Will any of us ever forget that Saturday to Monday? War was declared on Russia; war on France. Luxemburg territory was violated, and rumour raced from one end of England to the other: “We are going to stand aside; the peace party is too strong!... We are not bound by deed to France, only by an understanding. England means to let her honour go down on a quibble....”
We had guests in the house--a brother, retired after hard service in the army; a slow-spoken, gentle-eyed man of law, who hid the fiercest fire of British pugnacity under this deliberately meek exterior. They were both pessimistic, the soldier angrily so in his anxiety. “I’ll never lift my head again in England!--I’ll never go into a foreign country again! I’d be ashamed!--Upon my word, I’ll emigrate!”
And the other gloomily: “From my experience of this Government, it’s sure to do the worst possible thing. I haven’t the least hope.”
In our own hearts we had resolved, with the soldier, that we would give up home and country. Our thoughts turned to Canada.
The relief was proportionate to the hideousness of the doubt. What though the cloud had spread and spread till it reached right across the sky, there was brilliant sunshine over England--the light of honour.
Two ardent young patriots had visited us unexpectedly in their car that Sunday night. They brought small items of consolation. They had been to Portsmouth. It was ready for war. Fixed bayonets gleamed at every corner; the port was closed. Both these youths were full of martial plans. One was hurrying to the London Scottish, the other northwards to put all affairs in order before joining too. The London Scottish boy obligingly kept us _au courant_ of the turn of events by telephone. During the length of Sir Edward Grey’s speech perverted extracts reached us and plunged us into ever deeper gloom: “We are only to intervene if French ports are bombarded....”
Then at midnight on Monday the bell rang. “Belgian neutrality had been violated; general mobilization was ordered.” It was war. And we slept on the tidings with a strange peace.
Perhaps the universal feeling was most impressively voiced by a Franciscan monk, who said to us later (during the agonizing suspense between Mons and the Marne): “Nothing can be so bad as those days when we did not know what the Government would do. Whatever happens now, nothing can compare to that. Shall I ever forget how we prayed?”