JAN ISSEL.
In the month of August 1914 Mr. Haseldine of Culme House in South Devon was as clearly persuaded as every other patriotic Briton that we had got to beat the Germans, cost what it might, and what it might chance to cost him individually he well knew, his only son being an officer in the Guards. So he was scarcely disposed to sympathise with a man who, having no less than four sons, made it a great grievance that the youngest of them was threatening to enlist.
‘What do you expect me to say to the lad, Issel?’ he asked of the ruddy, grey-bearded tenant who had come to beg his aid. ‘I can’t tell him he is wrong if he wants to fight for his country.’
‘Aw, ’tidden that, Squire,’ returned Farmer Issel, shaking his head. ‘I don’t b’lieve as Jan feels a call to go an’ fight no more’n what his brothers du; but a’s that quare an’ opinionated us can’t make nothin’ of un. Can’t spare un nayther, with harvest comin’ on an’ all, that’s the trewth.’
It was certainly the truth that labour was scarce and that the moment was ill chosen for withdrawing a pair of strong arms from Bratton Farm. Moreover, those were the early days of the war, when it had not yet become apparent that England must raise and equip a huge force. Therefore, after some further parley, Mr. Haseldine promised that he would give young John Issel a word or two of sound advice, and, with that end in view, he suggested to his daughter Mildred, a few hours later, that they should make Bratton Farm the object of their customary afternoon ride.
It was beautiful, hot weather, promising well for the approaching harvest, and as Mr. Haseldine jogged through the lanes, on either side of which were broad fields of ripening oats and barley, he remarked to his companion, with a laugh and a sigh, that some people didn’t know when they were well off. Patriotism was right enough, and he would be the last to discourage it; yet before a man decided to plunge into all the trials and miseries of a campaign he ought at least to make sure that his duty did not lie nearer home.
And something of that sort was what the Squire presently said to a slim, dark-eyed young man who, turning round at the sound of the horses’ hoofs, raised his arms from the gate over which he had been leaning and touched his hat. Jan Issel listened respectfully, appeared to be a little troubled, and had no very definite answer to make. What could be gathered was that his mother had been pressing him hard, that he did not want to vex her—nor yet nobody else—but that he reckoned he would have to go all the same. Oh, not until after harvest, for sure; he had given a promise to that effect and would keep it.
‘Quite right, my boy,’ said Mr. Haseldine, gathering up his reins. ‘Think it well over; don’t be in a hurry. You may be wanted at the front by-and-by, and so may your brothers; we don’t any of us know yet what lies before us. But for the present it seems to me that you’re more wanted where you are. Now, Mildred, if you’ll wait here for me, I’ll be with you again in a few minutes. I must just see Issel and tell him about several things that I forgot to mention this morning.’
Thus Miss Haseldine was left in the company of a youth of whose existence she had hitherto been but vaguely aware, but whose handsome face and great sad eyes made appeal to her. She began to question him, and, either because her pretty face and kindly blue eyes made appeal to him or because of some subtle suggestion of sympathy in her voice, he spoke with a good deal more ease and openness than he had shown in replying to her father. It was not only the outbreak of war, he confessed, that had put it into his head to take up soldiering. Many and many a time before had he thought of that way of escape from Bratton—because it was from Bratton that he yearned to escape. No, he hadn’t no trouble, without you could call it trouble to be uneasy in your mind; only he felt as if he must get away.