‘Look here, Polly,’ Jervase broke out again, ‘I haven’t bred you up to be a common soldier. When I was a young and struggling man, by comparison with what I am now, I said to myself, “I’ll make my lad a gentleman.” I sent you to Rugby, and I sent you to Oxford, and I never stinted neither love nor money. And if I was a bit over-greedy and in a hurry to be rich, I did what I did a good deal more for your sake than my own.’
‘Leave bad alone, father,’ said Polson, with an almost savage sternness. ‘Can’t you see that you make things worse with every word you speak? Isn’t it enough for me to know what I know already, but you must make me a partner in that shameful business?’
‘Polly,’ said Jervase, almost fawning on him, ‘I’ve been a hard man all my life, and I’ve lived a hard life for years. I’ve been a proudish sort of chap, in my own way, and I’ve never stooped to ask any man’s pardon twice for the same offence. But it’s different between you and me, and I can’t let my own flesh and blood go away from me until I’ve had a word of some sort. It’s only a word, Polly. You can’t deny me! You’re a-going out to the war, Polly, and you might never come back again. And think of me—think of your poor old father sittin’ at home, and sayin’ to himself, “I sent my son away with a broken heart and ashamed of his own father, and he wouldn’t touch my hand before he went to his own death, and he wouldn’t say one forgiving word to me, and I murdered him, and I broke his heart, and I made him ashamed of his own father.” You think of me, Polly, sittin’ at home and thinkin’ like that. Maybe for years and years. We’re a long-lived lot, we Jervases, and I should make old bones in the course of nature, but I couldn’t bear it, Polly, I couldn’t bear it. I should have to put an end to it, and if you go away without a word, it won’t be long before I do it.’
The bugles sang out the assembly in the barrack square. Polson both heard and understood, but his father did neither. Within half an hour the regiment would be on the march, and already the red-coated, brass-helmeted men, shining from head to foot and glittering in the fine array war wears before the exchange of the first blows, were moving about the open.
‘Now look here, Polly,’ said Jervase, striving no longer to disguise the wet eyes and the breaking voice, ‘it’s take it or leave it. There’s your father’s hand. Are you a-going to touch it before he goes away?’
‘Don’t you think,’ asked Polson, ‘that you’re making it pretty hard for both of us?’
‘Very well,’ said Jervase, ‘there’s no handshake. There’s no good-bye betwixt we two as friends. Perhaps you may come back in a different humour, Polly. Here’s your agent’s letter. Are you a-going to take your commission, and fight in a gentleman’s uniform for your Queen and country, or are you going out to advertise your father’s shame by wearing a private’s coat?’
‘I shall go as I am,’ said Polson.
‘Very well,’ said John Jervase again. ‘There’s the father’s hand refused, and there’s the commission chucked into the gutter. Now here’s a cheque for a thousand pound as you can cash with Cox & Co. in London. Are you a-going to take that, or are you not?’
‘I’m not likely,’ said Polson, ‘to have any sort of use for money.’