Meanwhile, Alter was waiting for signs and failing to recognize them. He was not, he told himself, the man he had once been, and to his eye she seemed to have changed very little in all the years. Moreover, the fact that there had been real affection between her and her husband made her seem difficult to approach. He was by no means convinced that her old love for himself had survived. It was natural that their present friendship should have taken its place, and any attempt on his part to insist upon love might sever the friendship for which now he chiefly lived.
Then came Hartington’s letter. John needed help. It gave Alter his chance, his opening. But he could not be blind to the fact that, if he offered to help the son, the mother, in accepting, would feel that she had placed herself under some obligation; and, whether the offer of marriage were coincident with or subsequent to the offer of assistance, the acceptance of one would at least be a powerful argument for the acceptance of the other. And he wanted her choice to be free. He wanted her to accept him for his own sake, not for that of her son. Yet, apart from all other considerations, he was eager to help John because he felt that John was worth assistance. Alter had reached the point in the lives of successful men at which the highest good and the most intense personal satisfaction seem to spring from the help it is possible to give to others.
Far into the night he sat with Hartington’s letter on his knee, considering how best to help, and cursing the impossibility of frankness in this instance. It would have been so easy could he have gone to John’s mother and have said: “You can count on me. Have the boy out. I’ll see him through Oxford. I’ll give him the start which, as I understand him, is all he needs. And all this you will please regard as a side issue. It has nothing whatever to do with our relations with each other. There’s no kind of obligation on you.” But that was impossible. This, by the evil decree of Fate, was a question of money, and money set up an obligation which, where man and woman were concerned, no good-will or friendship could nullify. Hartington said that John had written home. The letter must have arrived. If he went straight to her now, making no mention of his knowledge, she would inevitably look upon him as the man who was able to solve the problem with which her son had confronted her. Her decision would be influenced one way or the other. And, what was more, she would tell him about John; she would feel bound to tell him. He would have to confess foreknowledge, and unending complications would ensue.
No; there was one thing to be done, one thing only. He went to his table and wrote to Hartington.
“His mother cannot possibly afford to re-educate him. Therefore, she will certainly refuse to apply for his withdrawal from the Service, and she will persist in this refusal unless extreme pressure from him forces her to act at last against her better judgment. You and I, Mr. Hartington, must pull together in this matter. I am interested in Lynwood; I am sure he has real ability; and I am willing and eager to take full responsibility for giving him a fresh start. But, for reasons of my own, I cannot at present approach his mother on the subject. Before I go to her it is necessary that the prospect of her son’s leaving the Service should be banished from her mind. She must feel that a decision has been taken in which Lynwood himself has acquiesced, and that the whole matter is over and done with. Then, and not till then, I can go to her.
“Your job is to obtain Lynwood’s complete acquiescence. You must say nothing of my intent to help him. You must persuade him to bow to the inevitable with the best grace possible. In other words, when his mother’s refusal arrives—and it should reach the ship in the same mail with this letter of mine—he must write again to her, accepting her decision, and—for the sake of her peace of mind—accepting it willingly....
“It is not necessary for me to give in detail my reasons for requiring this of you. I suspect that you have already guessed them. It is enough for me to say that I wish Mrs. Lynwood to be under no obligation to me. Also, when I go to her, I want her not to be thinking of her son’s future. She must feel that that is settled, and that young Lynwood himself is satisfied with the settlement. Then, knowing her to be a free agent, I shall be able to act more easily....
“Write to me at once and tell me what Lynwood does. Give me, too, your considered opinion upon the question of his leaving the Service. It may be a little difficult, when the time comes, to persuade Mrs. Lynwood that her son’s acquiescence was not indeed the result of a change of mind. Like most women, she thinks the Navy an ideal profession for men. A letter from you, telling me of the circumstances in which Lynwood was persuaded to accept his mother’s decision, and giving a definite assurance—supported, if possible, by his own words spoken privately to you—as to his real inclination, might be needed to persuade her that, for all his apparent consent, he is still at heart eager to break free....”
Having finished his letter, Wingfield Alter returned to those words he had written, “break free.” They implied more than he had meant to imply; but, as he considered them, he had no desire to weaken his phrase.
“My God!” he said aloud, “the younger generation is in a hell of a mess!”