, would die in Devon, and unless 
 the next world was like Devon, she would 
 consider heaven a failure. A small patriotism 
 122
 
 HANNAH 
 
 is keener than a great patriotism, because 
 it comprehends better. 
 
 More than this the man did not know, 
 though he guessed that there was more. 
 He did not know the fight Mrs. Farrant 
 had made to keep her son, who himself 
 wished to go ; how she had reproached 
 the young man with ingratitude, and 
 Hannah with selfishness. " He is my 
 son," she cried. " If he was yours you 
 would not be so willing to let him go." 
 
 " For Devon," said Hannah. 
 
 " What have you given to Devon ? " 
 sneered Mrs. Farrant. " You are lavish 
 with other people's family. You have 
 none yourself." 
 
 "That is true," said Hannah. 
 
 " What do you give to Devon ? " con- 
 tinued Hetty. " Even if William is not 
 killed he will be ruined, for he will lose 
 his place and not get it on his return. 
 His future is ruined now, and mine too. 
 It's all very well for you to talk like that." 
 
 123
 
 HANNAH 
 
 Hannah said nothing then, but a day or 
 two later she produced to Hetty a bank- 
 book and said : 
 
 " Hetty, what you said was true. It is 
 not right of me to urge you to let William 
 go but give nothing myself. So I have 
 made over to you all my savings in the 
 Bank. I had left them you in my will, 
 but if you let William go I give them you 
 now. They are not much ; we have never 
 had much to save, have we ? They are 
 three hundred pounds. They are yours. 
 And more, I am sending Betsy away. We 
 do not want her now. I will do all the 
 work, but in the joint accounts we will 
 charge for Betsy as usual, but you shall 
 take the money." 
 
 To do Hetty justice she was not mer- 
 cenary. She did not want William to go 
 because she did not want to lose him. She 
 had taunted Hannah to try and stop 
 Hannah urging her to let William go. 
 She refused the money. But Hannah's 
 124
 
 HANNAH 
 
 will was stronger and Hetty gave in. 
 William enlisted in the Engineers and 
 disappeared. 
 
 In The Cedars things went on as usual. 
 Hetty returned to her cooking and Hannah 
 did all the rest. 
 
 But the man began to notice a difference 
 in Hannah. His aversion to her began 
 to disappear. Why ? For some time he 
 was puzzled. Then he came to the con- 
 clusion that Hannah was changing. Her 
 signs of age increased, her signs of 
 humanity increased. She was like an 
 icicle that melted slowly in the sun. The 
 hardness, bitterness, and apartness from 
 life which seventy-six years of unloved, 
 unloving isolation had frozen into her 
 heart relaxed. There was sometimes in 
 her rheumy, dim old eyes that far-off 
 look which tells of things unseen yet 
 felt. 
 
 For Hannah was in love. Now for the 
 first time in all her six-and-seventy years 
 
 125
 
 HANNAH 
 
 she felt the power of love. No longer 
 did she stand alone in a world she did not 
 understand and which did not understand 
 her because it loved or had loved and 
 she did not. She, too, at last was 
 touched with the transforming power. 
 Only in place of a lover who had 
 held her in his arms, a babe who had 
 pulled at her breast, she was in love with 
 Devon. 
 
 Perhaps she had always held the love of 
 Devon in her heart. But Devon had not 
 wanted her, would have sneered at her if 
 it had known her love, and so she froze it 
 down with all the other loves she might 
 have felt had any spring-time ever come 
 her way. 
 
 Now Devon needed Hannah and she 
 had answered with all her might, had given 
 all she had. Do not sneer, or think that 
 Hannah did a little thing to give her 
 savings. It was a great thing, a very 
 great thing, it was her shield against a 
 126
 
 HANNAH 
 
 workhouse end and a pauper funeral. 
 Those who know will understand how 
 much she gave. Life itself were less. 
 
 She did not fear. She was in love. 
 The soft warm breath of spring came 
 down into that frozen heart, whispering 
 of things that Hannah never heard before, 
 immortal things, making a music there 
 that Hannah would take with her to that 
 place whither we all return. Hannah was 
 young again in heart. The spring at last 
 had come. 
 
 But as a strong ice pinnacle that braves 
 the winter storms and seems to grow the 
 stronger and the harder for the frost, the 
 snow, the wind, breaks and dissolves before 
 the spring, its hard ice turning to laughing 
 waters running fast towards the sea, so too 
 with Hannah. 
 
 As her heart thawed her limbs began to 
 fail. They failed so far that the man noticed 
 it, how she answered his bell with more 
 and more difficulty, how she moved so 
 
 127
 
 HANNAH 
 
 slowly now, how she pressed her hand 
 upon her chest. 
 
 Yet he dare say nothing. Dare not 
 insult her by suggesting she could no 
 longer wait on him. 
 
 Only he went out a great deal, and so 
 did not need his meals in the house, or 
 to ring his bell. He knew it would not 
 be long. 
 
 128
 
 V 
 
 THE man turned over in his bed. 
 How long the night was. He was 
 tired of sleep, tired of dreams, 
 tired of thoughts ; he wanted to get up 
 and do things. But Hannah didn't 
 come with his hot water as she always 
 did at eight o'clock, and it was no 
 use getting up till eight because it was 
 dark. 
 
 Then he turned over again, and in so 
 doing half opened his eyes. But it was 
 not dark, it was light. Then it was past 
 eight, and Hannah was late. 
 
 He got up, looked at his watch, which 
 made it eight-thirty, drew up the blinds, 
 shaved with cold — very cold — water, and 
 dressed. Then he went out, and he found 
 Hannah. 
 
 She had not succeeded in reaching his 
 floor, but lay on the half-way landing 
 below. The hot-water jug was beside 
 
 i 129
 
 HANNAH 
 
 her, and his cup of tea, put down tidily 
 before she fell. 
 
 Hannah was not yet dead. She did not 
 die till two days later in hospital. 
 
 She never spoke again, but she smiled 
 often, as if she saw and heard things that 
 made her very happy. 
 
 So, at her appointed time, she passed as 
 the streams pass which have been frozen 
 all the long winter on the peaks above, 
 and now go singing down to the freedom 
 of the all-embracing sea. 
 
 130
 
 THE FIELD OF 
 HONOUR
 
 THE FIELD OF 
 HONOUR 
 
 CHILD 
 
 WHERE does the Field of 
 Honour lie ? 
 For I would like to know 
 its story ? 
 Where is the place where heroes die 
 And dying win eternal glory ? 
 
 " Where is the soil that always yields 
 So much for such a little given ? 
 
 Father, where are the battlefields 
 
 From whence men rise straight up to 
 heaven ? 
 
 " They must be in some foreign lands 
 Where it is always summer weather, 
 
 Where rivers run on golden sands 
 That heroes meet and die together. 
 
 *33
 
 THE FIELD OF HONOUR 
 
 " Father, the road I wish to know 
 And you must tell me all its story, 
 
 Then when I'm old I too will go 
 And die upon the Field of Glory." 
 
 FATHER 
 
 He took the lad upon his knee, 
 
 The curly head was on his shoulder : 
 
 " My son, if you that Field would see 
 You need not wait till you are older. 
 
 " The Field of Honour always lies 
 Wherever gallant men are living, 
 
 And under whatsoever skies 
 
 Their lives they are for Honour giving. 
 
 " Wherever noble deeds are done, 
 
 Wherever pain and death are suffered, 
 
 In every land, 'neath every sun 
 Where true self-sacrifice is offered. 
 
 J 34
 
 THE FIELD OF HONOUR 
 
 " Not only where the cannon roar 
 
 And earth is hid with corpses on her ; 
 
 Not only by the god of war 
 
 Are hallowed the true Fields of Honour. 
 
 " Not only gallant soldiers who 
 
 Have faced and dared the King of 
 Shadows, 
 All those whose lives and deaths are true 
 
 Lie buried in those sacred meadows. 
 
 " And if, my son, you wish to lie 
 At last upon the Field of Glory, 
 
 Live on it now, so when you die 
 You will not have to ask its story." 
 
 PRINTED AT 
 THE BALLANTYNE PRESS 
 LONDON 6- EDINBURGH
 
 PK 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW. 
 
 Series 9482
 
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