The weeks thus punctuated by private anxieties rolled on dark with doom. At last, in December, came the victory of Verdun. Men took it reverently but soberly. The price paid had been too heavy for rejoicing; and the horizon was too ominous in other quarters. Campton had hoped that the New Year would bring his son back on leave; but still George did not speak of coming. Meanwhile Boylston’s face grew rounder and more beaming. At last America was stirring in her sleep. “Oh, if only George were out there!” Boylston used to cry, as if his friend had been an army. His faith in George’s powers of persuasion was almost mystical. And not long afterward Campton had the surprise of a visit which seemed, in the most unforeseen way, to confirm this belief. Returning to his studio one afternoon he found it tenanted by Mr. Roger Talkett.
The young man, as carefully brushed and equipped as usual, but pale with emotion, clutched the painter’s hand in a moist grasp.
“My dear Master, I had to see you—to see you alone and immediately.”
Campton looked at him with apprehension. What was the meaning of his “alone”? Had Mrs. Talkett lost her head, and betrayed her secret—or had she committed some act of imprudence of which the report had come back to her husband?
“Do sit down,” said the painter weakly.
But his visitor, remaining sternly upright, shook his head and glanced at his wrist-watch. “My moments,” he said, “are numbered—literally; all I have time for is to implore you to look after my wife.” He drew a handkerchief from his glossy cuff, and rubbed his eye-glasses.
“Your wife?” Campton echoed, dismayed.
“My dear sir, haven’t you guessed? It’s George’s wonderful example ... his inspiration ... I’ve been converted! We men of culture can’t stand by while the ignorant and illiterate are left to die for us. We must leave that attitude to the Barbarian. Our duty is to set an example. I’m off to-night for America—for Plattsburg.”
“Oh——” gasped Campton, wringing his hand.