Part 52 (1/2)

She was sad, not because her son Nicholas's time of safety was dwindling week by week, but because England was in danger; she was worried, not because Lord Kitchener was practically asking her to give up her son Michael, but because she had found that the race was to the swift and the battle to the strong, and that she was cla.s.sed with her incompetent sisters as too old to wait on wounded soldiers. Every morning she left her household to old Nanna's care and went down to the City with Anthony, and worked till evening in a room behind his office, receiving, packing, and sending off great cases of food and clothing to the Belgian soldiers.

Anthony was sad and worried, not because he had three sons, all well under twenty-seven, but simply and solely because the Government persisted in buying the wrong kind of timber--timber that swelled and shrank again--for rifles and gun-carriages, and because officials wouldn't listen to him when he tried to tell them what he knew about timber, and because the head of a department had talked to _him_ about private firms and profiteering. As if any man with three sons under twenty-seven would want to make a profit out of the War; and as if they couldn't cut down everybody's profits if they took the trouble. They might cut his to the last cent so long as we had gun-carriages that would carry guns and rifles that would shoot. He knew what he was talking about and they didn't.

And Frances said he was right. He always had been right. She who had once been impatient over his invariable, irritating rightness, loved it now. She thought and said that if there were a few men like Anthony at the head of departments we should win the War. We were losing it for want of precisely that specialized knowledge and that power of organization in which Anthony excelled. She was proud of him, not because he was her husband and the father of her children, but because he was a man who could help England. They were both proud of Michael and Nicholas and John, not because they were their sons, but because they were men who could fight for England.

They found that they loved England with a secret, religious, instinctive love. Two feet of English earth, the ground that a man might stand and fight for, became, mysteriously and magically, dearer to them than their home. They loved England more than their own life or the lives of their children. Long ago they had realized that fathers do not beget children nor mothers bear them merely to gratify themselves. Now, in September and October, they were realizing that children are not begotten and born for their own profit and pleasure either.

When they sat together after the day's work they found themselves saying the most amazing things to each other.

Anthony said, ”Downham thinks John's heart is decidedly better. I shouldn't wonder if he'd have to go.” Almost as if the idea had been pleasant to him.

And Frances: ”Well, I suppose if we had thirteen sons instead of three, we ought to send them all.”

”Positively,” said Anthony. ”I believe I'd let Dorothy go out now if she insisted.”

”Oh, no, I think we might be allowed to keep Dorothy.”

She pondered. ”I suppose one will get used to it in time. I grudged giving Nicky at first. I don't grudge him now. I believe if he went out to-morrow, and was killed, I should only feel how splendid it was of him.”

”I wish poor Dorothy could feel that way about Drayton.”

”She does--really. But that's different. Frank had to go. It was his profession. Nicky's gone in of his own free will.”

He did not remind her that Frank's free will had counted in his choice of a profession.

”Once,” said Frances, ”volunteers didn't count. Now they count more than the whole Army put together.”

They were silent, each thinking the same thing; each knowing that sooner or later they must speak of it.

Frances was the braver of the two. She spoke first.

”There's Michael. I don't know what to make of him. He doesn't seem to want to go.”

That was the vulnerable place; there they had ached unbearably in secret. It was no use trying to hide it any longer. Something must be done about Michael.

”I wish you'd say something to him, Anthony.”

”I would if I were going myself. But how can I?”

”When he knows that you'd have gone before any of them if you were young enough.”

”I can't say anything. You'll have to.”

”No, Anthony. I can't ask him to go any more than you can. Nicky is the only one of us who has any right to.”

”Or Dorothy. Dorothy'd be in the trenches now if she had her way.”

”I can't think how he can bear to look at Dorothy.”

But in the end she did say something.