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Page 49
"'There's no--friend like a mother,'" stammered young Hugh, and tears
fell unashamed. His mother had not seen the boy cry since he was ten
years old. He went on. "Dad didn't say a word, because he wouldn't spoil
your birthday, but the way he dodged--my knee--" He laughed miserably
and swabbed away tears with the corner of his pajama coat. "I wish I had
a hanky," he complained. The woman dried the tear-stained cheeks hastily
with her own. "Dad's got it in for me," said Hugh. "I can tell. He'll
make me go--now. He--he suspects I went skating that day hoping I'd
fall--and--I know it wasn't so darned unlikely. Yes--I did--not the first
time--when I smashed it; that was entirely--luck." He laughed again, a
laugh that was a sob. "And now--oh, Mummy, have I _got_ to go into that
nightmare? I hate it so. I am--I _am_--afraid. If--if I should be there
and--and sent into some terrible job--shell-fire--dirt--smells--dead men
and horses--filth--torture--mother, I might run. I don't feel sure. I
can't trust Hugh Langdon--he might run. Anyhow"--the lad sprang to his
feet and stood before her--"anyhow--why am _I_ bound to get into this? I
didn't start it. My Government didn't. And I've everything, _everything_
before me here. I didn't tell you, but that editor said--he said I'd be
one of the great writers of the time. And I love it, I love that job. I
can do it. I can be useful, and successful, and an honor to you--and
happy, oh, so happy! If only I may do as Arnold said, be one of
America's big writers! I've everything to gain here; I've everything to
lose there." He stopped and stood before her like a flame.
And from the woman's mouth came words which she had not thought, as if
other than herself spoke them. "'What shall it profit a man,'" she
spoke, "'if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?'"
At that the boy plunged on his knees in collapse and sobbed miserably.
"Mother, mother! Don't be merciless."
"Merciless! My own laddie!" There seemed no words possible as she
stroked the blond head with shaking hand. "Hughie," she spoke when his
sobs quieted. "Hughie, it's not how you feel; it's what you do. I
believe thousands and thousands of boys in this unwarlike country have
gone--are going--through suffering like yours."
Hugh lifted wet eyes. "Do you think so, Mummy?"
"Indeed I do. Indeed I do. And I pray that the women who love them
are--faithful. For I know, I _know_ that if a woman lets her men, if a
mother let her sons fail their country now, those sons will never
forgive her. It's your honor I'm holding to, Hughie, against human
instinct. After this war, those to be pitied won't be the sonless
mothers or the crippled soldiers--it will be the men of fighting age who
have not fought. Even if they could not, even at the best, they will
spend the rest of their lives explaining why."
Hugh sat on the sofa now, close to her, and his head dropped on her
shoulder. "Mummy, that's some comfort, that dope about other fellows
taking it as I do. I felt lonely. I thought I was the only coward in
America. Dad's condemning me; he can't speak to me naturally. I felt as
if"--his voice faltered--"as if I couldn't stand it if you hated me,
too."
The woman laughed a little. "Hughie, you know well that not anything to
be imagined could stop my loving you."
He went on, breathing heavily but calmed. "You think that even if I am a
blamed fool, if I went anyhow--that I'd rank as a decent white man? In
your eyes--Dad's--my own?"
"I know it, Hughie. It's what you do, not how you feel doing it."
"If Brock would hold my hand!" The eyes of the two met with a dim smile
and a memory of the childhood so near, so utterly gone. "I'd like Dad to
respect me again," the boy spoke in a wistful, uncertain voice. "It's
darned wretched to have your father despise you." He looked at her
then. "Mummy, you're tired out; your face is gray. I'm a beast to keep
you up. Go to bed, dear."
He kissed her, and with his arm around her waist led her through the
dark hall to the door of her room, and kissed her again. And again, as
she stood and watched there, he turned on the threshold of the den and
threw one more kiss across the darkness, and his face shone with a smile
that sent her to bed, smiling through her tears. She lay in the
darkness, fragrant of honeysuckle outside, and her sore heart was full
of the boys--of Hugh struggling in his crisis; still more, perhaps, of
Brock whose birthday it was, Brock in France, in the midst of "many and
great dangers," yet--she knew--serene and buoyant among them because his
mind was "stayed." Not long these thoughts held her; for she was so
deadened with the stress of many emotions that nature asserted itself
and shortly she feel asleep.
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