“Only last week. Samson worked it for me—through his cousin, Sir Ephraim Phillips. Did you know Samson was back from the Front?—trench-feet. Pater’s still trying to rope him into the family, with Nell as a lasso; but I don’t believe he’s having any; still keen on Deb.”
“So you’ll be going to France, perhaps....”
“Yes, in about six months I shall be able to avenge Con by killing the Hun who killed him.”
“Does—would that—help?” Richard asked awkwardly. Then met David’s ironic eyes—
“It ought to be the attitude, oughtn’t it? Beatrice supplied me with it, and the family have taken up the chorus. It’s so natural and picturesque and primitive: the younger brother belting on his sword and going forth to slay for the sake of the slain. Old Grandmother Phillips, who approves of me because she thinks I take my religion seriously, even added the Old Testament touch: an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth....
“No, Richard, it doesn’t help at all. If I could land home on the one actual and definite German who was responsible for Con, it would be different. I believe in fighting—for love of a cause. As Con did. Oh, Con never said much, but he was a patriot down to bedrock fundamental; he was a pre-war patriot, which was pretty rare. And now that he’s dead, I can’t possibly stand out. Because of my people. It would explode all that he’s done for them. ‘My son who was killed in action’ would be see-sawed out of all usefulness by ‘My son who conscientiously objected.’ They wouldn’t be able to say the words ‘My son’ at all. I can’t play them or Con a shabby trick like that; after all, patriotism begins at home—loyalty to one’s family is a local form of patriotism, I suppose. If the Redburys were properly entrenched, but——”
“‘In our position.’...” Richard quoted softly.
And David added with very unboyish bitterness: “Pater’s awfully upset now—but I can already foresee what a magnificent asset Con’s death is going to be—‘in our position,’ as you say. Pater will run it for all he’s worth. Marcus, there’s a kink wrong in civilization when a father’s got to swank for safety on a son’s death.”
“Swank?”
“There are letters to show, from the Colonel, from brother-officers, from his men. It seems that long after he was wounded, he held that bit of trench with one machine-gun to cover a retreat. Oh, the stock tale of heroism!”