Mr. Dick was larger and more casual.
“Here’s your Agony Column,” he said as Betsy dropped down beside him. He clipped it for her every day. It was even better than Mrs. Main-Whittaker had promised. Consuming their tea, Betsy and Mr. Dick read with interest that if I.J. would come home all would be forgotten. Now and then they read an item aloud to the crowd.
This group was really a Crowd, such as Betsy had hoped to start in Munich. Only they called themselves The Crew. And one member was missing today. Claude Heaton, a broker’s clerk, was off with his regiment. The Territorial Troops (something like the National Guard at home, Betsy understood) had a period of training over the August Bank Holiday which was impending.
Most of the boarders, like Betsy, were new to London, and The Crew had made a number of expeditions, chaperoned by Miss Dodge, a merry elderly spinster. They had gone to Windsor Castle, but only into the gardens. The palace was closed to the public because of the militant suffragettes who were now starting fires, throwing bombs, and slashing pictures. The suffragettes had closed many places Betsy wished to see.
“Them wild ladies!” a bobby had mourned, turning her away from the National Gallery. But Betsy was in sympathy with their cause.
And the out-of-door places weren’t closed. The Crew had gone to Hampstead Heath; to Stoke Poges, where they saw the country churchyard of Gray’s “Elegy”; to Epping Forest. (That had gone into “The Episodes of Epsie.”) And they had gone boating on the Thames which was crowded companionably with rowboats, houseboats, punts, canoes. Tied up beneath an overhanging tree, they had eaten apple patties with tea made over an alcohol lamp.
At tea in the garden now, Jean said, “Where are we going to go on Bank Holiday?” And Betsy cried, “Oh, let’s go up the Thames again!”
“We could take a boat from Richmond,” Mr. Leonard volunteered, “to Kingston-on-Thames.”
“I’ll provide more apple patties,” Mrs. Heaton offered. “I only wish Claude could be with you.”
“What is a Bank Holiday anyway?” Betsy asked.
“It’s a holiday when the banks close,” Mr. Leonard explained. “We have four a year. And one is the first Monday in August.”
“Then it’s almost here. Today is the twenty-ninth.”
“And not a very good day,” said Mr. Heaton unexpectedly. He had just come in with a newspaper under his arm. His appearance, like the remark, was unexpected for he worked in the city and seldom came home for tea. He was a large man, fiercely mustachioed but as gentle as a lamb.
“Austria-Hungary,” he went on, “has just declared war on Serbia.”
“Why? What for?” asked Betsy.
“Oh, it’s on account of the murder of that Austrian Archduke last month,” said Mr. Dick, helping himself to marmalade. “They’ll probably settle things before any shooting starts.”
“And it looks as though Germany is going to declare war on Russia,” continued Mr. Heaton.
“But why Russia?” Now Betsy was really confused.
“Russia is pledged to help Serbia and Germany is tied up with Austria. France could be drawn in, too. She and Russia are allies.”
This was too complicated to follow. And the news was so disquieting that talk of the boating trip died down. But it sprang up again at dinner.
Dinner at Heatons’ charmed Betsy. There was a butler (as fascinating as Mrs. Sims’ and Mrs. Cheney’s ladies’ maids). And Mr. Heaton carved with dignity. There were always two kinds of meat and two kinds of dessert.
“Will you have hot or cold, Miss Ray? Hot? A slice off the joint?”
“Miss Cohen, would you prefer cold shape or cherry tart?” Cold shape was gelatin.
English food, Betsy thought, sounded better than it tasted. (The meat pies of which she had read such mouth-watering descriptions in Dickens were cold and clammy.) But dinner at Mrs. Heaton’s was very nice anyway, and it was such fun afterward up in the drawing room. (Betsy rolled that word over her tongue.) They often had music, for Claude had a fine bass voice. Since he wasn’t here, they talked about the river trip, making enthusiastic plans.
This holiday expedition was never mentioned again.
The next afternoon Mr. Leonard had no classes, and he and Betsy made a planned visit to the Tower. Within these gloomy walls they were carried from modern perils back to old ones. Betsy could almost hear the ghostly voices of the murdered princeling sons of Edward IV. Mr. Leonard stared at the ax which had struck off Raleigh’s head.
“My word!” he said, adjusting his eyeglasses as though they had been a monocle, “Extraordinary!”
“My word!” he said again, over tea and cherry cake, “think of Mary, Queen of Scots, and Anne Boleyn! Their heads chopped off just like snick!” He adjusted his glasses again to frown at Betsy’s soft white neck. She closed her hands protectingly about it.
“It couldn’t happen today,” she said. “I guess the world is really getting better.”
“Let’s hope it is better enough to keep out of real war.”
“Why, of course it is! A war in these civilized days is absolutely unthinkable.”
But when they got out into the streets they saw the big news posters crying out that armies all over Europe were mobilizing. And London was suddenly full of soldiers. Dinner that night was quiet, for it looked pretty certain that the Territorials would not go back to their shops and factories, their offices and universities, when the training period was over. The table missed Claude’s deep voice.
“My brother is a Territorial, too,” said Dolly.
The newspapers next day, and the next, said that a state of war existed between Germany and Russia. Americans were rushing off the continent like leaves before a storm. They were pouring into London by the thousands, telling of the cold war purpose in Berlin and the fever of excitement in Paris. Crowds there were singing and marching in the streets.
“Oh, I’m lucky to be here!” Betsy cried as each new edition brought more tales. Americans were traveling day and night to get to England. They weren’t allowed to leave the railroad stations, even to eat. They were locked into the cars. They couldn’t get money. Many who arrived in London had left all their luggage behind and had only the clothes on their backs.
On the eve of the Bank Holiday German troops goosestepped over the French border. The barrel organs began to play the “Marseillaise,” but what stunned Mrs. Heaton’s even more was Germany’s ultimatum to little Belgium demanding permission to send her armed forces unopposed across the Belgian border.
“Why, that’s outrageous!” Dolly cried. “Belgium has a guarantee of perpetual neutrality.”
“And England has guaranteed the sanctity of Belgium.”
“We’re as good as in,” Mr. Leonard said, but Mrs. Heaton put in briskly, “We may be in, but we’ll be out in a jiff. The fighting will be over in a month or so at most.”
Everyone looked anxious.
“I’ll sign up,” said Mr. Dick. “But you ought to finish at medical school, Len.”
Mr. Leonard looked thoughtful.
“I don’t believe The Arcadians will ever open,” said Jean.
“I wish I knew what this would do to my brother,” Dolly said.
“And your book!” It seemed unlikely that a new edition of Helen’s Babies would be wanted now.
Betsy, Jean, and Mr. Dick went to vesper services in Westminster Abbey. When they returned, the streets seemed to hold twice as many sailors and soldiers as before. An artillery regiment, complete with cannons, shouted boisterous jokes. A company of Territorials marched by singing.
They were very young and slim, with fresh pink cheeks. The German soldiers had been so big and capable! The memory made Betsy apprehensive, and newsboys were shouting that the last train, the last boat, had come from the continent.
“Perhaps, Betsy,” Mrs. Heaton said at tea—it was high tea on Sunday night—“perhaps you ought to be thinking about getting home. Your parents must be worried.”
Betsy was sure they
were and she was sorry. But she didn’t really want to go home. It was partly that she had come to love these people and didn’t want to go back to comfort while they were in peril. But it was also because of the great events that seemed to be impending. As a writer, she hated to miss them.
No one at Heaton’s slept much that night, and in the morning everyone was down to breakfast early. This was Bank Holiday. Could it really be that they had planned to spend it boating on the Thames?
The crowds on the streets were restless instead of merry. All holiday excursions had been canceled to provide trains for troops. And Germany made her formal declaration of war against France.
Betsy’s thoughts went back to the line cut into Napoleon’s tomb. It would have to be recarved.
“Let no French soldier rest while there is a German in France.”
“I can’t take it in,” Jean stammered. “Thousands of men marching off to be slaughtered. Ruin, terror, misery, sweeping us all. Why?”
No one knew. But Betsy kept remembering the marching soldiers she had seen everywhere in Germany and all the talk of war.
She thought of Tilda. What would this do to her career? She thought of Helena and Hanni. Each loved a soldier who would now be going to war. And how could she ever get Hanni over to the United States?
She thought of Marco. Italy had declared her neutrality, but Italians by the thousands were enlisting in France. Marco might do that.
Down at Buckingham Palace, Mr. Heaton reported, a huge crowd was gathering, singing and cheering. Now and then King George and Queen Mary came out on the balcony.
“Why do the people go to the Palace?” Betsy asked.
“They want to let the King know they’re behind him,” Mr. Heaton said.
“We talk, eat, drink, and sleep war,” Betsy wrote home. It was strange. Belgium had been hardly more to her than a spot on the map, and now she was shaken with pity, excitement, and pride in the human race by the little country’s answer to big Germany. The forts at their border were to be defended—to the last man.
On the morning of August fourth the conviction that war would be declared before nightfall was as strong around Mrs. Heaton’s breakfast table as it was in the Times.
It was strong even in the Agony Column. A penitent Nan begged her Jack—fifth advertisement down—“if you love me, don’t enlist until we make up.”
In the middle of breakfast Betsy received a cable from home.
“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? BEST RETURN AT ONCE.
WORRIED. LOVE. DAD.”
Tears rushed into her eyes. She knew how anxious they must be. She still didn’t want to go home, but she knew she would have to if England really did get in.
Shortly it became clear that England would get in. Six German columns crossed the Belgian frontier. The Belgians were waiting for them at the Meuse.
“Good little Belgium!” Mr. Leonard cried.
The Crew went out to roam the streets with the rest of London. Soldiers were everywhere—alone, with sweethearts, with wives hanging to their arms, carrying their children. Some of the boyish Territorials were walking with red-eyed girls. Others went alone, cockily or forlornly.
In front of the German Embassy a long line of people—many tearful—waited for passports. “Some of them have lived here a long time. They’ve just neglected getting naturalization papers, and now they must go back to fight us,” Mr. Dick said.
Peddlers were hawking flags. The sidewalk artists were drawing battleships and the royal family.
By teatime Great Britain had delivered her ultimatum to Germany, and midnight was fixed as the time limit for Germany’s answer.
At the Houses of Parliament, crowds cheered as the members came out. At Buckingham Palace was such a throng as Betsy had never seen or imagined.
“I’m so glad I’m with you,” Betsy told The Crew. She was very fond of them, and proud, too, because they made her seem a part of this great spontaneous demonstration.
Dinnertime came and went. The Crew didn’t wish to go home without seeing the King and Queen. Both had been coming out frequently, everyone said, but now only Princess Mary appeared briefly, taking snapshots.
“She has her hair up!” Jean cried. “It’s the first time.”
The young, slim, handsome Prince of Wales, wearing a silk hat, crossed the courtyard to cheers and applause. He disappeared inside.
“But he wiped his feet on the doormat!” Betsy cried. “His mother brought him up well.”
Hungrier and hungrier, they waited until almost nine.
“Mrs. Heaton will be worrying,” Mr. Leonard said. “I ought to take you girls home. Claude is enough for her to worry about. I’ll be back,” he added to his brother. They made plans to meet.
“I thought I was tired,” Betsy said, when they were raiding Mrs. Heaton’s kitchen. “But I’m absolutely wide awake. Let’s have a kimono party up in my room, and wait for the news at midnight.”
Dolly and Jean agreed enthusiastically and so did Mrs. Heaton. Her husband had returned with Mr. Leonard to the Palace. With a big pot of tea to keep them company, the girls crowded Turkish fashion on the bed, leaving the easy chair to their hostess.
They talked a little, but mainly they listened to the noise outside. Rarely did all of them together look away from the clock.
“And this,” Betsy thought, “is what the start of a war is like!”
“A quarter after eleven,” Mrs. Heaton said.
A searchlight poked a bright finger into their room, but withdrew as though embarrassed.
“A quarter of midnight,” Mrs. Heaton said.
“I’ll wager,” said Jean, “that if it lasts long enough, they’ll enlist girls.”
“Tosh!” said Mrs. Heaton. “Never!”
“I’d go,” said Dolly. “A girl could be a messenger. She could operate an army telephone.”
“Tosh!” said Mrs. Heaton again. “And listen! Just a minute to go! If Britain declares, there’ll be a roar that will carry to Ireland.”
They all fell silent.
The minute hand of the clock suddenly stood upright, and St. Paul’s chimes began to count twelve.
Then Mrs. Beaton’s predicted roar came. It could have carried to Ireland. For long minutes it swelled like the sound of the sea. Then it changed. Betsy caught Dolly’s arm.
“It’s singing!” she cried.
It was singing. First it was singing far off. Then it was singing outside the window in Taviton Street. Then it was singing right in the room. Mrs. Heaton was up from her chair. Jean and Dolly were off the bed. The three of them joined, it seemed to Betsy, with all London.
“When Britain first at Heaven’s command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung this strain,
R-u-l-e B-r-i-t-a-n-n-i-a…”
That was Betsy’s cue. The next two lines, at least, she knew. Her arms went out. Mrs. Heaton’s arms, and Dolly’s, and Jean’s replied. In a weeping, valiant line, the four stood at the window and sang with the crowd below.
“Rule Britannia! Britannia rule the waves,
Britains never, never, never, shall be slaves.”
Mrs. Heaton broke free, clapped hands to her face, and ran from the room. Dolly followed, and Jean. Betsy continued at the window, fixed there by the magnet of the singing.
But presently, as before, her ears caught a change. The singing became words, two words, intoned over and over. Newsboys were running up and down crying them.
“War declared! War declared!”
Finally it was fused into one word.
“War! War! War!”
Betsy did the only thing she could do at such a moment. She got down on her knees.
21
The Agony Column
“WHAT A TIME,” grumbled Betsy, settling herself and her umbrella on top of a bus, “what a time to have to think about money!”
She was going to the American Express Compan
y, but this time not to Onze Rue Scribe. It was to Six Haymarket, S.W., in London, to her everlasting thankfulness.
Breakfast had brought a rumor that the invaluable offices were to reopen for the benefit of stranded tourists. The banks had been closed for several days by government moratorium, and money was growing scarce. The boarders at Mrs. Heaton’s had been making a great joke of borrowing shillings and pence. But Betsy, needing a ticket home, could not be helped by such small change. Everyone had rejoiced with her over the morning’s report.
“You must jolly well go right down!” Mr. Heaton had said. “Get some money and book your passage. Only the early birds among you Americans are likely to get home by Christmas.”
“Here goes Early Bird Ray,” Betsy murmured. “Jolly well going right down as fast as the bus will take her.”
But she was aware that even if she found the Express Company open, the purchase of her passage home was going to take some doing.
Betsy had only one lone American Express Company check, and it was for just fifty dollars. Unless a certain piece of paper in a chamois bag, which she wore carefully pinned to her innermost garments, proved negotiable, she was, she warned herself adventurously, likely to be marooned, far from kith and kin.
Until now Betsy had always had all the money she needed. Her father’s monthly remittance had been a modest but dependable mainstay. Extras had been cared for by her American Express checks, now reduced to one. And as a last resource she had always carried, in the chamois bag, a check signed in blank by her father.
“Strictly for an emergency!” Mr. Ray had warned. “But in any real jam, fill it in for whatever you need. Any bank’ll cash it if you give ’em time to cable my bank in Minneapolis.”