The Revellers

“Are you going to lecture me?” she said, arching her eyebrows. “It would be just like a fledgling B. A., who is doubtless a member of the Officers’ Training Corps, to tell me that my German riding-master taught me to sit too stiffly.”

“He did,” said Martin, meeting the sarcastic blue eyes without flinching. “But a few days with the York and Ainsty and Lord Middleton’s pack will put that right. You’ll come a purler at your first stone wall if you ride with such long stirrup leathers. However, I want you to jump another variety of obstacle to-day. You asked me just now, Elsie, if I was going in for the law. Yes. But I’m going in for you first. You know I love you, dear. You know I have been your very humble but loyal knight ever since I won your recognition down there in the valley, when I was only a farmer’s son and you were a girl of a higher social order. I have never forgotten that you didn’t seem to heed class distinctions then, Elsie, and it hurts now to have you treat me with coldness.”

Elsie, trying valiantly to appear partly indignant and even more amused at this direct attack, failed most lamentably. First she flushed; then she paled.

She faced Martin’s gaze confidently enough at the outset, but her eyes dropped and her lips quivered when she heard the words which no woman can hear without a thrill. Still, she made a brave attempt to rally her forces.

“I didn’t – quite mean – what you say,” she faltered, which was a schoolgirl form of protest for one who had achieved distinction in a course of English literature.

Martin took her by the shoulders. The two horses nosed each other. They, perforce, were dumb, but their wise eye’s seemed to exchange the caustic comment: “What fools these mortals be! Why don’t they hug, and settle the business?”

“I must know what you do mean,” said Martin, almost fiercely. “I love you, Elsie. Will you marry me?”

She lifted her face. The blue eyes were dim with tears, but the adorable mouth trembled in a smile.

“Yes, dear,” she murmured. “But what did you expect? Did you – think I would – throw my arms around you – in the village street?”

After that Martin had no reason to accuse Elsie of being either stiff or cold. When the vicar heard the news that night – for Martin and the colonel dined at the Vicarage – he stormed into mock dissent.

“God bless my soul,” he cried, “my little girl has been away two whole years, and you come and steal her away from me before she has been home twenty-four hours!”

Then he produced a handkerchief and yielded, apparently, to a violent attack of hay fever. Yet it was a joyous company which gathered around the dinner table, for Elsie herself, casting off the veneer of Dresden, drove posthaste to summon the Bollands to the feast.

John was specially deputed by Colonel Grant to make a significant announcement.

“We’re all main pleased you two hev sattled matters so soon,” he said, peering alternately at Martin’s attentive face and Elsie’s blushing one. “Yer father an’ me hev bowt The Elms, an’ a tidy bit o’ land besides, so ye’ll hev a stake i’ t’ county if ivver ye’re minded te run for Parlyment. The Miss Walkers (John pronounced the name “Wahker”) are goin’ te live in a small hoos i’ Nottonby. They’ve gotten a fine lot o’ Spanish mahogany an’ owd oak which they’re willin’ te sell by vallyation; so the pair of ye can gan there i’ t’ mornin’ an’ pick an’ choose what ye want.”

Elsie looked at her father, but neither could utter a word. Martha Bolland put an arm around the girl’s neck.

“Lord luv’ ye, honey!” she said brokenly, “it’ll be just like crossin’ the road. May I be spared te see you happy and comfortable in yer new home, for you’ll surely be one of the finest ladies i’ Yorkshire.”

No shadow darkened their joy in that cheerful hour. Even next day, when a grim specter flitted through Elmsdale, the ominous vision evoked only a passing notice. Colonel Grant and the vicar, each an expert in old furniture, accompanied the young people to The Elms and examined its antique dressers, sideboards, tables, and the rest. Many of the bedroom chests were of solid mahogany. The Misses Walker had cleared the drawers of the lumber of years, so that the prospective purchasers could note the interior finish.

Miss Emmy, not so tactful as her elder sister, brought in a name which the others present wished to forget.

“Mrs. Saumarez used this room as a dressing-room,” she said, “and while turning out rubbish from a set of drawers I came across this.”

She displayed a small red-covered folding road-map, such as cyclists and motorists use. Martin thought he recognized it.

“I believe that is the very map lost by Fritz Bauer, Mrs. Saumarez’s chauffeur,” he said.

“Probably, sir. He made a rare row with Miss Angèle about it. I was half afraid he meant to shake her. No one knew what had become of it, but either Miss Angèle or her mother must have hidden it. Why, I can’t guess.”

Elsie helped to smooth over an awkward incident. She took the map and began to open it.

“It couldn’t have been such an important matter,” she said. Then she shook apart the folded sheet, and they all saw that it bore a number of entries and signs in faded ink, black and red. The written words were in German, and Elsie scanned a few lines hurriedly. She looked puzzled, even a trifle perturbed, but recovered her smiling self-possession instantly.

“The poor man, being a foreigner, jotted down some notes for his guidance,” she said. “May I have it?”

“With pleasure, miss,” said the old lady.

It was not until the party had returned to the vicarage that Elsie explained her request. She spread the map on a table, and her smooth forehead wrinkled in doubt.

“This is serious,” she said. “I have lived in Germany long enough to understand that one cannot mix with German girls in the intimacy of school and at their homes without knowing that an attack on England is simply an obsession of their menfolk, and even of the women. They regard it as a certainty in the near future, pretending that if they don’t strike first England will crush them.”

“I wish to Heaven she would!” broke in Colonel Grant emphatically. “In existing conditions this country resembles an unarmed policeman waiting for a burglar to fire at him out of the darkness.”

Mr. Herbert, man of peace that he was, might have voiced a mild disclaimer, had not Elsie stayed him.

“Listen, father,” she said seriously. “Here is proof positive. That chauffeur was a military spy. See what is written across the top of the map: ‘Gutes Wasser; Futter in Fülle; Überfluss von Vieh, Schafen und Pferden. Einzelheiten auf genauen Ortlichkeiten angegeben.’ That means ‘Good water; abundance of fodder; plenty of cattle, sheep, and horses. Details given on exact localities.’ And, just look at the details! Could a child fail to interpret their meaning?”

Elsie’s simile was not far-fetched, yet gray-headed statesmen, though they may have both known and understood, refused to believe. That little road-map, on a scale of one mile to an inch, contained all the information needed by the staff of an invading army.

The moor bore the legend:

“Platz für Lager, leicht verschanzt; beherrscht Hauptstrassen von Whitby und Pickering nach York. Rote Kreise kennzeichnen reichlichen Wasservorrat für Kavallerie und Artillerie.” (Site for camp, easily entrenched. Commands main roads from Whitby and Pickering to York. Red circles show ample water supply for cavalry and artillery.)

Every road bore its classification for the use of troops, showing the width, quality of surface, and gradients. Each bridge was described as “stone” or “iron.” Even cross-country trails were indicated when fordable streams rendered such passage not too difficult.

The little group gazed spellbound at the extraordinarily accurate synopsis of the facilities offered by the placid country of Yorkshire for the devilish purposes of war. Martin, in particular, devoured the entries relating to the moor. On Metcalf’s farm he saw: “Six hundred sheep here,” and at the Broad Ings, “Four hundred sheep, three horses, four cows.” Well he knew who had given the spy those facts. His glowing eyes wandered to the village. A long entry distinguished the White House, and though he knew a good deal of German he was beaten by the opening technical word.

“What is that, Elsie?” he said, and even his father wondered at the hot anger in his utterance.

The girl read:

“Stammbaum Vieh hier; drei Stiere, achtzehn Kühe und Färsen, nicht zum Schlachten, sehr wertvoll. Neben bei sechs Stuten, besten Types zur Zucht.”

Then she translated:

“Pedigree cattle here; three bulls, eighteen cows and heifers, not to be slaughtered; very valuable. Also six brood mares of best type for stud.”

“The infernal scoundrel!” blazed out Martin. “So the Bolland stock must be taken to the Fatherland, and not eaten or drafted into service! And to think that I gave him nearly all that information!”

“You, Martin?” cried Elsie.

“Yes. He pumped me dry. I even showed him the site of every pond on the moor.”

“Don’t blame the man,” put in Colonel Grant. “I knew him as a Prussian officer at the first glance. But he was simply doing his duty. Blame our criminal carelessness. We cannot stop foreigners from prowling about the country, but we can and should make it impossible for any enemy to utilize such data as are contained in this map.”

“But, consider,” put in the perturbed vicar. “This evil work was done eight years ago, and what has all the talk of German preparation come to? Isn’t it the bombast of militarism gone mad?”

“It comes to this,” said the colonel. “We are just eight years nearer war. I am convinced that the break must occur before 1916 – and for two reasons: Germany’s financial state is dangerous, and in 1916 Russia will have completed on her western frontier certain strategic lines which will expedite mobilization. Germany won’t wait till her prospective foes are ready. France knows it. That is why she has adopted the three years’ service scheme.”

“Then why won’t you let me join the army, dad?” demanded Martin bluntly.

Colonel Grant spread his hands with the weary gesture of a man who would willingly shirk a vital decision.

“In peace the army is a poor career,” he said. “The law and politics offer you a wider field. But not you only – every young man in the country should be trained to arms. As matters stand, we have neither the men nor the rifles. Our artillery, excellent of its type, is about sufficient for an army corps, and we have a fortnight’s supply of ammunition. I am not an alarmist. We have enough regiments to repel a raid, supposing the enemy’s transports dodged the fleet; but Heaven help us if we dream of sending an expeditionary force to France or Egypt, or any single one of a score of vulnerable points outside the British Isles!”