Part 53 (1/2)

They had almost succeeded, too, when suddenly that happened which brought his name up in all thoughts, the war. That night, the night when all rumors and surmises were solidified into the single, soul-stunning fact, n.o.body mentioned his name, though each knew the others were thinking of it. It seemed uncivil when they had each heard the rest make such fun of his theories. But after a few days some bolder soul broke the spell.

”Philbin-do you remember, he always prophesied it?”

But that was all, and Savelle sat silent even then.

In truth, the war changed Isham's. Of course, it changed somehow almost everything in the world, but it changed Isham's peculiarly. Before it had been a place where people went to talk of curious things, and now the same people went there-Sampson and Savelle and little Norvel and the Futurist painter, and old Isham himself was unchanged, nothing could alter him, and they still talked of curious things, more curious things than they had ever imagined before, but Isham's had changed by ceasing to be different, because everywhere people were talking of the same things. Talk at Isham's was just like talk on any street corner. In fact, the world had caught up with Isham's.

Then one night Philbin did come back. It was in the second year of the great war, and it had been nearly five since he had gone away after his tiff with Savelle. He did not come directly into the back room, as he had been used to do, but dined by himself at a small table in front. He sat there a long time after dinner over his coffee, with his back turned to his old place. Every one of them had seen him and recognized him, and talk that night was slow. Though he had spoken to none of them and turned his back to them, each knew somehow that he would speak and that he had come there especially to speak, and that he would say something important, and they sat nervously waiting.

At last he did come, pus.h.i.+ng back his chair and walking slowly up the room. They noticed then how he had changed. He had grown very much older. He had been scarcely fifty when he had left, and now he looked and walked like an old man, and his dress, which had always been very neat and careful, showed an old man's carelessness. They all got up when he came and greeted him by name and with genuine cordiality. The little stings of five years since had vanished long ago. Savelle got up last and a little doubtfully, but it was Savelle he especially picked out.

”Ah, Savelle,” and he put out his hand.

Then he sat down in his old place and ordered more coffee and talked for a while quietly to his right-hand neighbor, who was little Norvel. He said nothing of himself and very little of any subject, seeming distrait and very depressed. After a little, abruptly he took the conversation in his own hands.

”Gentlemen,” he said, leaning forward with his hands folded on the cloth in front of him, ”since I was here last I have had a very great sorrow.

I have lost my son.”

Then he fell silent again, and apparently not hearing any of the things that were said to him.

”He was killed,” he began a second time, just as he had begun the first, ”in Flanders, six weeks ago. He was twenty-two years and four months old. Before he died they pinned this on him.” He fumbled in his waistcoat, and picking out something threw it across the cloth over in front of Savelle. It was a little bronze cross known the world over, with two words on it, ”For valor”. ”I sent them my son and they sent me back that,” said Philbin.

It was the old Philbin voice-the same that had in turn galled each one of them.

”He went out in the night,” he went on, ”and pulled back to life two London fishmongers. Then he died-going back for a third fishmonger.

There is some six inches in a London newspaper telling about it. That same paper gave a column and a half last week to a story I wrote. And they gave six inches to my son. That's queer, too, isn't it?”

n.o.body answered him. They were all afraid to-his tone was too bitter. No one was quite sure what he would say.

”We used to talk here years ago,” he went on presently, ”about curious things. I think this curious enough to talk about. They gave a 'stick'

to the death of my son and a column to the birth of my book. Savelle, you are a newspaper man, tell us about it?”

Savelle was looking at him with his eyes blazing, and he answered not a word.

”I suppose it's logical,” said Philbin. ”Any man may have a son. But I have written twenty books and had only one son.”

The only answer came from quite an unexpected quarter. It was little Norvel, who was sitting at Philbin's elbow.

”Did you say, sir,” he asked, ”that he went back three times?”

”Yes, Mr. Norvel, three times-three fishmongers.”

The man's sneers would have been disgusting if they had not been so plainly aimed at himself first. As it was, they were almost terrible.

”Whether the three fishmongers lived or died,” he went on, ”I don't know. The six inches neglected to state. Want of s.p.a.ce, possibly. You are a newspaper man, Savelle, perhaps you can explain.”

”I wish you would explain this, Mr. Savelle,” said little Norvel.