“But you are Canadians, are you not? Are there to be different standards in Canada for different nationalities?”
“Oh, the Germans will follow the German way. Because it is German, and demonstrated through experience to be the best. Look at our people. Look at our prosperity at home, at our growth in population, at our wealth, at our expansion in industry and commerce abroad. Look at our social conditions and compare them with those in this country or in any other country in the world. Who will dare to say that German methods and German customs are not best, at least for Germans? But let us move a little faster, otherwise we shall never catch up with them.” He touched his splendid broncho into a sharp gallop, the other horses following more slowly behind.
“He is very German, my brother,” said Dorothea. “He thinks he is Canadian, but he is not the same since he went over Home. He is talking all the time about Germany, Germany, Germany. I hate it.” Her blue eyes flashed fire and her usually timid voice vibrated with an intense feeling. Larry gazed at her in astonishment.
“You may look at me, Larry,” she cried. “I am German but I do not like the German ways. I like the Canadian ways. The Germans treat their women like their cows. They feed them well, they keep them warm because—because—they have calves—I mean the cows—and the women have kids. I hate the German ways. Look at my mother. What is she in that house? Day and night she has worked, day and night, saving money—and what for? For Ernest. Running to wait on him and on Father and they never know it. It's women's work with us to wait on men, and that is the way in the Settlement up there. Look at your mother and you. Mein Gott! I could kill them, those men!”
“Why, Dorothea, you amaze me. What's up with you? I never heard you talk like this. I never knew that you felt like this.”
“No, how could you know? Who would tell you? Not Ernest,” she replied bitterly.
“But, Dorothea, you are happy, are you not?”
“Happy, I was until I knew better, till two years ago when I saw your mother and you with her. Then Ernest came back thinking himself a German officer—he is an officer, you know—and the way he treated our mother and me!”
“Treated your mother! Surely he is not unkind to your mother?” Larry had a vision of a meek, round-faced, kindly, contented woman, who was obviously proud of her only son.
“Kind, kind,” cried Dorothea, “he is kind as German sons are kind. But you cannot understand. Why did I speak to you of this? Yes, I will tell you why,” she added, apparently taking a sudden resolve. “Let's go slowly. Ernest is gone anyway. I will tell you why. Before Ernest went away he was more like a Canadian boy. He was good to his mother. He is good enough still but—oh, it is so hard to show you. I have seen you and your mother. You would not let your mother brush your boots for you, you would not sit smoking and let her carry in wood in the winter time, you would not stand leaning over the fence and watch your mother milk the cow. Mein Gott! Ernest, since he came back—the women are only good for waiting on him, for working in the house or on the farm. His wife, she will not work in the fields; Ernest is too rich for that. But she will not be like”—here the girl paused abruptly, a vivid colour dyeing her fair skin—“like your wife. I would die sooner than marry a German man.”