Springfield took his cigarette case-from his tunic, and extracted another cigarette. 'It seems a bit funny, doesn't it? but I don't pretend to offer an explanation. By the way, will he be well enough to go back to duty when his leave is up?'

'I don't know,' I replied. 'McClure will have to decide that.'

'I should think you will be glad to get rid of him, Luscombe.'

'Why?' I asked.

'The fellow seems such an impossible bounder. Excuse me, but that is how he struck me.'

'You didn't seem to think so when you thanked him for saving your life,' was my reply.

'No, of course that was different'; and his voice was somewhat strained as he spoke. 'I—I ought not to have said that, Luscombe. When one man owes another his life, he—he should be careful. If I can do the fellow a good turn, I will; and since in these days anybody can become an officer in the British Army, I—I——' He stammered uneasily, and then went on: 'Of course it is different when you have to meet a man as an equal in a friend's house. But there,—I must be going. I have to get back to town to-night.'

In spite of what I had said to Edgecumbe, I was angry at seeing that Springfield spent two hours that afternoon with Lorna Bolivick. There could be no doubt about it, the fellow had broken down all her antagonism towards him, and was bent on making a good impression on her. I found, too, that Sir Thomas Bolivick regarded him with great favour. By some means or another, the news had come to him that Springfield was a possible heir to a peerage, and that while he was at present poor, he would on the death of a distant relative become a very rich man. This fact had doubtless increased his interest in Springfield, and perhaps had lessened his annoyance at the fact that Lorna had failed to fall in with his previous wishes concerning her.

'Remarkably clever fellow.' he confided in me; 'the kind of man who makes an impression wherever he goes. When I saw him at St. Mabyn's more than a year ago, I did not like him so much, but he grows on one.'

'By the way, what peerage is he heir to?' I asked. 'I never heard of it until yesterday.'

'Oh, he'll come into Lord Carbis's title and estates.'

'Carbis? Then it's not an old affair?'

'Oh no,—the present Lord Carbis was created a peer in 1890.'

'A brewer, isn't he?' I asked.

'Yes,' and I thought Sir Thomas looked somewhat uneasy. 'Of course there are very few old peerages now,' he went on; 'the old families have a way of dying out, somehow. But Carbis is one of the richest men in the country. I suppose he paid nearly a million for the Carbis estates. Carbis Castle is almost medieval, I suppose, and the oldest part of the building was commenced I don't know how many hundreds of years ago. Oh, Springfield will be in a magnificent position when the present Lord Carbis dies.'

'Beer seems a very profitable thing,' I could not help laughing.

'Personally I have no prejudice against these beer peerages,' replied Sir Thomas somewhat warmly. 'Of course I would prefer a more ancient creation, but these are democratic days. If a man creates a great fortune by serving the State, why shouldn't he be honoured? When you come to think about it, I suppose the brewing class has provided more peerages than any other during the last fifty years. Come now, Luscombe,' and Sir Thomas looked at me almost angrily.

Just before Colonel McClure left, he drew me aside, and asked me if I had spoken to Springfield, and on my describing our conversation, he looked very grave.

'I can't make it out, Luscombe,' he said. 'If my twelve years' experience in India goes for anything, your friend Edgecumbe was poisoned. He had every symptom of a man who had a subtle and deadly poison injected into his blood. And the way he responded to the treatment I gave him coincided exactly with what I have seen a dozen times in India.'

'Might it not be merely a coincidence?' I asked.

'Of course almost anything is possible,' he replied, 'and I could not swear in a court of law that he had been poisoned. I gather you are fond of Edgecumbe,' he added.

'Yes,' I replied; 'it may be it is owing to the peculiar circumstances by which we were brought together, and from the fact that more than once he saved my life. And no man could love his brother more than I love him.'

'Then,' said Colonel McClure earnestly, 'watch over him, my friend; guard him as if he were your own son.'

I spent a good deal of time in Edgecumbe's room that night, but we scarcely spoke. He was sleeping most of the time, and I was warned against exciting him. The following day, however, he was quite like his natural self, and expressed his determination to get up. As Colonel McClure had encouraged this, I made no attempt to oppose him, and the afternoon of the Monday being fine and sunny, we walked in the park together.

'Springfield's gone to London, hasn't he?' he asked.

'Yes,' I replied; and then I blurted out, 'He spent yesterday afternoon with Miss Bolivick. I am inclined to think you are right about his intentions concerning her.'

'Do you think he has spoken to her?'

'I shouldn't be surprised, and for that matter I am inclined to think he has had a serious conversation with her father.'

I was almost sorry, when I saw the look on his face, that I had spoken in this way. He became very pale, and his lips quivered as though he were much moved. 'Of course,' I went on, trying to make the best of my faux pas, 'it may be a good thing for you.'

'Why?' he asked.

'If he has been successful, it will make you see how foolish your thoughts are.'

'Do you know me so little as that?' he asked.

'But surely, my dear fellow,' I said, 'in the face of what I said yesterday, you will not think of entertaining such impossible ideas?'

'You mean about my having a wife somewhere,' and he laughed.

'I mean that, under the most favourable circumstances, no honourable man could, in your position, ask a woman to marry him.'

'I mean to ask her, though,' was his reply.

'But, my dear fellow——'

'Luscombe,' and there was a steady look in his eyes as he spoke, 'I have thought it all out. Almighty God never put such a love in a man's heart as He has put in my heart for Lorna Bolivick, to laugh at him. At the very first opportunity I shall tell her everything.'

'And if she refuses you,' I said, 'as most likely she will?'

'I shall still love her, and never give up hoping and striving.'

'You mean——?'

'I mean that nothing will turn me aside from my determination, nothing,—nothing.'

'But supposing you have a wife,—supposing that when you were a boy, before you lost your memory, you married some one, what then?'

'Don't talk rubbish, old man,' was his reply.

'After all,' I reflected that night when I went to bed, 'perhaps it is best that he should speak to her. She will regard his declaration as madness, and will tell him so. He never saw her until three hours ago, and if, as I suspect, Springfield has fascinated her, she will make him see what a fool he has been. Then he will give up his madness.'

That was why I left them together the next day. All the same, there was a curious pain in my heart as I saw them walk away side by side, for I knew by the light in his eyes that he meant to carry out his determination.



CHAPTER XXIV

A STRANGE LOVE-MAKING

Few men tell each other about their love-making, especially Englishmen. Mostly we regard such things as too sacred to speak about, even to those we trust and love the most. Besides, there is something in the character of the normal Englishman which is reserved and secretive, and the thought of telling about our love-making is utterly repugnant to us. Nevertheless, Edgecumbe told me the story of their conversation that afternoon almost word for word as it took place.

He spoke of it quite naturally, too, as though it were the right thing to do. He looked upon me as his one friend, and perhaps the abnormal condition of his life made him do what under other circumstances he would never have thought of. Anyhow, he told me, while I listened incredulous, but almost spellbound.

They had been but a few minutes together, when he commenced his confession. They had left the lane in which they had been walking and were crossing a field which led to a piece of woodland, now beginning to be tinged by those autumn tints which are so beautiful in our western counties.

It was one of those autumn days, which are often more glorious than even those of midsummer. The sweetness and freshness of summer had gone, and the browning leaves and shortening days warned us that winter was coming on apace. But as they walked, the sun shone in a cloudless sky. The morning had been gloomy and showery, but now, as if by a magician's wand, the clouds had been swept away, and nothing but the great dome of blue, illumined by the brightness of the sun, was over them. The rain, too, had cleared the air, and the raindrops which here and there still hung on the grass sparkled in the sunlight.

'It seems,' said Edgecumbe, 'as though the glory of yonder woods is simply defying the coming of winter. Do you see the colouring, the almost unearthly beauty, of the leaves? That is because the sun is shining on them.'

'Yes;' replied Lorna, 'but the winter is coming.'

'Only for a little while, and it only means that nature will take a rest. It's a glorious thing to live, Miss Bolivick.'

She looked at him earnestly for a few seconds. Perhaps she was thinking of the illness through which he had passed, and of his thankfulness at his recovery.

'I am so glad you're better,' she said. 'We were all heart-broken at your illness. I hope——'

But she did not finish the sentence. Perhaps she saw that he was not heeding what she said,—saw, too, that his eyes were far away.

For a few seconds they walked on in silence. Then he turned towards her suddenly.

'I have something to tell you,' he said,—'something very wonderful.'

'You look awfully serious,' and she gave a nervous laugh as she spoke; 'I hope it is nothing to frighten me.'

'Perhaps it is,' he replied, 'but it must be said,—the words would choke me if I didn't utter them.'

She looked at him like one frightened, but did not speak.

'It is all summed up in three words,' he went on: 'I love you. No, don't speak yet; it would not be right. I never saw you until Friday night,—that is, I have no ordinary remembrance of seeing you until then. My friend had spoken to me about you; he had told me of your interest in me. He showed me the letter you wrote him. I did not want to come here, but something, I don't know what it was, made me. When I saw you on Friday evening, I knew. You stood at the doorway of your father's house, with the light of the setting sun upon your face. I could not speak at the time,—words wouldn't come. No wonder, for life begun for me at that moment,—I mean full life, complete life. When I saw you, the world became new. You thought I acted strangely, didn't you? I told you that I never remembered speaking to a woman until then. In a way, of course, it was foolishness, although in another it was the truth. My past is a blank,—that is, up to the time I awoke to a realization that I lived, away in India; and since then my life has been with men. But that wasn't what I meant. When I saw you, you were the only woman in the world,—you are now. You are the fulfilment of my dreams, longing, hopes, ideals. You are all the world.'

The two walked on side by side, neither speaking for some time after this. Perhaps Lorna Bolivick was frightened,—perhaps she was wondering how she could at once be kind, and still make him see the foolishness of what he had said.

'I am glad you are silent,' went on Edgecumbe, 'for your silence helps me. Do you know, when I came to England,—that is, when I saw Luscombe for the first time, I had no thought of God except in a vague, shadowy way. Something, I don't know what, had obliterated Him from my existence,—if ever He had an existence to me, and for months afterwards I never thought of Him. Then I went into a Y.M.C.A. hut in France, where a man spoke about Him, and I caught the idea. It was wonderful,—wonderful! Presently I found Him, found Him in reality, and He illumined the whole of my life. I read that wonderful story of how He sent His Son to reveal Him,—I saw His love in the life and death of Jesus Christ,—and life has never been the same to me since then. But something was wanting, even then; something human, something that was necessary to complete life. Then I saw you, and you completed it.

'I don't know whether men call you beautiful, or not,—that doesn't matter. You have not come into my life like an angel, but as a woman, a human woman. I know nothing about you, and yet I know everything. You are the one woman God meant for me, you fill my life,—you glorify it. You mustn't think of marrying anybody else, it would be sacrilege if you did. Such a love as mine wasn't intended to be discarded,—mustn't be,—can't be.'

'Mr. Edgecumbe,' she said quietly, 'I think we had better return to the house.'

'No, don't let us go back yet; there are other things I want to say'; and he walked steadily on. She still kept by his side,—perhaps she was not so much influenced by his words, as the way he said them, for I knew by the look in his eyes when he told me his story, and by what I felt at the recital of it, that there was a strange intensity, a wonderful magnetism, in his presence.

'I am very ignorant,' he continued presently, 'about the ways of the world. I suppose I must have known at one time, for Luscombe tells me that I generally do what might be expected of a gentleman, although sometimes I make strange mistakes. The loss of one's memory, I suppose, has a curious effect, and I cannot explain it to you. There are certain things which are very real, and very plain,—others are obscure. For example, I speak German perfectly; but until I read it a few months ago, I knew nothing of German history. Forgive me for saying that,—it has nothing to do with what I want to tell you, and yet perhaps it has. Anyhow, it makes plain certain things I do and say. You are going to be my wife——'

'Really, Mr. Edgecumbe,—please,—please——'

'You are going to be my wife,' he went on, as if she had not spoken; 'some day, if not now, you are going to wake up to the fact that you love me, as I love you,—that just as you are the only woman in the world to me, so I am the only man in the world to you. That is not because of my worthiness, because I am not worthy, but because the fire which burns in my heart will be kindled in yours. This seems like madness on my part, doesn't it?—but I am not mad. I am only speaking because of a great conviction, and because my love envelops me, fills me, overwhelms me. Don't you see? Then this has come to me: I am poor, I am nameless, homeless,—but what of that? Love such as mine makes everything possible, and I am going to make a name, make wealth, make riches;—it won't take me long. Why,' and he laughed as he spoke, 'what is a great love for, but to conquer difficulties, to sweep away impossibilities?'

'But this is madness, Mr. Edgecumbe,' replied the girl, finding her voice at last. 'I can't allow you to speak in such a way any longer; it would be wrong for me to do so. I do not wish to hurt you, and indeed I am very sorry for you. I never thought that you would think of me in this way; if I had, I would never have asked you to come here. But you must see how impossible everything is; our habits of life, our associations, everything, make it impossible. Besides, I don't love you,—never can love you.'

'Oh, yes, you can,' replied Edgecumbe, 'and you will. It may be you will have a great battle to fight,—I think you will; but you will love me. When I am away from you,—when I am over in France, facing death, you will think of me, think of this hour, and you will remember that wherever I am, and whatever I am, I am thinking of you, loving you,—that my one object in life will be to win a position for you, to win a name for you. No, no, do not fear that I would ask you to marry me until, even in that sense, I am worthy of you. But you are young, and can wait, and, as you remember, perhaps in the silence of the night, that there is a man whom God made for you, thinking for you, striving for you,—you will learn the great secret.'

I fancy at that time Lorna Bolivick really thought his mind was unhinged; I imagine, too, that she was afraid, because Edgecumbe told me that a look amounting almost to terror was in her eyes. But he seems to have taken no notice of this, for he went on.

'You are thinking of other men who love you; that young fellow Buller is very fond of you in his own way, and perhaps Springfield has also made love to you. Perhaps, too, he has fascinated you. But that will not stop you from loving me. Even if you have promised him anything, you must give him up.'

'Perhaps you will finish your walk alone, Mr. Edgecumbe,' she said. 'I—I am going back to the house.'

'Not yet,' he replied. 'In a few minutes I shall have finished. I did not expect you to be as patient as you have been, and I thank you. But if you have any thoughts about Springfield, you will give them up. He is no fit mate for you; he is as far removed from you as heaven is from hell.'

At this she spoke passionately. 'You doubtless have forgotten many things,' she said, 'and one thing is that one gentleman never speaks evil of another.'

'I say what I have to say,' he replied, 'because life, and all it means, trembles in the balance. I do not pretend to know anything about Springfield, although I have a feeling that his life and my life have been associated in the past, and will be again in the future. But let that pass. You may be fascinated by him, but you can never love him,—you simply can't. Your nature is as pure as those raindrops, as transparent as the sky. You love things that are pure and beautiful,—and that man's nature is dark and sinister, if not evil. There is only one other thing I have to tell you, then we will return. You see,' he added, 'I am not asking you to promise me anything, or to tell me anything,—I only want to tell you. I suppose I am about thirty years of age, I don't know; how long ago it was that I lost my memory I can't tell; but my friend Luscombe tells me that perhaps, when I was younger than I am now—that is in those days which are all dark to me—I loved some woman and married her. Of course I didn't. But even when I have won a position worthy of you, and when my name shall be equal to yours, I will never think of asking you to wed me until even all possibility of suspicion of such a thing is swept aside. I thought it right to tell you this; how could I help it,—when the joy that should fill your life, the light which you should rejoice in, are all the world to me?'

'Mr. Edgecumbe,' she said, 'you are my father's guest, and—and—I want to think only kind thoughts of you,—but please drive away these foolish fancies.'

He laughed gaily. 'Foolish fancies! Is the sun foolish for shining? Are the flowers foolish for blooming? No, no; I love you,—I love you, and day and night, summer and winter, through shine and through storm, my one thought will be of you, always of you, and then, in God's good time, you will come to me, and we shall enter into joy.'

During the greater part of their journey back scarcely a word passed between them, and when at length they drew near the house again, he spoke to her of other things, as though his mad confession had never been uttered. He told her of the books he was trying to read, books which were new to him, and yet which he felt he had read before; told, too, of his thought about the war, and what we were fighting for, and what the results would be. He spoke of his friendship with me, and of what it meant to him; of his new life in the Artillery, and of his progress as a gunner, and when he came up to the door where I was waiting anxiously for them, he was telling her a humorous story about two soldiers at the front. Indeed, so much had he erased the influence of what he had at first said to her, that when Lorna Bolivick reached the house she was laughing gaily.

'Had a pleasant walk?' I asked.

'Wonderful,' replied Edgecumbe; 'a walk never to be forgotten.'

As for Lorna, she went away to her room, and did not appear again until dinner-time.

That night Edgecumbe revealed himself in a new light. No other visitors were there, with the exception of Miss Blackwater. That was the reason, perhaps, he was able to speak freely, and act naturally. But, certainly, I never knew him such a pleasant companion as then, and he revealed phases of character which I had never suspected him of. This man, who was often wistful, and generally strenuous in his earnestness, became humorous and gay. Sometimes he was almost brilliant in his repartees, and revealed a fund of humour which surprised me. Sometimes he grew quite eloquent in discussing the war, and in telling what he believed the effects would be on the life of men and nations. He showed an insight into the deeper movements of the times, which revealed him as a thinker of no mean order, while his idealism and his patriotism were contagious.

Whether he had a purpose in all this, I cannot say, but certain it is he simply captivated the old baronet.

'Dash it, man!' cried Sir Thomas to me, just before I went to bed, 'the fellow is a genius. I never dreamed of such a thing! With luck, he'll make his mark. He—he might do anything. Upon my word, I am sorry he's going to-morrow. I thought on Saturday he was nothing but a teetotal fanatic, but the fellow is wonderful. He has a keen sense of humour, too. I wonder who and what he really is. It is the most remarkable case I ever heard of in my life.'

'For my own part,' I said, 'I almost dread his memory coming back.'

'Why?'

'There are times when a man's past had better be buried and forgotten.'

'On the other hand,' broke in Sir Thomas, 'it may be the beginning of a new life to him. Perhaps he has a name, wealth, position.'

Lorna Bolivick, who was standing by, did not speak, but I could see that her father's words influenced her. Perhaps she was thinking of the mad confession which Edgecumbe had made that day.

The next day we returned to London.



CHAPTER XXV

'WHY IS VICTORY DELAYED?

'The war still drags on, Luscombe.'

'Yes, it still drags on,' and I looked up from the copy of The Times which I had been reading. 'They seem to have had bad weather at the front. From what I can judge, the Somme push is practically at an end for this winter, unless better weather sets in.'

The train by which we travelled had just left Bristol, and would not stop until we arrived in London.

'Of course,' I went on, 'it will be Haig's policy to keep the Germans busy all the winter, but I don't imagine that much more advance will be made before spring comes.'

'That will mean another winter in the trenches, with its ghastly toll of suffering and sacrifice of human life.'

'I am afraid so,' I said, 'but then we are at war.'

'How long is this going to last?' and there was a note of impatience in his voice.

'Until the Germans are brought to their knees,' I replied, 'and that will be no easy matter. When a nation like Germany has spent forty years in preparation for war, it isn't easily beaten. You see they were piling up mountains of munitions, while the Krupp's factories were turning out thousands of big guns all the time we were asleep. Now we are paying the price for it.'

'The same old tale,' he laughed, 'big guns, explosives, millions of men.'

'It must be the same old tale,' I replied. 'This is a war of exhaustion, and the nations which can hold out longest will win.'

'Then where does God come in?' he asked.

I was silent. For one thing, I did not wish to enter into a religious argument, and for another I scarcely knew what to say.

'You know those words in the Bible, Luscombe,—"Some trust in horsemen, some in chariots, but we will trust in the strength of the Lord our God." How much are we trusting in God?'

'It seems to me,' I replied, 'that God gives the victory to the biggest and best equipped armies.'

'That's blank materialism, blank atheism!' he cried almost passionately. 'We don't give God a chance, that is why we haven't won the war before now.'

I laughed good-humouredly, for even yet the mental attitude he had taken up seemed to me almost absurd.

'I see what you are thinking, but I tell you what,—the materialism of the country is adding to this frightful welter of blood, to this ghastly holocaust. The destinies of men and nations are not decided primarily by big guns, or mighty armies, and until we, as a nation, get back to a realization of the necessity of God, the war will drag on. As I told you before, when I was up at Ypres, I was convinced that if big armies, and big guns, and poison gas shells, could have won the war, Germany would have won long ago. But she was fighting the devil's battle, she was trusting in "reeking tube and iron shard,"—as Rudyard Kipling puts it. That is why she failed. With such a cause as ours, and with such heroism as our men have displayed, we should, if we had claimed the help of Almighty God, have won long since.'

'Nonsense, my dear chap.'

'Look here,' he cried, 'on what, in your opinion, do we depend for victory?'

I was silent for a few seconds before replying.

'On the mobilization of all our Empire's forces,' I replied, 'on steady, persevering courage, and on the righteousness of our cause.'

'But supposing our cause hadn't been righteous, what then?'

I saw what was in his mind, but I did not feel like yielding to him. 'It's no use talking this high-falutin stuff, Edgecumbe,' I said. 'We are at war, and war means in these days, at all events, big guns. It means the utilization of all the material forces at our command.'

'Then you believe more in a big army, and in what they call our unconquerable Navy, than in Almighty God? Do you believe in God at all, Luscombe?'

'Of course I do,' I replied; 'I am no atheist. All the same, it is our Navy which has saved us.'

'Admiral Beatty doesn't believe that,' he replied, 'and if any man knows what a navy can do, he does. Your position is identical with that of the Germans. Why, man, if God Almighty hadn't been very patient with us, we should have been beaten long ago. Germany's materialism, Germany's atheism, German devilry has been our salvation as a nation. If the logic of big guns had been conclusive, we should have been annihilated. That chap Rudyard Kipling saw a long way into the truth.'

'When? Where?' I asked.

'When he wrote that Recessional:

Far-famed, our navies melt away, On dune and headland sinks the fire, Lo, all the pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre. God of the nations, spare us yet! Lest we forget, lest we forget.

'And mind you, Kipling is a believer in force, and a believer in the utilization of all the Empire's resources; but he sees that these things are not enough. Why, man, humanly speaking, we stand on the brink of a volcano.'

'Nonsense,' I replied.

'Is it nonsense? Suppose, for example, that the Germans do what they threaten, and extend their submarine menace? Suppose they sink all merchant vessels, and thus destroy our food supplies? Where should we be then? Or suppose another thing: suppose Russia were to negotiate a separate peace, and free all the German and Austrian armies in the East, which I think is quite probable—should we be able to hold them up?'

'Do you fear these things?' I asked.

'I fear sometimes lest, as a nation, because we have forgotten God to such an extent, He has an awful lesson to teach us. In spite of more than two years of carnage and misery, we still put our trust in the things which are seen.'

'How do you know?' I replied. 'Aren't you judging on insufficient evidence?'

'Perhaps I am,' he answered. 'As you said some time ago, I know very little about England or English life, but I am going to study it.'

'How?' I asked with a laugh.

'As far as I can see, I shall be some months in England,' he went on, 'and as it happens, my brigade is situated near London. And London is the centre of the British Empire; it is at the heart of it, and sends out its life-blood everywhere. I am going to study London; I am going to the House of Commons, and understand the feeling of our Government. I am going to the places of amusements, the theatres, the music-halls, and see what they really mean in the life of the people. I am going to visit the churches, and try to understand how much hold religion has upon the people. I am going to see London life, by night as well as by day.'

'You'll have a big job.'

'That may be, but I want to know, I want to understand. You don't seem to believe me, Luscombe, but I am terribly in earnest. This war is getting on my nerves, it is haunting me night and day, and I cannot believe that it is the will of God it should continue. Mind you, Germany must be beaten, will be beaten,—of that I am convinced. That verse of Kipling's is prophetic of our future,—it cannot be otherwise. The nation which has depended upon brute force and lies, must sooner or later crumble; the country guilty of what she has been guilty of must in some way or another perish,—of that I am sure. Else God is a mockery, and His eternal law a lie. Some day Germany, who years ago longed for war, brought about war, and gloried in her militarism, will realize the meaning of those words:

"Lo, all the pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre."

But we are paying the price of our materialism, too. Do you remember those words of our Lord, Who, when speaking to the Jews about the Galileans of olden times, said, "Suppose ye that these Galileans were sinners above all the Galileans, because they suffered such things? I tell you, nay, but except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish." It is not pleasant to talk about, is it? but Rome and Byzantium fell because of their impurities, and they seemed as firmly established as the seven hills on which Rome stood. Germany will fall, because she has trusted supremely in the arm of flesh, with all that it means. Primarily it is righteousness that exalteth a nation, while the nation which forgets God is doomed to perish.'

'I might be listening to a Revivalist preacher,' I laughed, 'some Jonah or Jeremiah proclaiming the sins of a nation. But seriously, my dear fellow, do you think that because we do not talk so much about these things, that we have of necessity forgotten them? Besides, we have been sickened by the Kaiser's pious platitudes; he has been continually using the name of God, and claiming His protection, even when the country he rules has been doing the most devilish things ever known in history. I think that is why we have been sensitive about using the name of God. Perhaps the nation is more religious than you think.'

'I hope it is,' he replied, 'for of this I am sure, the secret of a speedy and triumphant victory lies in the fact of our nation being linked to God. The question with me is,—Germany is doomed, because it has depended, and is depending, on brute force. That poem of Kipling's describes them exactly. He might have had them in his mind when he wrote:

If drunk with thought of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe, Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the law.

That is their history. The question is, isn't there a danger that it is becoming our history too?'

'One line describes them very well,' I laughed; 'certainly they belong to the "lesser breeds without the law."'

'I don't know. Just think of it,—Germany's defying the whole world. Speaking from the standpoint of a military power, Germany has reason for her boastfulness. For more than two years she has been holding back and withstanding the greatest nations of the world. Humanly speaking, they are a great people, but they are scientific savages. If ever a people lived according to the doctrine that might is right, they have, and if that doctrine could be proved to be true, they'd have done it. But their creed is as false as hell, that is why they are doomed. But what of England, man, what of England?'

'You wouldn't have this war conducted in the spirit of a Revival meeting, would you?' I laughed.

'Why not? If it is God's war, it should be fought in the spirit of God. We are fighting to destroy what is opposed to God's will, therefore we should fight as He would have us fight. But here comes the question. Is it the supreme conviction of the nation that we are fighting God's battles? Is it the uppermost thought in our mind? I hate as much as any man the hypocrisy of calling upon God, while doing the devil's work; but are we not denuding ourselves of power by fighting God's battles as though He didn't exist?'

The train presently drew up at Paddington station, where we alighted.

'Look, Luscombe,' said Edgecumbe, nodding towards an officer, 'there's Springfield. I wonder what he's doing here?'

'Don't let him see us, anyhow,' I said quickly. 'Come this way.' And I hurried to the passage which leads towards the departure platform.

'Why didn't you want him to see us?' he asked.

I did not reply till we reached the restaurant, and then I spoke to him gravely.

'Edgecumbe,' I said, 'you were telling me just now that you intended to study the life of London, and that you meant to go to all sorts of places.'

'Yes,' he replied, 'what then?'

'Only this: take care of yourself, and don't let any one know what your plans are.'

'You must have a reason for saying that.'

'I have. You have told me more than once about your feeling that you and Springfield knew each other before you lost your memory.'

'Yes,' he replied, 'what then?'

'You say you had the feeling that Springfield was your enemy?'

'Yes, but I have no proof. Sometimes I am ashamed of harbouring such thoughts.'

'Self-preservation is the first law of life,' I said sententiously. 'Think, Edgecumbe,—some one shot at you in France,—why? You say you don't know that you have a single enemy in the world. Then think of your recent illness.'

'But—but——' and I saw a look of wonder in his eyes.

'I only tell you to be careful,' I interposed. 'Don't let any one know your plans, and whatever you do, don't have anything to do with Springfield.'

The words had scarcely passed my lips, when Springfield entered the room.



CHAPTER XXVI

'WHERE DOES GOD COME IN?'

Springfield glanced around as if looking for a table, and then seeing us, came up quickly and held out his hand.

'Awfully glad to see you,' he said heartily. 'I came to meet Buller, who I thought might be in your train. But as he wasn't there, and as I saw you two fellows come across here, I thought I'd follow you. Left them all well down in Devonshire?'

There was no suggestion of restraint or arriere pensee in his tones; he spoke in the most natural way possible, and seemed to regard us as friends.

'I will join you, if I may,' he went on; 'I hate feeding alone. By the way, what are you fellows doing to-day? If you have nothing on hand, you might come on to my club.'

'I am afraid I can't,' I replied; 'I am fixed up. As for Edgecumbe, he has to get back to duty.'

'I am at a loose end,' he went on. 'Of course there are hosts of men I know in London; all the same, it's a bit lonely here. I am staying at the——' and he mentioned a well-known military club. Then he looked at us, I thought, suspiciously.

'Was Miss Bolivick well when you left?' he asked. 'I—I am more than ordinarily interested in her'; and he glanced at Edgecumbe as he spoke. But Edgecumbe's face did not move a muscle. Evidently he had taken my words to heart.

For a few seconds there was an awkward silence. Then he went on:

'Edgecumbe, I feel I owe you an apology. It was only after I had left Devonshire that I fully realized what you had done for me. But for you, I should be a dead man, and I want to thank you. I am not much given to sentiment, I am not built that way, but believe me I am not ungrateful. At the risk of your own life you saved mine, and I feel it deeply.'

He spoke so earnestly, and there was such a ring of sincerity in his voice, that I felt ashamed of myself for thinking of him suspiciously. Still I could not forget the conversation which took place between him and St. Mabyn months ago, neither could I rid my mind of what had taken place since.

'If I can be of any service to you,' he continued, 'I should like to be,—I should really. I happen to know your colonel, and I'd like to see more of you. If you will let me know how you are fixed, I will look you up. You haven't any friends in London, have you?'

'No,' replied Edgecumbe; 'no one excepting Luscombe.'

'And you don't know London?'

'I am afraid not. I have no memory of it, anyhow.'

'Then let me show you around. I could introduce you to a lot of men, too. You see, as an old Army man, I know the ropes.'

'It's awfully good of you, Springfield,' I said; 'but really I don't think Edgecumbe is your sort, and it would be a shame to bother you.'

I felt awkward in saying this, because I spoke as though I were Edgecumbe's guardian. To my surprise, however, Edgecumbe eagerly accepted Springfield's offer.

'I'll let you know when I am free,' he said, 'and then, as you say, you can introduce me to some of the sights of London. But we must be off now, Luscombe, I have some things to do.'

'What do you mean by that?' I said, when we were alone.

He laughed gaily. 'I am not such a simpleton as I look, old man. I am able to take care of myself.'

'But do you really mean to say that you are going to let him show you round London?'

'Why not? He knows London in a way which you and I don't.'

'But don't you feel that he is your enemy, and that he has some ulterior purpose in all this?'

'Of course I do, but it would be madness to let him know it. You needn't fear, my friend; I will be a match for him. As I told you down in Devonshire, there's going to be a battle royal between us. He looks upon me as a kind of fool, who can be easily duped. But I shan't be.'

It was some days after this before I heard anything of Edgecumbe again. As I think I have mentioned, I was on sick leave at the time, and after leaving him I went to see some friends in Oxford. While there I got a letter from him, saying that he had been taken ill almost immediately on his return to duty, and that a fortnight's leave had been granted to him. He asked me when I should be returning to London, as he would like me to accompany him on his peregrinations through the City. I curtailed my visit to Oxford, so as to fall in with his plans, and found that he had taken up his quarters at a Y.M.C.A. Hut, which had been erected especially for the use of officers.

He was looking somewhat pale and hollow-eyed, as I entered a comfortably fitted-up lounge in the building.

'What's the matter with you?' I asked.

'Oh, nothing much. I had a sort of relapse after I got back to work, and the M.O. declared me unfit for duty. Evidently Colonel McClure wrote to him about me. He seems to think I was poisoned.'

'Did your M.O. tell you that?'

'Yes, and in his opinion the poison was not quite eradicated from my system. Funny, isn't it? Anyhow, they wouldn't let me work, and here I am. What we poor soldiers would do without the Y.M.C.A., Heaven only knows! Anyhow, it shows that Christianity is not quite dead in the country, for if ever there was a Christian body, the Y.M.C.A. is one.'

'You can hardly call it a body,' I replied; 'it is an organization representing the Christian spirit of the country.'

'All right, old man; call it what you like. Anyhow, I am jolly thankful to its promoters. What I should have done but for the Y.M.C.A., Heaven knows, I don't!'

'I know what you are going to do,' I replied.

'What?'

'You are coming with me to my hotel as a guest.'

'You are awfully good, old man, but I am afraid I can't. You see, this illness of mine has given me my opportunity, and I am going to take it.'

'Opportunity for what?'

'For seeing London, for studying its life. I mean to go everywhere, and I don't want to interfere with your liberty in any way.'

'Good,' I replied, 'I'll go with you; and as we shall be staying at the same hotel, it will be more convenient to both of us.'

'Do you really mean that, Luscombe?'

'Of course I do. I, like you, am at a loose end, and I shall be only too glad to have a pal until I am sent back to the front again. Now not another word, Edgecumbe. I am not a Rothschild, but I have no one dependent on me, and I have more money than I need to spend. So pack up your traps, and come with me.

'Have you seen Springfield since our meeting on Paddington station?' I asked, when presently we had removed to the hotel.

'Yes,' he replied; 'directly I got to the Y.M.C.A. Hostel, I wrote him at his club.'

'Well?' I asked.

'Oh, he was jolly friendly, and seemed anxious to take me around.'

'And have you been with him?'

'Yes,' he replied.

'With what results?'

He hesitated a few seconds before answering me, and then he said quietly, 'Oh, nothing much out of the ordinary. It—it was rather funny.'

'What was rather funny?'

'Our conversation. He hates me, Luscombe; he positively loathes me; and he fears me, too.'

'You have discovered that, have you?'

'Yes, there is no doubt about it.'

'Did you go anywhere with him?'

'Yes, a good many places.'

'You ought not to have gone with him,' I said doubtfully.

'Perhaps not. But I was anxious to see the phases of life with which he is familiar; I wanted to know the class of men he meets with,—to understand their point of view.'

'And what was your impression?'

'I am not going to tell you yet. During the four days I have been in London I have been looking around, trying to understand the working motives, the guiding principles, of this, the capital of the Empire. I seem like a man in a strange country, and I am learning my way round. Oh, I do hope I am wrong!'

'Wrong,—how? What do you mean?'

'This war is maddening. Last night I couldn't sleep for thinking of it,—all the horror of it got hold of me. I fancied myself out at the front again,—I heard the awful howls and shrieks of the shells, heard the booming of the big guns, smelt the acids of the explosives, heard the groans of the men, saw them lying in the trenches and on the No Man's Land, torn, mutilated, mangled. It is positively ghastly,—war is hell, man, hell!'

'Yes,' I said, 'but we must see it through.'

'I know, I know. But how far away is the end? How long is this carnage and welter of blood to continue?'

'Let's change the subject,' I said. 'We'll get a bit of dinner, and then go to a place of amusement.'

'I don't feel like it to-night. Do you know any members of Parliament, any Cabinet Ministers?'

'Yes, a few. Why?'

'I want to go to the House of Commons. I want to know what those men who are guiding our affairs are thinking.'

'Oh, all right,' I laughed. 'I can easily get a permit to the House of Commons. I'll take you. As it happens, too, I can get you an introduction to one or two members of the Government.'

Two hours later, we were sitting in the Strangers' Gallery of the House of Commons. I could see that Edgecumbe was impressed, not by the magnificence of the surroundings, for, as all the world knows, the interior of the British House of Commons,—that is the great Legislative Chamber itself,—is not very imposing, but he was excited by the fact that he was there in the Mother of Parliaments, listening to a debate on the Great War.

'It's wonderful, isn't it?' he said to me. 'Here we are in the very hub of the British Empire,—here decisions are come to which affect the destiny of hundreds of millions of people. Here, as far as the Government is concerned, we can look into the very inwardness of the British mind, its hopes, its ideals. If this Assembly were so to decide, the war could stop to-morrow, and every soldier be brought home.'

'I don't know,' I laughed. 'Behind this Assembly is the voice of the country. If these men did not represent the thoughts and feelings of the nation, they'd be sent about their business,—there'd be a revolution.'

'Yes, yes, I realize that. And the fact that there is no revolution shows that they are doing, on the whole, what the country wishes them.'

'I suppose so,' I replied.

After that, he listened two hours without speaking. I never saw a man so intent upon what was being said. Speaker after speaker expressed his views, and argued the points nearest his heart.

At the end of two hours, there was a large exodus of members, and then Edgecumbe rose like a man waking out of a trance.

'Have you been interested?' I asked.

'Never so interested in my life,—it was wonderful! But look here, my friend, do these men believe in Almighty God? Have they been asking for guidance on their deliberations?'

'I don't know. We English are not people who talk about that kind of thing lightly.'

'No, and I am glad of it,' he replied earnestly, 'but I must come again. In a sense, this should be the Power-House of the nation.'

'It is,' I replied; 'at this place supplies are voted.'

'Supplies,' he repeated thoughtfully.

'Come,' I said, 'I have arranged to meet Mr. ——; he is an important member of the Government, and he said he would be good for half an hour's chat after this Debate was over.'

A few seconds later, the member who introduced us took us into the lobby, where I met the Minister to whom I had referred, and who led the way to his own room. As it happened, I had known this Minister for several years. We had spent a holiday together before the war, and had often played golf together. I had more than once seen him after he had become a member of the Government, and he appeared very glad of a little relaxation after the stress of his work.

'What did you think of the Debate?' he asked. 'Of course things are different now from what they used to be. The time for making an impression by big speeches is over. I dare say, when the war comes to an end, we shall have the old party fights again, although the country will never be the same again, even in that way. Still, I thought it was interesting.'

'How do you think we are doing?' I asked presently.

'What, at the front? Oh, fairly well. We have to keep hammering away, you know, but the Germans are by no means done for yet. It is evidently going to be a war of exhaustion, and we have only just come to our strength. Of course the Germans have given up all hope of winning. One of our weaknesses, if I may so say, lies in Russia. It is months now since they did anything.'

'Do you think there is any danger of their making a separate peace?' I asked.

'No, I don't think so; but there are some very uncertain elements to contend with, and the corruption there has been frightful. I should not be surprised at a big movement there in time. Still, we are doing very well; our forces are becoming well organized, and in another year or so I think the Boches'll begin to crumple up.'

Knowing what was in Edgecumbe's mind, I asked him several questions, which he, without betraying any Cabinet secrets, answered freely. He discussed the question in all its bearings, and revealed remarkable acumen and judgment. All the time Edgecumbe sat listening eagerly, without speaking a word. Then, suddenly, he burst out with a question.

'What do you think we must do to win this war?' he asked, and there was a strange intensity in his voice.

'I am afraid I don't quite understand.'

'What do you think we must do to win this war?' Edgecumbe repeated. 'Have we left anything undone that we could have done? Are there any forces to be brought into play which have not yet been used? Do you see any great dangers ahead? What must we do more? You see, I have been a long time at the front, and I know what fighting is; but naturally, as a soldier, my standpoint of vision is small and circumscribed. How does it appeal to you, who, as a statesman, must necessarily take a larger view?'

The Cabinet Minister seemed to be collecting his thoughts for a few seconds, then he said, 'Of course the question is a very big one. First of all, take the East. If Russia is freed from traitors, and if she holds together,—and if, with the help that we can give her, she can have enough munitions, I don't think we need fear anything there. Then, while our Salonica effort doesn't seem to amount to much, we are holding up a vast number of men, and doing good work. But I do not expect anything decisive from there. Then, in a way, we are doing valuable work in Mesopotamia and Palestine; by that means we are gradually wearing down the Turks. When we come nearer home,—Italy is doing very well. She'll make a big push in a few months, and we shall be able to help her. France is, of course, becoming a bit exhausted, but France is good for a long while yet. It is we who have to play the decisive game, and if we hold together, as I believe we shall if we have no Labour troubles, so that munitions and supplies may be plentiful, we shall be stronger in the field than the Germans are. We have beaten them in big guns, in explosives, and in men. Of course it'll be a long, tough fight, for the Germans realize that it is neck or nothing with them, and they'll hold out to the last. But we are the strongest side, and in the end they'll crumple up.'

'Then you think,' asked Edgecumbe, 'that our victory will depend on these things?—on stronger armies, and a bigger supply of munitions?'

'That, and the ability of our generals. The German generals are very able men, but I think we beat them even there.'

'Then that is how you roughly outline our forces, and our hopes of victory?'

'Yes, that is it, roughly,' replied the Minister.

'May I ask whether that is the view of the Government as a whole?'

'What other view is there?'

'Then where does God come in?'

He asked the question simply, but evidently he was deeply in earnest. I recognized the intensity of his voice, saw the flash of his eyes.

The Minister looked towards me in a bewildered kind of way. I have an idea that he thought Edgecumbe was mad.

'I don't quite understand you,' he said. 'Will you tell me exactly what you mean?'

'I asked you,' said Edgecumbe, 'what you thought were the forces to be used in order to win this war, and you told me; whereupon I asked you where God came in.'

'God!' repeated the Minister; 'why, we are at war!'

'Exactly, that is why I ask. When the war commenced, the people of the nation were informed that we were going to fight a holy war, that we were going to crush militarism, do justice to small states, bring about an abiding peace in the world. We were told that it was God's war. May I ask where God comes in in your scheme of carrying it on?'

The Minister smiled. Evidently he had come to the conclusion that Edgecumbe was a harmless lunatic, and should not be taken seriously.

'The fact that we are fighting for a just cause,' he said, 'is sufficient to prove that it is God's war.'

'But is that all?'

The Minister looked at him helplessly. Evidently he did not think it worth while to carry the conversation further.

'Because,' went on Edgecumbe quietly, 'as far as I have watched the course of events, we have been fighting, as far as the Government is concerned, as though God did not exist. A great many appeals have been made to the nation, yet think what they amount to! First of all the country was appealed to for men, and the men volunteered. But that was not enough. A certain section of the press cried out for conscription, and demanded that Parliament should pass a Bill giving power to the authorities to compel every man of military age to join the Forces. That was done. Then there was the trouble about munitions, and power was given whereby many works were controlled, and huge factories were built all over the country for the production of big guns and explosives. In addition to that, there was appeal after appeal for money, and still more money. Then we were told that the whole nation should serve, and there was a further appeal for a National Service. We were told that if these things were done victory was certain.'

'But surely you do not object to this?' said the Cabinet Minister in astonishment.

'Certainly not,' replied Edgecumbe. 'I agree with every one of them; but I asked where God came in. We pretend to believe in God, don't we?'

'Well, what then?'

'Has there been any appeal to the nation to repent of its sins? There have been Proclamations from the throne: has there ever been one calling upon the people of the British Empire to pray? Have we, as a nation, been asked to link ourselves to the power of Almighty God? Has the Government ever endeavoured to make the people feel that our victory is in God's hands, and that we must look to Him for help? Have we not, I ask, as far as the Government is concerned, been fighting this war as though God didn't exist?'

'But, my dear man,' said the Cabinet Minister, 'you as a soldier must know that chaplains are sent out with the Forces, that the soldiers have to attend Church Parade, and that prayer is offered by the chaplains for our victory? How can you say then that the war has been conducted as though God didn't exist?'

'I know what all that means,' replied Edgecumbe. 'I have been at the front for a good many months, and I know what it means. I recognize, too, all the splendid work that has been done by the chaplains; many of them are fine fellows. But I want to get a bit deeper. I want to know what steps have been taken to make the nation realize that primarily victory is in the hands of Almighty God. I want to know, too, what steps have been taken to make the soldiers know what they are fighting for. We have in the Army now several millions, and they are all being instructed in the use of rifle shooting, machine-guns, bayonet work, and so on. Have any steps been taken to instruct them as to the nature of the cause we are fighting for, and of our ultimate aims and purposes? Have they ever been imbued with the idea of what Germanism means, and of our ultimate aims and ideals? In a word, have the soldiers been instructed that this is God's war, and that they are fighting for a holy cause?'

The Cabinet Minister laughed. Edgecumbe's question seemed too absurd to answer. Then he said somewhat uneasily, 'Prayers are said in the churches every Sunday.'

'And from what I hear, only about one person in ten goes to Church.'

'What are you driving at?' and there was a touch of impatience in the Minister's voice.

'Only this,' replied Edgecumbe, 'if this is simply a war of brute force against brute force, then doubtless the Government is going on the right tack. But if it is more,—if it is a war of God against the devil, of right against wrong, of the forces of heaven against the forces of hell, then we are forgetting our chief Power, we are failing as a nation to utilize the mightiest forces at our command. There might be no God, if one were to judge from the way we are conducting this struggle.'

'Nonsense!'

'That is scarcely an answer. Mark you, I am looking at it from the standpoint of the Government as expressing the thought and will of the nation. The Government is supposed to be the mouthpiece of the nation, and judging from the appeals of the men holding important offices under the Government, and the general trend of the daily press, while appeals are being made for all the material resources of the Empire, there has never been one appeal to the nation to pray, and to lay hold of the power which God is waiting to give.'

'You do not seem to realize, my friend,' said the Cabinet Minister, 'that war is primarily a contest between material forces.'

'No,' said Edgecumbe, 'I don't, neither do I believe it.'

'Our generals are not sentimentalists,' said the statesman; 'war is a stern business, and they see that it is a matter of big guns.'

'Not all,' replied Edgecumbe. 'If ever a man knew the meaning of big guns, and what big guns can do, it is Admiral Beatty. Perhaps you remember what he said: "England still remains to be taken out of the stupor of self-satisfaction and complacency into which her great and flourishing condition has steeped her, and until she can be stirred out of this condition, and until a religious revival takes place at home, just so long will the war continue."'

For a moment the statesman seemed nonplussed, and I could see that Edgecumbe was impressing him in spite of himself. He spoke quietly, but with evident intense conviction, and there was something in his personality that commanded respect. On his tunic, too, he wore his decorations, the decorations which proved him to be a man of courage and resource. There was no suggestion of weakness or of fanaticism in his manner. Every word, every movement, spoke of a strong, brave, determined man.

'Then what would you do?' he asked almost helplessly.

'It is scarcely a matter of what I would do,' replied Edgecumbe. 'I am here as an inquirer, and I came to the House of Commons to-night in order to understand the standpoint from which the Government looks at this tremendous question.'

'And your conclusion is——?'

'That God's forgotten. It is not looked upon as a religious war at all,—everything is reduced to the level of brute force. As far as I can read the newspapers, never, since the first few months of the war, or at least very rarely, has there been any endeavour to make the people realize this ghastly business from a religious standpoint, while the soldiers never hear a word from week end to week end of the purposes for which they are fighting.'

'You can't make soldiers religious if they don't want to be,' said the Minister, weakly I thought.

'I don't say you can,' replied Edgecumbe, 'but you can do something to lift the whole thing above its present sordid level, and give them a high and holy courage.'

'They have courage,' replied the Minister. 'As you have been at the front, you know what a splendid lot of men they are.'

'No man knows better,—a finer lot of fellows never breathed. But look at facts, think of the forces which have opposed them, and remember how they have been handicapped? Drink has been one of our great curses in this country; it has been one of our greatest hindrances. Even the Prime Minister insisted upon it almost pathetically. When we lacked munitions, and our men were being killed for want of them, drink was the principal interest to their manufacture. You of course know what Mr. Lloyd George said in 1915: "Without spending one penny on additional structures, without putting down a single additional machine, without adding to the supervision of the men, but on the contrary lessening the supervision, we could, by putting down the drink, by one act of sacrifice on the part of the nation, win through to victory for our country." Yet the Government has only played with the drink question, as far as the country is concerned, and it has kept on supplying it to the boys abroad. Everyone knows it has lowered the standard of our national life, intellectually, morally, and spiritually. And yet the thing continues. Is that the way to fight God's battles? Vested interests seem of more importance than purity and righteousness, while the men who make huge fortunes out of this traffic are coroneted.'

'Good night, Luscombe,' said the Cabinet Minister rising. 'I must be going now. This conversation has been very interesting, but I am afraid I cannot see as your friend sees.'

A few minutes later, we stood outside the great Government building. We were in the heart of London, the great city which so largely focuses the life of our world-wide Empire. Close to us, the towers of the Abbey lifted their pinnacles into the grey sky, while St. Margaret's Church looked almost small and diminutive by its side. Up Whitehall we could see the dim outlines of the great Government buildings, while the broad thoroughfare pulsated with the roaring traffic.

For some seconds Edgecumbe did not speak, then he burst out excitedly. 'It's a wonderful old city, isn't it? The finest, grandest city in the world! Do you know, it casts a kind of spell upon me. I sometimes think there is more good in London than in any other place.'

'Any one would not think so, judging by your conversation just now,' I laughed.

'But there is,' he said. 'Why, think of the kindness and loving service shown to the returning soldiers! Think of the thousands of women who are giving their lives to nursing them and caring for them! Come on,' and he moved towards Westminster Bridge.

'That's not the way back to the hotel.'

'I am not going back to the hotel yet,' he said.

'Where are you going, then?'

'To Waterloo station. There will be trains coming in from the coast. I want to see what happens to the soldiers who are coming back from the front.'



CHAPTER XXVII

SEEING LONDON

I am not going to write at length on what we saw at Waterloo station, and in its vicinity. In a way, our experiences were interesting beyond words, and while there was much which made one rejoice, there was also much to sadden. While we were there, a train came in laden with troops. Hundreds of men had come home on leave, and they had now arrived at this great terminus. What rejoiced me was to see the number of Y.M.C.A. workers, as well as others from various Christian bodies, who met the men and welcomed them. Of course there were numbers who were eagerly welcomed by their friends; others had evidently made their plans to get back to their homes quickly, while many more seemed bewildered and lonely. Lads who had originally hailed from Canada and Australia, and who knew nothing of London, looked around the huge station as though not knowing what to do, and if ever I felt glad because of the work of the Y.M.C.A., I felt it then. They seemed to have a kind of genius for knowing the men who were without friends, and for giving them a hearty welcome back.

I knew that, scattered all over London, were Huts and Hostels which they have provided for these lads who were strangers in a strange city, and that many of them would be taken to these places, given a hot supper, and provided with a comfortable bed. I know, too, while the lads were under the influence of the Y.M.C.A., no harm would happen to them, that they would be surrounded by good and healthy influences, and that as many of them who had no homes in England could stay at the Hostels during their leave.

But there were other influences at work. Not only were there these noble bands of workers, who existed for our soldiers' comfort and salvation,—there were scores of evil women who hovered around waiting like vultures to swoop upon their prey.

It is difficult to write about, difficult to contemplate. Scores of these boys, who for months had been away at the front, living without many refining influences, living, too, under strict discipline amidst all the stress and horror of war, were suddenly given their liberty, and let loose in our great City. Most of them would have plenty of money, for there are few opportunities of spending at the front, and they would be freed from all restrictions. Then their danger began. Lads, many of them inspired by no religious ideals, excited by their liberty, with no restraint of any sort placed upon them, became an easy prey to those who looked upon them as victims. The angels of light were there to help them, but there were also many creatures of darkness who lured them to destruction, and these creatures of darkness were allowed to ply their ghastly trade often without let or hindrance.

I could not help feeling the tragedy of it. These lads who had been living from hour to hour, and from minute to minute, amidst the roar of great guns, the shriek of shells, the pep-pep-pep of machine-guns, never knowing when death would come, were suddenly and without preparation thrown upon the bosom of our great modern Babylon; and on their return they were met by these creatures.

'It is ghastly, it is hellish!' said Edgecumbe, as we returned across Waterloo Bridge.

'What can be done?' I asked helplessly.

'These fellows should be safeguarded,' he replied. 'Oh, I know the difficulties, but those creatures should be dealt with with a strong hand; they should not be allowed in such places. The boys coming home from danger and death should be protected from such temptations. It is not a thing to talk about, not a thing to discuss in public; but think of the inwardness of it, think of the ghastly diseases, the loss of manhood, the corruption of soul, that follows in the train of what we have seen,—and it is going on all over London.'

'You can't put down vice by Act of Parliament,' I replied.

'No, but a great deal more can be done than is done,' was his answer. 'People don't talk about these things in their drawing-rooms, or in their social circles, but they exist,—my God, they exist! And this is supposed to be a holy war! Still, thank God for the good that is being done, for the organizations which exist for men's comfort and salvation.'

And then he did not speak another word until we reached the hotel.

The next day was Saturday, and directly after lunch we started to go together to a matinee, for Edgecumbe had stated his determination to visit the places of amusement and see how London enjoyed itself.

We begun by going to one of the largest and most popular music-halls in the City, where a revue which was much commented on was produced for the delectation of all who cared to see it.

I was informed that this particular place was much patronized by soldiers, and that the entertainment was one of the most popular in London. The prices of the seats varied from half a guinea, plus the War tax, to a shilling, and as we entered we found a vast concourse of people, among whom were many men in khaki. I discovered too that the management had been generous, for there were numbers of wounded soldiers, many of them in the stalls, and who had been given free admission.

'After all, it is fine,' I said, as we waited for the curtain to rise, 'that these lads should have a place of brightness and amusement to go to.'

'Yes,' replied Edgecumbe, 'in a way it is splendid.'

'The people of the country are wonderfully good,' I went on; 'soldiers in the hospitals, as well as others home on leave, are constantly being given hospitality by the best and kindest people in England. I hope these chaps'll have a good laugh this afternoon, and be able to forget the horrors through which they have passed. They have had enough of the tragedy of life, poor chaps. I hope they'll get some comedy this afternoon.'

'I hope they will,' he replied.

I will not attempt to give a description of the revue they witnessed that afternoon. I suppose it was similar to a score of others that might be seen in various parts of the metropolis. There was an excellent orchestra, the music was light and pleasing, the whole atmosphere of the place was merry. The lights were dazzling, the dresses were gay, the scenery almost magnificent. As a spectacle it would, I suppose, be regarded as gorgeous. Apparently, too, most of the auditors enjoyed it, although a look of boredom was on some faces. As to the revue itself, while one could not help admitting that some of the songs were humorous, and some of the repartee clever, the thing as a whole was cheap and silly and vulgar.

I do not say there was anything positively wrong in it, but there were a great many vulgar suggestions and unpleasant innuendoes. As a dramatic critic said in my hearing a day or two later, when discussing the popular entertainments of London, 'Most of these shows consist of vulgar, brainless twaddle.' Still, the audience laughed and cheered, and when the curtain finally fell, there was a good deal of applause. Certainly the entertainment would be a great contrast to the experiences which the lads who were home on leave had been going through. But as I reflect on it now, and think of the great struggle through which the nation was going, and the ideals for which it was fighting, I cannot remember one single word that would help or inspire. Of course places of amusement are not intended to instruct or to fill one with lofty emotions. All the same, I could not help feeling that laughter and enjoyment were in no way incompatible with the higher aims of the drama. In fact, what we saw was not drama at all; it was a caricature of life, and a vulgar one at that. Indeed, the author's purpose seemed to be—that is, assuming he had a purpose—to teach that virtue was something to be laughed at, that vice was pleasant, and that sin had no evil consequences.

Indeed, while I am anything but a puritan, I felt sorry that the hundreds of lads home from the front, many of whom were wounded, had no better fare offered to them. God knows I would be the last to detract from their honest enjoyment, and I would make their leave bright and happy; but after all, the nation was at war, life was a struggle, and death stalked triumphant, and this was but a poor mental and moral food for men who, for months, had been passing through an inferno, and many of whom would, in a few weeks or days, go back again to see 'hell let loose.' If those men had been merely fighting animals, if they were mere creatures of a day, who went out of existence when the sun went down, then one could understand; but they were men with hopes, and fears, and longings; men into whose nostrils God had breathed the breath of His own life, men destined for immortality. And this show was pagan from end to end.

When the entertainment was over, I led the way to a fashionable hotel for tea, where a large and handsomely decorated room was set apart for that purpose. A gay crowd of some hundreds had already gathered when we arrived, so that there was a difficulty in obtaining a table. This crowd had evidently, like ours, come from the various places of amusement in the immediate vicinity, and had managed to get there earlier than we.

The men folk were mostly officers, while the women were, I imagine, in the main their relatives and friends. The latter were very gaily and expensively dressed. As far as I can remember, the cost of a very poor tea was half a crown for each person. Every one appeared in great good humour, and laughter was the order of the day.

'Not much suggestion here that the country's at war, eh?' I said, looking round the room, 'and but few evidences that the appeals to the public to economize have been taken very deeply to heart.'

'No,' replied Edgecumbe, 'except for the khaki, it would be difficult to believe that the country is at war. Still, I suppose it is natural. Most of these lads are home on leave, and their women folk want them to enjoy themselves. This is their way of doing it.'

'It shows that money is plentiful,' I said; 'we are a long way from bankruptcy yet.'

'But the big bill will have to be paid, my friend. There are no signs of it now, but the country can't spend all these millions every day without suffering for it later on,' and I saw a thoughtful look come into his eyes as they wandered round the room.

After tea we went for a walk along the streets, and then, at half-past seven, I took him to another fashionable hotel, where I had ordered dinner. Again we saw a similar crowd, met with similar scenes. Whatever London might be feeling, the fashionable part of it had determined to enjoy itself. At night we went to another theatre, which was also packed to the ceiling with a gay throng. Here also were crowds of soldiers, many of whom were, I judged, like ourselves, home from the front.

Edgecumbe passed no opinion on the play, or on the spectators. That he was deeply interested, was evident, although I think his interest was more in the audience than the performers.

'I am tired,' I said, when the entertainment was over; 'let's get to bed.'

'No, not yet, I want to see London by night. All this, to you, Luscombe, is commonplace. I dare say it would be to me if my memory came back. As it is, it is all new and strange to me. It is exciting me tremendously. I am like one seeing the show for the first time.'

By this time London was at its busiest, crowds surged everywhere. 'Buses, taxi-cabs, and motors threaded their way through the streets, while the foot pavements were crowded. Places of amusement were emptying themselves on every hand, and although the streets were darkened, it seemed to have no effect upon the spirits of the people. The night was fairly clear, and a pale moon showed itself between the clouds.

'What a city it is!' said Edgecumbe, after we had been walking some time. 'Think of it, the centre of the British Empire, the great heart which sends its life-blood through the veins of a mighty people! But is the life-blood pure, my friend?'

We passed up Charing Cross to Leicester Square, and then on through Piccadilly Circus up Regent Street, then we came down again, through the Haymarket, into Pall Mall. I am not going to describe what we saw, nor tell in detail the experiences through which we passed. That ghastly story of gilded vice, and of corruption which is not ashamed, was too sad, too pathetic. The Empire might be in danger, even then there might be Zeppelins hovering in the near distance, waiting to drop missiles of destruction and death. Less than two hundred miles away our armies were fighting, guns were booming, shells were shrieking, men were dying. But here in London, on the eve of the Day of Rest, the tide of iniquity rolled. Young men were tempted, and falling; many of the very lads who had done heroic deeds were selling their souls for half an hour's pleasure.

In spite of the drink regulations, too, it was easy to see that numbers, both men and women, had been able to obtain it, often to their own degradation.

'Come on,' said Edgecumbe presently, 'let's get back to the hotel. I've had enough.'



CHAPTER XXVIII

SUNSHINE AND SHADOW

During the remainder of Edgecumbe's leave we spent our time in seeing and trying to understand London. As he had insisted, London was the centre of the British Empire; the great heart which sent its life-blood throughout the veins of four hundred millions of people. To understand London, therefore, was to understand the aims, hopes and ideals of the British race. Of course I urged that London was not England, much less the Empire; but I could not help admitting that there was much truth in his contention.

Naturally we did not see our metropolis in its entirety. To know London means a lifetime's study; but we did get a superficial glimpse of its life, and we tried to understand the inwardness of that life.

On the day after the incidents described in the last chapter we visited several churches; we also made our way into Hyde Park, and heard the orators. We interviewed several ecclesiastics both of the Established and Nonconformist order, and if ever a man was depressed it was Edgecumbe.

'These religious organizations do not touch a tithe of the people,' he said to me. 'London is called a Christian City, but it is far more pagan than Christian. The people are not interested in religious things, and even among churchgoers everything seems unreal.'

He was led to modify this opinion later. He saw that while the City was in one sense largely godless, it was in another deeply religious. He realized that, in spite of apparent religious indifference, the teachings of the Founder of Christianity, and the truths for which He lived and died, had, through the centuries, created an atmosphere which influenced every phase of thought and life.

But he did not feel this during the two Sundays we spent together. As far as we could see, only a small fragment of the people entered the doors of the churches, and that even this fragment was filled with no mighty religious hope or enthusiasm.

One sermon, however, struck him forcibly. It was preached by a young man who took for his text, 'And they that were ready went into the marriage feast.' The argument of the sermon was that God gave neither individuals nor nations the highest of blessings until they were ready, and he urged that until England was ready for peace God would not give it her. That until we became less materialistic, less selfish, until we ceased to exploit the war as a means for advancing our own interest, and until we turned to God and kept His commandments, real peace would be a far-off dream.

But I must not stay to describe this at length; indeed, a volume would be necessary to give any true idea of our experiences. We saw London by night as well as by day. We went to munition factories and to night clubs, to hospitals and to music-halls, to seats of Government and to haunts of vice. We talked with hundreds of people of all kinds, and from the drift of their conversation tried to understand the spirit of the City.

I shall never forget the look on Edgecumbe's face after our visit to a hospital for soldiers who suffered from a disease which shall be nameless. The horror in his eyes and the absolute nausea and loathing which possessed him has haunted me ever since.

But there were sights which rejoiced him also. The splendid sacrifices which unnumbered people, both men and women, were making, and the great broad-hearted charity which abounded on every hand, made him realize not only the bad but the good, and led him to realize that beneath the mad whirl of evil passions which was too evident, was a life sacred and sublime.

Presently, however, our peregrinations came to an end. Edgecumbe had appeared before a medical officer, and was declared fit for duty again. He had also received orders to return to his battery, while I daily waited instructions as to my future course of action.

'We have had a wonderful time, Luscombe,' he said. 'I little dreamt, when we started out to see London, what it would be like.'

'Well, what do you think of it all?'

'I am bewildered,' he replied; 'it is all too big to co-ordinate. I want to get a grasp of everything. I want to see things in their true proportion. I want to understand.'

We had just come from the Crystal Palace, where so many thousands of our sailors are quartered, and had been talking with the workers of the Y.M.C.A. concerning their activities there.

'You will never be able to co-ordinate it, Edgecumbe,' I said. 'No man can understand fully the life of a great city like this.'

'No, I suppose not. Still, I am trying to think my way through it.'

'Anyhow,' I said, 'you have to return to duty tomorrow. Let us forget the serious things of life for once. By the way,' I added, 'have you heard from Miss Lorna Bolivick?'

For some seconds he did not reply, and I thought he did not hear what I said. His face was a curious study at the time, and I wondered what he was thinking about.

'No,' he replied presently, 'I have not heard from her. Naturally I did not expect to.'

During the whole time we had spent in London together, he had never once referred to her, and I imagined, and almost hoped, that he had seen the madness of the determination he had expressed when we were down in Devonshire.

'You have given up all thought of her, then?'

'Given up all thought of her? Certainly not. You know what I told you?'

'Yes, but I thought you might have seen how foolish you were.'

'I shall never give up hope,' he replied; 'that is, until hope is impossible. Whatever made you think of such a thing?'

'But do you not see the madness of your plan?'

'No, there is nothing mad in it. By the way, Luscombe, I am awfully hungry. Let us go in here and get some dinner. Don't think, old man, that I can't see your point of view,' he said when we had taken our seats in the dining-room of the restaurant, 'I can. From your standpoint, for a man in my position, without name, without home, without friends, without money, to aspire to the hand of Lorna Bolivick, is to say that he is fit for a lunatic asylum. But I can't see things as you do. God Almighty didn't put this love in my heart for nothing, a love which has been growing every day since I saw her. Why, man, although I have said nothing to you, she is everything to me, everything! That is, from the personal standpoint. If I did not believe in God, I should despair, but, believing in Him, despair is impossible.'

'God does not give us everything we want,' I replied; 'it would not be good for us if He did. Possibly He has other plans for her.'

'That may be so,' he replied calmly, 'but I am going to act as though He meant her for me.'

I looked across the dining-hall as he spoke, and saw, sitting not far away from us, a party which instantly attracted my attention.

'I should not, if I were you,' I said.

'Why?'

'Look!' I replied, nodding towards the table I had noticed.

He gave a start, for sitting at the table were Sir Thomas and Lady Bolivick and their daughter Lorna. Sitting beside the latter was Springfield.

'Does not that suggest the answer?'

His face never moved a muscle, and he looked at them as though he were but little interested.

'If ever a man had the appearance of a successful lover,' I went on, 'Springfield has. There, do you see how he is looking at her? Do you see how his every action suggests proprietorship? Then watch her face, see how she smiles at him. It would seem, too, as though her father and mother are very pleased.'

He continued to look at them for several seconds, then he said quite casually, 'They have no idea we are here.'

'No, evidently not. But I think I will go and speak to them.'

'Don't, Luscombe,' and he spoke quickly; 'it will be better not. I don't want that man to know where I am.'

'You are convinced that I was right about him, then?'

'I am convinced there will be a battle royal between me and that man,' he said, and there was a far-away look in his eyes. 'Perhaps—perhaps—I don't know,—the ways of Providence are strange. There is going to be a terrible fight; I can see it coming.'

'What, between you and Springfield?'

'Yes; but there is something more than that, something greater. But I must fight,—I must fight.'

I did not understand the look in his eyes, or the tone of his voice.

'What, to protect yourself against Springfield?' I said.

'To save a woman's soul,' was his reply. 'Would you mind if we didn't talk about it any more just now?' He went on with his dinner as though nothing had happened, and if a stranger had been sitting by, he would have said that Edgecumbe had no interest in the party close by.

'I think I must go and speak to them,' I said; 'it would seem discourteous to be so near, and not speak to people who have shown me so much kindness.'

'Go if you like,' was his answer, 'but don't let them see me. I am going back to the hotel.'

I waited until he had left the room, and then turned towards Sir Thomas Bolivick's table.



CHAPTER XXIX

CROSS CURRENTS

I received a hearty welcome as I came up, and Sir Thomas tried to persuade me to spend the evening with them, and to accompany them to the theatre. As far as I could judge, however, neither Springfield nor Lorna seconded his proposal. I thought she preferred Springfield's company to my own. They were now sitting over their coffee. Sir Thomas was smoking a huge cigar, while Springfield lit cigarette after cigarette and threw them away before they were half consumed.

'When did you come up?' I asked.

'Oh, we have been here four days. Captain Springfield—oh, I beg his pardon,—Colonel Springfield, has to go to the front the day after to-morrow, and I was anxious to see him before he went.'

'"Colonel"?' I said. 'Have you been gazetted?' and I turned to Springfield as I spoke.

'Sir Thomas is a little premature,' he replied with a smile. 'My name was down for my majority before I returned home wounded, and I was gazetted two months ago. As to my being colonel,—but there, it is no use making a secret of it, I suppose I am to have my battalion immediately on my return.'

'Yes, I saw General —— at the War Office yesterday,' and Sir Thomas smiled benignantly. 'Such services as Springfield has rendered can't go long unrewarded, and in these days seniority does not count so much. By the way, what has become of our eccentric friend Edgecumbe?'

'Don't you know. Have you heard nothing about him?' and I turned quickly to Springfield as I spoke.

'I saw him nearly three weeks ago,' he replied; 'it seems he was not fit for work, and came to London on leave. I saw him twice, I think, and took him to one or two clubs. Since then I have lost sight of him.'

'And heard nothing about him?' I asked, looking at him steadily.

'Nothing at all. Sir Thomas, it is nearly time for us to go, but there is time for another liqueur. We can meet the ladies in the vestibule.'

I accompanied Lorna Bolivick a few steps down the room, while Lady Bolivick went a little ahead.

'Am I to congratulate you, Lorna?' I said. 'Forgive me, I am taking you at your word.'

She gave me a quick look, which I could not understand, and then replied, 'I start nursing again next week.'

'You know what I mean,' I persisted, and I laughed as I spoke. 'Springfield looks a very happy man.'

'Don't speak that way.' she replied; 'at least not yet.'

'Why?' I asked; and then, overstepping the bounds of good taste, I went on, 'Edgecumbe told me all about it.'

'Did he? I am so sorry. But—but—come and see us, won't you? We are staying at the Carlton. We shall be there three days more. I want to talk to you. Good night,' and she rushed away.

When I returned to the table, I found that the waiter had replenished the liqueur glasses, and I saw, not only by the empty champagne bottle, but by Springfield's eyes, that his libations had been liberal.

'By the way, Luscombe,' he said, 'do you know where Edgecumbe is? Has he returned to duty?'

Before I could reply, Sir Thomas, fortunately I thought, burst in with another question, 'What do you really make of that fellow Edgecumbe?'

'One of the bravest, finest, and most conscientious men I ever met,' I replied.

Springfield laughed mockingly.

'Why, is not that your opinion?' and I looked at him steadily.

'A man is bound to think kindly of a man who has saved his life. Because of that I tried to be friendly to him. He was staying at that Y.M.C.A. show for penniless officers, and I thought I'd do him a good turn, but—but——' he hesitated.

'But what?' I asked.

'Of course I know little of him. I never saw him until I met him down at Sir Thomas's place. But if you weren't so certain about his sanctity, Luscombe, I should be inclined to look upon him as a criminal madman'; and there was a snarl in his voice.

'Surely you must have reasons for that,' I said.

'Yes, I have.'

'What are they?'

'I don't think I am obliged to tell,' he replied truculently.

'I think you are,' I said. 'To say the least of it, you owe him your life,—I can testify to that, for he exposed himself to almost certain death while digging you out from under a big heap of debris; none of the others who were there would have done it. And it is hardly decent to call one who has done such a thing a criminal madman, without having the strongest reasons.'

'I have the strongest reasons,' he replied, and I saw that his libations had made him less cautious than usual. 'I do not think any one can doubt his madness, whilst as for the criminality,' and he laughed again, 'evidently he does the pious when he is with you; but when he gets among men of his own ilk, his piety is an unknown quantity. But the ladies are waiting, Sir Thomas; we must be off.'

I did not seek to pursue the conversation further. I did not think it wise. And certainly the dining-room of a popular restaurant was not the place for a scene.

I went back to the hotel very slowly, and having taken a somewhat roundabout course it was not until an hour after I had left the restaurant that I arrived there. I went into all the public rooms, and looked for my friend. But he was nowhere visible. Then, feeling somewhat uneasy, I went to his bedroom door, and was much relieved at hearing him bid me enter. I found him sitting in an easy chair with a handful of notes, which he had evidently been reading.

'What have you got there?' I asked.

'Oh, each night after we came back I wrote down my impressions,' he replied, 'and I have been looking at them.'

'Well, you are a cool customer!' I laughed.

'Thank you. But what has led you to that tremendous conclusion?'

'Why, you see the woman with whom you pretend to be in love taken away by another man, and never show the least desire to play your game! If it were any one else but Springfield, I should not wonder so much, but knowing your opinion of him, I can hardly understand it.'

'Yes, I hardly understand myself,' he replied; 'in fact, I am rather a mystery to myself.'

'Do you really love Lorna Bolivick?' I asked.

'Excuse me, old man, but I don't quite understand you.'

He looked at me steadily for a few seconds, and then went on quietly, 'I fancy there is no need to tell you about that.'

'And yet you stand by and see Springfield carry her off before your eyes, and Springfield is a rotter.'

'Yes, that's just what he is. But he can't harm her yet.'

'What do you mean by "yet"?'

'I can't put it into words, Luscombe. My first impulse when I saw them together just now was to go to the table and denounce him,—to warn her against him. But it would have been madness. The time is not yet come.'

'Meanwhile, he will marry her,' I said.

'No, he won't. I am afraid he has fascinated her, and I am sure he means to marry her,—I saw it down in Devonshire. But there is no danger yet; the danger will come by and by,—when or how I don't know. It will come, and I must be ready for it. I will be ready, too. Meantime, I have other things to think about. I am worried, my friend, worried.'

'What is worrying you?'

'I am going back to duty to-morrow, but from what I can hear I am to be treated as a special case. My colonel has said all sorts of kind things about me, I find. But that's not what I am thinking about now. This war is maddening me,—this constant carnage, with all the misery it entails. You asked me some time ago what I thought about the things we had seen,—what my impressions were, and I told you that I could not co-ordinate my ideas, could not look at things in their true perspective. I say, Luscombe, Admiral Beatty was right.'

'What do you mean?'

'Do you remember what he said?—"Just so long as England remains in a state of religious indifference, just so long as the present conditions obtain, will the war continue."'

'Don't let us talk about that now.'

'But I must, my dear chap. I am going back to duty to-morrow, and I want to realize the inwardness of all we have seen. One thing I am determined on.'

'What is that?'

'To fight this drink business as long as I have breath. It is doing us more harm than Germany. I am told there is danger of a food famine. It is said that bread is going to be scarce,—that people may be put on short rations. Of course we only hear hints now, but there are suggestions that Germany is going to pursue her submarine policy with more vigour, so as to starve us. A man I met in the hotel a little while ago told me that they were going to sink all merchant ships at sight, regardless of nationality. Of course you know what that means.'

'There are always rumours afloat,' I said.

'They might do it. Germany is capable of anything. But we could laugh at that, but for this drink business. Think of it! Four million tons of grain wasted in making drink since the beginning of the war, and there is a talk about a shortage of bread. Three hundred thousand tons of sugar have been used in making drink since the beginning of the war, and it is difficult for people to buy sugar for the common necessities of life! And that is not the worst of it. Why, man, you know what we have seen during these last weeks,—all the horror, all the misery, all the devilry! What has been at the bottom of nine-tenths of it? Night after night, when we have come back from seeing what we have seen, I have been studying these questions, I have been reading hours while you thought I was asleep. And I tell you, it would not be good for us to have victory, until this thing is destroyed. And I doubt whether God Almighty ever will give us victory, until we have first of all strangled once and for ever this drink fiend.'

'Don't talk nonsense! You are becoming a teetotal fanatic.'

'Think, Luscombe,' and he rose from his chair as he spoke, 'suppose God were to give us victory to-night? Suppose the Germans were to cave in, and tell us that we could dictate the terms of peace? Suppose our armies were to come back while things are as they are, and while the thought and feeling of the nation is as it is? Don't you see what would follow? When trouble was first in the air, Asquith said that "war was hell let loose." Would not hell be let loose if victory were to be declared? Think of the drunkenness, the devilry, the bestiality that you and I saw! Think what those streets round Waterloo station are like! Think of the places we went to, and remember what took place! And these are grave times,—times of struggle and doubt, and there are only a few odd thousands home on leave. But what would happen, with all these public-houses standing open, if hundreds of thousands, intoxicated with the thought of victory, came back? You have told me what took place during the Boer War; that would be nothing to the Bacchanalian orgies we should see if victory were to come now.'

'Then you don't want victory?'

'Don't want victory! I long for it! Why—why I get almost mad as I think of what is daily taking place. Here in England people don't really know what is happening. No hell ever invented is as bad as war. It is the maddest and ghastliest crime ever known, the greatest anachronism ever conceived. It mocks everything high and holy; it is the devil incarnate! But one can't close one's eyes to facts. You remember what that preacher man said in his sermon. He told us that Almighty God often kept things from men and nations until they were ready, and that if, as sometimes happened, things came before a people were ready, they proved curses and not blessings. For my own part I believe we shall have victory as soon as we are ready for it; but are we ready?'