all roads lead to calvary-第33章

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　ever　quite　got　over　it。　Unless　it　was　towards　the　end；〃　she　added。　　〃They　told　me　she　seemed　much　better　for　a　little　while　before　she　died。　　I　was　away　at　Cambridge　at　the　time。〃

〃Poor　dear　lady；〃　he　said；　〃all　those　years！　　And　poor　Jack　Allway。〃　　He　seemed　to　be　talking　to　himself。　　Suddenly　he　turned　to　her。　　〃How　is　the　dear　fellow？〃　he　asked。

Again　the　question　troubled　her。　　She　had　not　seen　her　father　since　that　week…end；　nearly　six　months　ago；　when　she　had　ran　down　to　see　him　because　she　wanted　something　from　him。　　〃He　felt　my　mother's　death　very　deeply；〃　she　answered。　　〃But　he's　well　enough　in　health。〃

〃Remember　me　to　him；〃　he　said。　　〃And　tell　him　I　thank　him　for　all　those　years　of　love　and　gentleness。　　I　don't　think　he　will　be　offended。〃

He　drove　her　back　to　Paris；　and　she　promised　to　come　and　see　him　in　his　studio　and　let　him　introduce　her　to　his　artist　friends。

〃I　shall　try　to　win　you　over；　I　warn　you；〃　he　said。　　〃Politics　will　never　reform　the　world。　　They　appeal　only　to　men's　passions　and　hatreds。　　They　divide　us。　　It　is　Art　that　is　going　to　civilize　mankind；　broaden　his　sympathies。　　Art　speaks　to　him　the　common　language　of　his　loves；　his　dreams；　reveals　to　him　the　universal　kinship。〃

Mrs。　Denton's　friends　called　upon　her；　and　most　of　them　invited　her　to　their　houses。　　A　few　were　politicians；　senators　or　ministers。　Others　were　bankers；　heads　of　business　houses；　literary　men　and　women。　　There　were　also　a　few　quiet　folk　with　names　that　were　historical。　　They　all　thought　that　war　between　France　and　England　would　be　a　world　disaster；　but　were　not　very　hopeful　of　averting　it。　　She　learnt　that　Carleton　was　in　Berlin　trying　to　secure　possession　of　a　well…known　German　daily　that　happened　at　the　moment　to　be　in　low　water。　　He　was　working　for　an　alliance　between　Germany　and　England。　　In　France；　the　Royalists　had　come　to　an　understanding　with　the　Clericals；　and　both　were　evidently　making　ready　to　throw　in　their　lot　with　the　war…mongers；　hoping　that　out　of　the　troubled　waters　the　fish　would　come　their　way。　　Of　course　everything　depended　on　the　people。　　If　the　people　only　knew　it！　　But　they　didn't。　　They　stood　about　in　puzzled　flocks；　like　sheep；　wondering　which　way　the　newspaper　dog　was　going　to　hound　them。　　They　took　her　to　the　great　music　halls。　　Every　allusion　to　war　was　greeted　with　rapturous　applause。　　The　Marseillaise　was　demanded　and　encored　till　the　orchestra　rebelled　from　sheer　exhaustion。　　Joan's　patience　was　sorely　tested。　　She　had　to　listen　with　impassive　face　to　coarse　jests　and　brutal　gibes　directed　against　England　and　everything　English；　to　sit　unmoved　while　the　vast　audience　rocked　with　laughter　at　senseless　caricatures　of　supposed　English　soldiers　whose　knees　always　gave　way　at　the　sight　of　a　French　uniform。　　Even　in　the　eyes　of　her　courteous　hosts；　Joan's　quick　glance　would　occasionally　detect　a　curious　glint。　　The　fools！　　Had　they　never　heard　of　Waterloo　and　Trafalgar？　　Even　if　their　memories　might　be　excused　for　forgetting　Crecy　and　Poictiers　and　the　campaigns　of　Marlborough。　　One　eveningit　had　been　a　particularly　trying　one　for　Joanthere　stepped　upon　the　stage　a　wooden…looking　man　in　a　kilt　with　bagpipes　under　his　arm。　　How　he　had　got　himself　into　the　programme　Joan　could　not　understand。　　Managerial　watchfulness　must　have　gone　to　sleep　for　once。　　He　played　Scotch　melodies；　and　the　Parisians　liked　them；　and　when　he　had　finished　they　called　him　back。　　Joan　and　her　friends　occupied　a　box　close　to　the　stage。　　The　wooden…looking　Scot　glanced　up　at　her；　and　their　eyes　met。　　And　as　the　applause　died　down　there　rose　the　first　low　warning　strains　of　the　Pibroch。　　Joan　sat　up　in　her　chair　and　her　lips　parted。　　The　savage　music　quickened。　　It　shrilled　and　skrealed。　　The　blood　came　surging　through　her　veins。

And　suddenly　something　lying　hidden　there　leaped　to　life　within　her　brain。　　A　mad　desire　surged　hold　of　her　to　rise　and　shout　defiance　at　those　three　thousand　pairs　of　hostile　eyes　confronting　her。　　She　clutched　at　the　arms　of　her　chair　and　so　kept　her　seat。　　The　pibroch　ended　with　its　wild　sad　notes　of　wailing；　and　slowly　the　mist　cleared　from　her　eyes；　and　the　stage　was　empty。　　A　strange　hush　had　fallen　on　the　house。

She　was　not　aware　that　her　hostess　had　been　watching　her。　　She　was　a　sweet…faced；　white…haired　lady。　　She　touched　Joan　lightly　on　the　hand。　　〃That's　the　trouble；〃　she　whispered。　　〃It's　in　our　blood。〃

Could　we　ever　hope　to　eradicate　it？　　Was　not　the　survival　of　this　fighting　instinct　proof　that　war　was　still　needful　to　us？　　In　the　sculpture…room　of　an　exhibition　she　came　upon　a　painted　statue　of　Bellona。　　Its　grotesqueness　shocked　her　at　first　sight；　the　red　streaming　hair；　the　wild　eyes　filled　with　fury；　the　wide　open　mouthone　could　almost　hear　it　screamingthe　white　uplifted　arms　with　outstretched　hands！　　Appalling！　　Terrible！　　And　yet；　as　she　gazed　at　it；　gradually　the　thing　grew　curiously　real　to　her。　　She　seemed　to　hear　the　gathering　of　the　chariots；　the　neighing　of　the　horses；　the　hurrying　of　many　feet；　the　sound　of　an　armouring　multitude；　the　shouting；　and　the　braying　of　the　trumpets。

These　cold；　thin…lipped　calculators；　arguing　that　〃War　doesn't　pay〃；　those　lank…haired　cosmopolitans；　preaching　their　〃International；〃　as　if　the　only　business　of　mankind　were　wages！　War　still　was　the　stern　school　where　men　learnt　virtue；　duty；　forgetfulness　of　self；　faithfulness　unto　death。

This　particular　war；　of　course；　must　be　stopped：　　if　it　were　not　already　too　late。　　It　would　be　a　war　for　markets；　for　spheres　of　commercial　influence；　a　sordid　war　that　would　degrade　the　people。　War；　the　supreme　test　of　a　nation's　worth；　must　be　reserved　for　great　ideals。　　Besides；　she　wanted　to　down　Carleton。

One　of　the　women　on　her　list；　and　the　one　to　whom　Mrs。　Denton　appeared　to　attach　chief　importance；　a　Madame　de　Barante；　disappointed　Joan。　　She　seemed　to　have　so　few　opinions　of　her　own。　She　had　buried　her　young　husband　during　the　Franco…Prussian　war。　He　had　been　a　soldier。　　And　she　had　remained　unmarried。　　She　was　still　beautiful。

〃I　do　not　think　we　women　have　the　right　to　discuss　war；〃　she　confided　to　Joan　in　her　gentle；　high…bred　voice。　　〃I　suppose　you　think　that　out　of　date。　　I　should　have　thought　so　myself　forty　years　ago。　　We　talk　of　'giving'　our　sons　and　lovers；　as　if　they　were　ours　to　give。　　It　makes　me　a　little　angry　when　I　hear　pampered　women　speak　like　that。　　It　is　the　men　who　have　to　suffer　and　die。　It　is　for　them　to　decide。〃

〃But　perhaps　I　can　arrange　a　meeting　for　you　with　a　friend；〃　she　added；　〃who　will　be　better　able　to　help　you；　if　he　is　in　Paris。　　I　will　let　you　know。〃

She　told　Joan　what　she　remembered　herself　of　1870。　　She　had　turned　her　country　house　into　a　hospital　and　had　seen　a　good　deal　of　the　fighting。

〃It　would　not　do　to　tell　the　truth；　or　we　should　have　our　children　growing　up　to　hate　war；〃　she　concluded。

She　was　as　good　as　her　word；　and　sent　Joan　round　a　message　the　next　morning　to　come　and　see　her　in　the　afternoon。　　Joan　was　introduced　to　a　Monsieur　de　Chaumont。　　He　was　a　soldierly…looking　gentleman；　with　a　grey　moustache；　and　a　deep　scar　across　his　face。

〃Hanged　if　I　can　see　how　we　are　going　to　get　out　of　it；〃　he　answered　Joan　cheerfully。　　〃The　moment　there　is　any　threat　of　war；　it　becomes　a　point　of　honour　with　every　nation　to　do　nothing　to　avoid　it。　　I　remember　my　old　duelling　days。　　The　quarrel　may　have　been　about　the　silliest　trifle　imaginable。　　A　single　word　would　have　explained　the　whole　thing　away。　　But　to　utter　it　would　have　stamped　one　as　a　coward。　　This　Egyptian　Tra…la…la！　　It　isn't　worth　the　bones　of　a　single　grenadier；　as　our　friends　across　the　Rhine　would　say。　　But　I　expect；　before　it's　settled；　there　will　be　men's　bones　sufficient；　bleaching　on　the　desert；　to　build　another　Pyramid。　　It's　so　easily　started：　　that's　the　devil　of　it。　　A　mischievous　boy　can　throw　a　lighted　match　into　a　powder　magazine；　and　then　it　becomes　every　patriot's　business　to　see　that　it　isn't　put　out。　　I　hate　war。　　It　accomplishes　nothing；　and　leaves　everything　in　a　greater　muddle　than　it　was　before。　　But　if　the　idea　ever　catches　fire；　I　shall　have　to　do　all　I　can　to　fan　the　conflagration。　　Unless　I　am　prepared　to　be　branded　as　a　poltroon。　Every　professional