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Page 47
And then the thought stabbed again--a slacker--Hugh! How did his father
dare say it? A poisonous terror, colder than the fear of death, crawled
into her soul and hid there. Was it possible that Hugh, brilliant,
buoyant, temperamental Hugh was--that? The days went on, and the cold,
vile thing stayed coiled in her soul. It was on the very day war was
declared that young Hugh injured his knee, a bad injury. When he was
carried home, when the doctor cut away his clothes and bent over the
swollen leg and said wise things about the "bursa," the boy's eyes were
hard to meet. They constantly sought hers with a look questioning and
anxious. Words were impossible, but she tried to make her glance and
manner say: "I trust you. Not for worlds would I believe you did it on
purpose."
And finally the lad caught her hand and with his mouth against it spoke.
"_You_ know I didn't do it on purpose, Mummy."
And the cold horror fled out of her heart, and a great relief flooded
her.
On a day after that Brock came home from camp, and, though he might not
tell it in words, she knew that he would sail shortly for France. She
kept the house full of brightness and movement for the three days he had
at home, yet the four--young Hugh on crutches now--clung to each other,
and on the last afternoon she and Brock were alone for an hour. They had
sat just here after tennis, in the hazy October weather, and pink-brown
leaves had floated down with a thin, pungent fragrance and lay on the
stone steps in vague patterns. Scarlet geraniums bloomed back of Brock's
head and made a satisfying harmony with the copper of his tanned face.
They fell to silence after much talking, and finally she got out
something which had been in her mind but which it had been hard to say.
"Brocky," she began, and jabbed the end of her racket into her foot so
that it hurt, because physical pain will distract and steady a mind.
"Brocky, I want to ask you to do something."
"Yes'm," answered Brock.
"It's this. Of course, I know you're going soon, over there."
Brock looked at her gravely.
"Yes, I know, I want to ask you if--if _it_ happens--will you come and
tell me yourself? If it's allowed."
Brock did not even touch her hand; he knew well she could not bear it.
He answered quietly, with a sweet, commonplace manner as if that other
world to which he might be going was a place too familiar in his
thoughts for any great strain in speaking of it. "Yes, Mummy," he said.
"Of course I will. I'd have wanted to anyway, even if you hadn't said
it. It seems to me--" He lifted his young face, square-jawed,
fresh-colored, and there was a vision-seeing look in his eyes which his
mother had known at times before. He looked across the city lying at
their feet, and the river, and the blue hills beyond, and he spoke
slowly, as if shaping a thought. "So many fellows have 'gone west'
lately that there must he some way. It seems as if all that mass of love
and--and desire to reach back and touch--the ones left--as if all that
must have built a sort of bridge over the river--so that a fellow might
probably come back and--and tell his mother--"
Brock's voice stopped, and suddenly she was in his arms, his face was
against hers, and hot tears not her own were on her cheek. Then he was
shaking his head as if to shake off the strong emotion.
"It's not likely to happen, dear. The casualties in this war are
tremendously lower than in--"
"I know," she interrupted. "Of course, they are. Of course, you're
coming home without a scratch, and likely a general, and conceited
beyond words. How will we stand you!"
Brock laughed delightedly. "You're a peach," he stated. "That's the
sort. Laughing mothers to send us off--it makes a whale of a
difference."
That October afternoon had now dropped eight months back, and still the
house seemed lost without Brock, especially on this June twentieth, the
day that was his and hers, the day when there had always been "doings"
second only to Christmas at Lindow. But she gathered up her courage like
a woman. Hugh the elder was coming tonight from his dollar-a-year work
in Washington, her man who had moved heaven and earth to get into active
service, and who, when finally refused because of his forty-nine years
and a defective eye, had left his great business as if it were a joke,
and had put his whole time, and strength, and experience, and fortune at
the service of the Government--as plenty of other American men were
doing. Hugh was coming in time for her birthday dinner, and young Hugh
was with them--Her heart shrank as if a sharp thing touched it. How
would it be when they rose to drink Brock's health? She knew pretty well
what her cousin, the judge, would say:
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