"A noble cause demands your zeal!"
He found himself humming the words as he turned on the lights. And he had a noble cause, the noblest, the most Christlike on earth. Warfare! Yes, in spite of his peace principles he loved warfare. Man was a fighting animal, and he was a man, every inch of him. And he was called on to fight—to fight the War-god which had lifted its head so arrogantly and brutally. But his warfare was to be for peace—the peace of the world. It was to be for man's salvation, and not for his destruction. Not for pillage, carnage, cruelty, mad hatred, overwhelming ambition, lust for blood; but brotherhood, kindliness, love, mercy. This was the battle of the Lord; this was the cause of Christ.
In this way he could be true to his father's teaching, true to the Christianity in which he believed; but more, he could by this means make himself worthy of Nancy, and make a place in the world, in which even her father would rejoice.
His heart beat with wild joy. Even now Nancy's kisses were warm on his lips, her words of love rang in his ears.
Yes, his plan of life was plain, his work arose before him, alluring, ennobling, inspiring. And Nancy loved him! What more could he desire?
He looked around the room with a long tremulous sigh of contentment. Life was indeed beautiful, glorious. Around him were thousands of books. His father had been an omnivorous reader, and had amassed a large library. Nearly every inch of wall-space was covered with book-shelves. Only one space, above the mantelpiece, was uncovered, and there hung what was even dearer than the books. It was an oil painting of his father.
Robert Nancarrow looked at it long and steadily, and as he did so his eyes became moist.
"Dear old father!" he murmured; "the noblest man that ever breathed."
It was a fine face he saw. Rather serious on the whole, but still with a smile lurking around the lips and shining in the eyes. The face of a good—almost a great man. No one could associate it with meanness or impurity. An intellectual face too, with a broad forehead and large, speaking eyes. A face which suggested conscientiousness, which proclaimed the fact that its owner must do whatever conscience told him to do, no matter what it might cost.
It seemed to Bob as he looked that his father smiled on him.
"Yes, it is what he would most desire," reflected the young fellow.
"It was the passion of his life, and it shall be mine."
He went to a bookcase, and took therefrom a small volume. It was entitled Thoughts on the Boer War, by Robert Nancarrow, M.D.
The young man opened it, and began to read; but his mind was too full of his plans to concentrate his attention.
"Father would love Nancy," he reflected, and then he arose from his chair and went close to the picture. "He does love her," he reflected. "He is alive, he knows, and he is pleased. I feel as though he were here now, and giving me his blessing on my love, and on my work."
The house was very silent. Every one had long since gone to bed, and not a sound was to be heard. The night was almost windless too, and not even the murmur of the waves in the Bay of St. Ia, which could be faintly heard outside, reached him. He felt himself alone with his father.
"Good night, father," he said aloud, still looking the picture. "I love her as my life, and I am very happy. I have your blessing, haven't I?"
Again it seemed to him that his father smiled on him. He was sure he saw the quiet humour in his eyes which he remembered so well.
Bob was in a strange humour that night. The day had been eventful beyond all the days of his life. He had entered into a happiness of which he had never dreamed before; he had seen visions of the future of which hitherto he had been blind. He had been carried away by his love and his enthusiasm; his nature had been moved to its depths. Now the memory of it all, the quietness of the house, caused thoughts to come to his mind, and moved him to feelings to which he had been a stranger.
"It's what you would wish me to do, father, isn't it?" he still continued aloud. "To go into Parliament, and then work and fight for the peace of the world? To destroy the ghastly nightmare of war, to fight against the War-god, to put an end to this eternal making of implements of death. I have your consent, and your blessing, haven't I?"
Yes, he was sure his father was smiling on him, and giving him his blessing. There was something sacred, holy, in the thought.
He turned out the lights, but the beams of the moon streamed through the window, and rested on the picture.
"Good night, father," he said. "I'll try to be a true man," and then he left the room, feeling as if indeed he had been talking to his father.
"Is that you, Bob?"
He was passing his mother's bedroom door, as the words reached his ears.
"Yes, mother. I thought you would have been asleep hours ago."
"No, I couldn't sleep till I heard you come in. Come in, and kiss me good night."
Bob entered his mother's room, and went towards the bed. Mrs. Nancarrow was still a young woman, and looked almost like a girl as she lay on the snowy pillows.
"Whom was that you were talking to?"
"I—I was thinking, mother."
"Thinking? Thinking aloud?"
"I suppose so."
"What about?"
"About father."
There was a silence for a few seconds. Both felt they were on sacred ground.
"Mother," said Bob, remembering what Nancy had said to him, "I want to tell you something. But you won't breathe a word, will you? It's a profound secret. I mean that you must not mention it to any one, must not speak about it to any one, under any circumstances."
"Of course I won't, if you don't wish it. What is it?"
"I'm engaged to Nancy Tresize."
"What!"
Bob repeated the news.
"Aren't you pleased, mother?"
She lifted herself up in the bed and threw her arms around his neck.
"You don't mean it really, Bob? Why, I never dreamed that such a thing was possible."
"Neither did I until to-day. I—I—mother, what are you crying about?
Aren't you pleased?"
"Of course I am; but oh, my dear boy! Oh, if only your father had lived!"
"He knows. I've been telling him," said Bob, who had a strain of the mystic in his nature. "I'm sure I have his blessing."
"Nancy is the finest, sweetest girl in Cornwall," she cried; "I couldn't have wished for anything better. I've always loved her. But I never thought that——"
"Neither did I," interrupted Bob. "It seems too good to be true, but it is true. I motored Nancy over to Gurnard's Head this afternoon, and—and it is all settled. She's the dearest girl in the world, mother."
"Of course she is," sobbed Mrs. Nancarrow. "There, wait a minute until I dry my eyes. I never expected such a thing, and—and oh, Bob, my dear, dear boy!"
"You mustn't imagine that you aren't still dear to me, mother, or that I love you one whit the less. I don't, you know, and Nancy loves you too."
"Yes, yes, I know that. It isn't that, my boy! But—but—you'll never know what a woman feels when she first learns that her only boy loves another woman better than he loves his mother. It isn't sorrow. Bob, oh no! I'm as glad as glad, and I couldn't wish for anything better. But what about the Admiral? Will he consent? I know he wants Nancy to marry Captain Trevanion."
CHAPTER IV