Arthur remained seated at the table. He still felt himself trembling and he leaned his elbow upon the table, supporting his head upon his hand.
Aunt Carrie, stealing back into the room ten minutes later, found him in this attitude. She came forward and slipped her arm round his bowed shoulders.
“Oh, Arthur,” she whispered, “it’ll never do to go against your father. You must be reasonable. Oh, for your own sake you must.”
He did not answer but continued to stare palely in front of him.
“You see, Arthur dear,” Aunt Carrie went on appealingly, “there’s some things you can’t stand out against. No one understands that better than me. You’ve just got to give in whether you like it or not. I’m so fond of you, Arthur. I can’t see you ruin your whole life. You must do what your father wants, Arthur.”
“I won’t,” he said, as though to himself.
“Oh no, Arthur,” she pleaded, “don’t go on like that. Please, please. I’m afraid something awful will happen. And think of the disgrace, the terrible disgrace. Oh, promise me you’ll do what your father wants.”
“No,” he whispered, “I must go through with it in my own way.” Rising, he gave her the pitiful semblance of a smile and went up to his own room.
Next morning he received his summons to appear before the Tribunal. Barras, who was present when the post came in, observed him with a sidelong scrutiny as he opened the thin buff envelope. But if he expected Arthur to speak he was disappointed. Arthur put the letter in his pocket and walked out of the room. He was aware that his father had calculated upon his submission. And he was equally determined that he would not submit. His nature was not strong but now a form of exaltation gave him strength.
The intervening days went by and the morning of Tuesday arrived. The time of Arthur’s summons was ten o’clock and the place Old Bethel Street School. The Tribunal had been set up in the hall of the old school where there was ample accommodation for the court and a gallery at the back to accommodate the public. At the top of the hall was a raised platform with a table at which the five members sat. Rutter the clerk occupied one end of the table and Captain Douglas, Military Representative, the other. A large Union Jack hung upon the wall behind, and beneath it was a disused blackboard, a few left-over chalks, and a ledge bearing a chipped water-bottle covered by a tumbler.
Arthur reached Old Bethel Street School at exactly five minutes to ten. Roddam, the sergeant on duty, informed him that his case was first on the list, and with a brusque sign led him through the swing door into the court.
As Arthur entered the court an excited hum went up. He lifted his head and saw that the gallery was packed with people; he made out men from the pit, Harry Ogle, Joe Kinch, Jake Wicks the new check-weigher, and a score of others. There were a great many women, too, women from the Terraces and the town, Hannah Brace, Mrs. Reedy, old Susan Calder, Mrs. Wept. The reporters’ bench was full. Two cameramen stood together against a window. Arthur dropped his eyes quickly, painfully aware of the sensation his case was creating. His nervousness, already extreme, became intensified. He sat down in the chair assigned to him in the middle of the hall and began in an agitated manner to fumble with his handkerchief. His sensitive nature shrank at all times from the glare of publicity. And now he was in the centre of the glare. He shivered slightly. It was the intensity of his weakness which had brought him here, which held him fast in the determination to go on. But he had no hardihood. He was acutely aware of his position, of the mass hostility of the crowd, and he suffered abominably. He felt like a common criminal.
Here, another buzz of sound broke out in the gallery and was immediately subdued. The members of the Tribunal filed in from a side door accompanied by Rutter and Captain Douglas, a stocky figure with a reddish, pock-marked face. Roddam, from behind Arthur, said “Stand!” and Arthur stood. Then he raised his head and his eyes, as though magnetised, fell upon his father now in the act of seating himself in the high official chair. Arthur stared at his father as at a judge. He could not withdraw his eyes, he existed in a web of unreality, a hypnotised suspense.
Barras leaned across the table to Captain Douglas. They had a lengthy conference, then Douglas nodded his head with an approving look, squared his shoulders and rapped sharply with his knuckles on the table.
The last whispers of conversation in the gallery and body of the hall died out and a tense silence succeeded. Douglas let his gun-metal eyes travel slowly round, embracing the audience, the press reporters and Arthur in one firm and comprehensive glance, then he faced his colleagues at the table. He spoke loudly so that everyone could hear.
“This is a particularly painful case,” he said, “in so far as it concerns the son of our esteemed chairman who has already done such yeoman service on this Tribunal here. The facts are clear. This young man, Arthur Barras, holds a redundant position at the Neptune pit and is eligible for combatant service. I need not repeat what you already know. But before we open the case I must affirm my personal admiration for Mr. Barras senior, who with wholehearted courage and patriotism has not shirked his duty in the face of his own natural feelings. I think I am right in saying that we all respect and honour him for what he has done.” Here a burst of applause broke out in the court. No effort was made to restrain it and when it had ended Douglas continued: “Speaking in my capacity as representative of the military authorities I should like to advance the statement that we on our side are prepared to come half-way over this unhappy and distressing case. The applicant has only to accept his liability for combatant service and he will receive every consideration in the matter of regimental draft and training.”
He looked across the court at Arthur with his hard inquiring stare. Arthur moistened his dry lips. He saw that an answer was expected of him. Gathering himself, he said:
“I refuse combatant service.”
“But come now, you can’t be serious?”
“I am serious.”
There was an imperceptible pause, a further heightening of the tension. Douglas exchanged a quick glance with Barras as though expressing his inability to do more and James Ramage, thrusting his head forward pugnaciously, demanded:
“Why do you refuse to fight?” The examination had begun.
Arthur turned his eyes upon the thick-necked butcher whose low brow and small deep-set eyes seemed to commingle the attributes of bull and pig. He answered in an almost inaudible voice:
“I don’t want to kill anyone.”
“Speak up,” shouted Ramage. “You couldn’t hear that below a bowl.”
Huskily, Arthur repeated: “I don’t want to kill anyone.”
“But why?” Ramage persisted. He had killed a great many live things in his time. He could not understand this puzzling mentality.
“It’s against my conscience.”
A pause. Then Ramage said coarsely:
“Ah, too much conscience is bad for anybody.”
The Rev. Enoch Low hurriedly interposed. He was a tall thin cadaverous man with pinched nostrils and a poor stipend. James Ramage, the main adherent of his church, paid half that stipend and the Rev. Low could always be depended on to support Ramage and cover up his little pleasantries.
“Come now,” he addressed Arthur. “You’re a Christian, aren’t you? There’s nothing in the Christian religion which prevents lawful killing in the service of your country.”
“There’s no such thing as lawful killing.”
The Rev. Low cocked his bony head.
“What do you mean?”
Arthur answered rapidly:
“I haven’t got any religion very much, not religion in your sense. But you talk about Christianity, the religion of Christ. Well, I can’t imagine Jesus Christ taking a bayonet in His hands and sticking it into the stomach of a German soldier or an English soldier either for that matter. I can’t imagine Jesus Christ sitting behind an English machine gun or a German machine gun mowing down dozens of perfectly guiltless men.”