The Red Planet | Page 9

of the respective quasi-sisters and
quasi-brothers have to go hang. (In parenthesis, I may state that the
sisters are more ruthlessly sacrificed than the brothers.) At any rate,
frankness is the saving quality of the modern note.
In the case of Althea, there had been no sign of such specialisation. She
could not have gone forth, poor child, to meet the twenty with whom
she was known to be on terms of careless comradeship. She had gone
from her home, driven by God knows what impulse, to walk in the
starlight--there was no moon--along the banks of the canal. In the
darkness, had she missed her footing and stepped into nothingness and
the black water? The Coroner's Jury decided the question in the
affirmative. They brought in a verdict of death by misadventure. And
up to the date on which I begin this little Chronicle of Wellingsford,
namely that of the summons to Wellings Park, when I heard of the
death of young Oswald Fenimore, that is all I knew of the matter.
Throughout July my friends were like dead people. There was nothing
that could be said to them by way of consolation. The sun had gone out
of their heaven. There was no light in the world. Having known Death
as a familiar foe, and having fought against its terrors; having only by
the grace of God been able to lift up a man's voice in my hour of awful
bereavement, and cry, "O Death, where is thy sting, O Grave, thy
Victory?" I could suffer with them and fear for their reason. They lived
in a state of coma, unaware of life, performing, like automata, their
daily tasks.
Then, in the early days of August, came the Trumpet of War, and they

awakened. In my life have I seen nothing so marvellous. No broken
spell of enchantment in an Arabian tale when dead warriors spring into
life was ever more instant and complete. They arose in their full vigour;
the colour came back to their cheeks and the purpose into their eyes.
They laughed once more. Their days were filled with work and
cheerfulness. In November Sir Anthony was elected Mayor. Being a
practical, hard-headed little man, loved and respected by everybody, he
drove a hitherto contentious Town Council into paths of high patriotism
like a flock of sheep. And no less energy did Lady Fenimore exhibit in
the sphere of her own activities.
A few days after the tidings came of Oswald's death, Sir Anthony was
riding through the town and pulled up before Perkins' the fishmonger's.
Perkins emerged from his shop and crossed the pavement.
"I hear you've had bad news."
"Yes, indeed, Sir Anthony."
"I'm sorry. He was a fine fellow. So was my boy. We're in the same
boat, Perkins."
Perkins assented. "It sort of knocks one's life to bits, doesn't it?" said he.
"We've nothing left."
"We have our country."
"Our country isn't our only son," said the other dully.
"No. She's our mother," said Sir Anthony.
"Isn't that a kind of abstraction?"
"Abstraction!" cried Sir Anthony, indignantly. "You must be imbibing
the notions of that poisonous beast Gedge."
Gedge was a smug, socialistic, pacifist builder who did not hold with
war--and with this one least of all, which he maintained was being
waged for the exclusive benefit of the capitalist classes. In the eyes of

the stalwarts of Wellingsford, he was a horrible fellow, capable of any
stratagem or treason.
Perkins flushed. "I've always voted conservative, like my father before
me, Sir Anthony, and like yourself I've given my boy to my country.
I've no dealings with unpatriotic people like Gedge, as you know very
well."
"Of course I do," cried Sir Anthony. "And that's why I ask you what the
devil you mean by calling England an abstraction. For us, she's the only
thing in the world. We're elderly chaps, you and I, Perkins, and the only
thing we can do to help her is to keep our heads high. If people like you
and me crumple up, the British Empire will crumple up."
"That's quite true," said Perkins.
Sir Anthony bent down and held out his hand.
"It's damned hard lines for us, and for the women. But we must keep
our end up. It's doing our bit."
Perkins wrung his hand. "I wish to God," said he, "I was young
enough--"
"By God! so do I!" said Sir Anthony.
This little conversation (which I afterwards verified) was reported to
me by my arch-gossip, Sergeant Marigold.
"And I tell you what, sir," said he after the conclusion, "I'm of the same
way of thinking and feeling."
"So am I."
"Besides, I'm not so old, sir. I'm only forty-two."
"The prime of life," said I.
"Then why won't they take me, sir?"

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