The Major [134]
as we thought, quite mad on the subject of preparation for war. He and Jane hit it off tremendously last autumn when we were visiting the Gwynnes. Was he not an officer in the Guards or something, Jane?"
"Yes," replied Jane, fear leaping into her eyes. "Oh, Papa, do you think he will have to go? Surely he would not."
"What? Go back to England?" said Dr. Brown. "I hardly think so. I do not know, but perhaps he may."
"Oh, Papa!" exclaimed Jane, the quick tears in her eyes. "Think of his wife and little baby!"
"My God!" exclaimed Dr. Brown. "It is war that is upon us."
A fresh wave of horror deeper than any before swept their souls. "Surely he won't need to go," he said after a pause.
"But his regiment will be going," said Jane, whose face had become very pale and whose eyes were wide with horror. "His regiment will be going and," she added, "he will go too." The tears were quietly running down her face. She knew Jack Romayne and she had the courage to accept the truth which as yet her father put from his mind.
Dumb they sat, unschooled in language fitted to deal with the tides of emotion that surged round this new and overwhelming fact of war. Where next would this dread thing strike?
"Canada will doubtless send some troops," said Dr. Brown. "We sent to South Africa, let me see, was it five thousand?"
"More, I think, Papa," said Jane.
"We will send twice or three times that number this time," said Mr. Murray.
And again silence fell upon them. They were each busy with the question who would go. Swiftly their minds ran over the homes of their friends and acquaintances.
"Well, Doctor," said Mr. Murray, with a great effort at a laugh, "you can't send your boy at any rate."
"No," said Dr. Brown. "But if my girl had been a boy, I fear I could not hold her. Eh, Jane?" But Jane only smiled a very doubtful smile in answer.
"We may all have to go, Doctor," said Mr. Murray. "If the war lasts long enough."
"Nonsense, James," said his wife with a quick glance at her two little girls. Her boy was fifteen. Thank God, she would not have to face the question of his duty in regard to war. "They would not be taking old men like you, James," she added.
Mr. Murray laughed at her. "Well, hardly, I suppose, my dear," he replied. "I rather guess we won't be allowed to share the glory this time, Doctor."
Dr. Brown sat silent for a few moments, then said quietly, "The young fellows, of course, will get the first chance."
"Oh, let's not talk about it," said Ethel. "Come, Jane, let's go exploring."
Jane rose.
"And me, too," cried Isabel.
"And me," cried Helen.
Ethel hesitated. "Let them come, Ethel," said Jane. "We shall go slowly."
An exploration of the island was always a thing of unmixed and varied delight. There were something over twenty-five acres of wooded hills running up to bare rocks, ravines deep in shrub and ferns, and lower levels thick with underbrush and heavy timber. Every step of the way new treasures disclosed themselves, ferns and grasses, shrubs and vines, and everywhere the wood flowers, shy and sweet. Everywhere, too, on fallen logs, on the grey rocks, and on the lower ground where the aromatic balsams and pines stood silent and thick, were mosses, mosses of all hues and depths. In the sunlit open spaces gorgeous butterflies and gleaming dragon flies fluttered and darted, bees hummed, and birds sang and twittered. There the children's voices were mingled in cheery shouts and laughter with the other happy sounds that filled the glades. But when they came to the dark pines, solemn and silent except when the wind moved in their tasselled tops with mysterious, mournful whispering, the children hushed their voices and walked softly upon the deep moss.
"It is like being in church," said Helen, her little soul exquisitely sensitive to the mystic, fragrant silences and glooms that haunted the pine grove.
On a sloping hillside under the pines they lay upon the mossy bed, the children listening for the things that lived in these shadowy
"Yes," replied Jane, fear leaping into her eyes. "Oh, Papa, do you think he will have to go? Surely he would not."
"What? Go back to England?" said Dr. Brown. "I hardly think so. I do not know, but perhaps he may."
"Oh, Papa!" exclaimed Jane, the quick tears in her eyes. "Think of his wife and little baby!"
"My God!" exclaimed Dr. Brown. "It is war that is upon us."
A fresh wave of horror deeper than any before swept their souls. "Surely he won't need to go," he said after a pause.
"But his regiment will be going," said Jane, whose face had become very pale and whose eyes were wide with horror. "His regiment will be going and," she added, "he will go too." The tears were quietly running down her face. She knew Jack Romayne and she had the courage to accept the truth which as yet her father put from his mind.
Dumb they sat, unschooled in language fitted to deal with the tides of emotion that surged round this new and overwhelming fact of war. Where next would this dread thing strike?
"Canada will doubtless send some troops," said Dr. Brown. "We sent to South Africa, let me see, was it five thousand?"
"More, I think, Papa," said Jane.
"We will send twice or three times that number this time," said Mr. Murray.
And again silence fell upon them. They were each busy with the question who would go. Swiftly their minds ran over the homes of their friends and acquaintances.
"Well, Doctor," said Mr. Murray, with a great effort at a laugh, "you can't send your boy at any rate."
"No," said Dr. Brown. "But if my girl had been a boy, I fear I could not hold her. Eh, Jane?" But Jane only smiled a very doubtful smile in answer.
"We may all have to go, Doctor," said Mr. Murray. "If the war lasts long enough."
"Nonsense, James," said his wife with a quick glance at her two little girls. Her boy was fifteen. Thank God, she would not have to face the question of his duty in regard to war. "They would not be taking old men like you, James," she added.
Mr. Murray laughed at her. "Well, hardly, I suppose, my dear," he replied. "I rather guess we won't be allowed to share the glory this time, Doctor."
Dr. Brown sat silent for a few moments, then said quietly, "The young fellows, of course, will get the first chance."
"Oh, let's not talk about it," said Ethel. "Come, Jane, let's go exploring."
Jane rose.
"And me, too," cried Isabel.
"And me," cried Helen.
Ethel hesitated. "Let them come, Ethel," said Jane. "We shall go slowly."
An exploration of the island was always a thing of unmixed and varied delight. There were something over twenty-five acres of wooded hills running up to bare rocks, ravines deep in shrub and ferns, and lower levels thick with underbrush and heavy timber. Every step of the way new treasures disclosed themselves, ferns and grasses, shrubs and vines, and everywhere the wood flowers, shy and sweet. Everywhere, too, on fallen logs, on the grey rocks, and on the lower ground where the aromatic balsams and pines stood silent and thick, were mosses, mosses of all hues and depths. In the sunlit open spaces gorgeous butterflies and gleaming dragon flies fluttered and darted, bees hummed, and birds sang and twittered. There the children's voices were mingled in cheery shouts and laughter with the other happy sounds that filled the glades. But when they came to the dark pines, solemn and silent except when the wind moved in their tasselled tops with mysterious, mournful whispering, the children hushed their voices and walked softly upon the deep moss.
"It is like being in church," said Helen, her little soul exquisitely sensitive to the mystic, fragrant silences and glooms that haunted the pine grove.
On a sloping hillside under the pines they lay upon the mossy bed, the children listening for the things that lived in these shadowy