II
That evening two Wardroom Officers came into the Gunroom to play poker. At the end of the table which the game left free, John sat down to write his letter. He had been too near to death that afternoon to waste more time.
He wrote the date and
“H.M.S. ‘Pathshire.’
“China Station,
“At Wei-hai-wei.
“Dear Mother,—”
(Then he paused. Usually he wrote “Darling Mother,” but after consideration he decided not to change what he had written.)
“I have just had your letter telling me of your work, and your holiday, and your talks with Mr. Alter. It was such a plain, interesting letter full of news that I hate myself for writing any other kind.”
(That was a poor sentence—but let it stand.)
“But I don’t honestly think it would be fair either to you or to myself to postpone writing about what I have to say this evening. The facts are plainly these, and I suppose I may as well come to the point at once.”
(It was time to turn a page, and John saw his mother’s face as she turned it.)
“I am writing to ask you if I may take the very serious step of leaving the Service. My reasons for asking this are chiefly these: I am not keen on the Navy. I don’t want to succeed in it—that is to say, the prospect of becoming an admiral doesn’t attract me. If I became an admiral I shouldn’t be very glad or very happy. If I won a Trafalgar I shouldn’t be very proud. And I think the sooner one leaves a profession one doesn’t want to rise in, the better.
“It is not a case of sudden impulse—I have felt very much the same about it, though I haven’t always been quite so explicit with myself, ever since I came to sea, or, at least, ever since I began to realize what this job leads to. If I have stood it so long, why not longer? I have tried to fight it down. But, although I might make myself do a great deal of work, I can’t make myself care for it, and, after very long and careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that the end must inevitably come.
“The great problem is that of money. I have always realized how much trouble you have taken, and how much money you have spent, in starting me in a profession, and I know that throwing it over now means a great sacrifice for you. First, there’s the cost of getting me out—the Admiralty will want something; then, if I am to enter almost any formal profession, the cost of training and educating me all over again; and lastly, there’s the uncertainty—instead of the present certainty—as to how much money I shall ultimately earn, and when I shall begin to earn it. It seems all money.
“Of course, what I want to do is to write—you have known of that fatal desire ever since I could hold a pen. And I want to be free—but let that pass now, since this is almost a business letter. I should like to go to Oxford, but I’m afraid that’s impossible. So I think the best thing is to get out first—that’s the essential. And then, with a little help from you as a start, I could take rooms in a far corner of London and start in journalism. The future would take care of itself. I think Mr. Alter would help with advice as regards journalism.
“I am very, very sorry for all this. I know the trouble and worry I must be causing you. If I tried to explain in detail what has led up to this I should never end: the causes go back further than I can trace them. It may be quite impossible for reasons of money that I should leave. If so, tell me, and I shall manage to settle down as I am. But I had to ask in case, just for lack of asking, I was letting slip the one chance of another start.
“I will send some little news very soon.
“J. L.”
“Jack Pots!” cried a poker player. The chips rattled into a saucer. “What about some drinks?... Drink for you, Lynwood?”
“No, thanks very much.”
He put his letter into an envelope, stamped and addressed it, and scribbled “Via Siberia” across its corner. Then, having dropped it into a hollow-voiced letter-box, he left the Gunroom. The decision being now inevitable, he dared discuss it with Hartington.
“Can I come in, Hartington? or—or are you reading?”
“I was. But come in and talk. Move those things from your chair on to the bunk.”
After a short silence, John said: “I’ve written to my mother, asking her to take me out.”
Hartington moved suddenly, his eyes shining. “Oh, splendid!” he cried. “I am glad. I wondered if you’d ever have the guts to do that. Which is it to be—Balliol or Univ.?”
Never had John felt more gratitude than he did for this enthusiasm.
“You think I’m right?” he asked, for the pleasure of hearing Hartington answer: “Yes, of course you are right. Go and order some drinks, and then come back and tell me what you are going to do—all your plans. And we’ll drink to Oxford and the Great Work. We’ll drink to all our dreams—yours, coming true—and mine, very like yours once.”
The drinks were ordered, and John returned.
“Probably my mother won’t take me out,” he said.
“Yes, she will. She’s bound to if you’ve made her understand—she wouldn’t be your mother otherwise.”
“It’s a question of money.”
“Oh!...”
“Oxford’s impossible, anyhow.”
“Then, damn Oxford!... Lynwood, you must get out. I didn’t. Something interfered—never mind what. And now I know.... You must escape somehow.”
Then slowly John explained much that, even to Hartington, he had never spoken of before—how little money there was, and how little influence. He talked of his mother and of Mr. Alter.
“I believe Alter would help but I don’t like to ask him.”
“Why not—if you’re going into journalism?”
“I know; but, you see,” John said, with hesitation, “I think Alter was in love with my mother at one time. I’m not sure he doesn’t love her still. One can’t ask favours.”
They talked until near midnight, when John rose to go.
“Even if I do get out soon,” he said, “I have a horrible feeling that one doesn’t escape very far.” And, blind to Hartington’s questioning eyes, he went on, speaking a part of his thought. “The powers that encompass us are devilish strong: the Service, Fane-Herbert’s father, Ordith—all the ring. One doesn’t defy them easily. One gets caught again ... in the net.”
Hartington dragged from his shelf a book that John had never before seen in his hands. He opened it where an envelope marked a place.
“Read that—from the second verse—‘They all lie in wait.’”
“‘They all lie in wait for blood; they hunt every man his brother with a net. That they may do evil with both hands earnestly, the prince asketh, and the judge asketh for a reward; and the great man, he uttereth his mischievous desire: so they wrap it up.’”
“Go on, it’s most important to go on.”
“‘The best of them is as a brier: the most upright is sharper than a thorn hedge: the day of thy watchmen and thy visitation cometh; now shall be their perplexity.’”
“That’s where you stop,” said Hartington. “And you are going to get out, Lynwood. Good luck!—and dreams of Oxford.”
When John had left him, Hartington sat down by his writing-table, and, in his capacity as “Lynwood’s Sub,” wrote a long letter to a man he had never seen.
“I’m probably making a fool of myself,” he thought; “but it’s a chance—and the need’s pretty desperate.”