That was a tremendous thought, breath-catching like—oh, like half a hundred things which had happened to him in France. Yes, that was the true perspective. The war had played the deuce with tradition, it had finished bigger things than the service of the Hepplestalls. They would have to see, these Hepplestalls, that he was a man of the new era, a realist, not to be bamboozled by their antique sentimentalities. If they wanted still to serve, it could be arranged, as part of the conditions of the purchase, that they should serve the incoming owner. He was disobliging nobody.
He looked up to find Mary studying his face. “Sorry, old thing,” he said, “but these are rather important. Letters from Staithley.”
“Staithley!”
“Yes. I expect you’d forgotten there is such a place. I haven’t spoken of it, but Staithley has been in my mind a good deal lately. I’ve found myself wondering if I was altogether right in giving it the go-by. I’ve wondered if I quite played the game.” It didn’t hurt to say these things now that the means to abolish the Service were in his hands; he could admit aloud to Mary what he hadn’t cared, before, to admit to himself. And he was too interested in his point of view to note the quick thankfulness in Mary’s face, and her joy at his confession. Complacently he went on, “That’s putting it too strongly, but... ancestors. It’s absurd, but I’ve been in the street and I’ve had the idea that one of those musty old fellows who are hung up on the walls in Hepplestall’s office was following me about, going to trip me up or knock me on the head or something. I’ve looked over my shoulder. I’ve jumped into a taxi. Nerves, of course, and you’d have thought my nerves were tough enough at this time of day. I’m telling you this so that you’ll rejoice with me in these letters. They’re the answer to it all. There’s no question about playing the game when the game’s no longer there to play.”
He gave her the letters. She hadn’t known how much she had continued to be hopeful of the Staithley idea, not for herself, not for a Bradshaw who might live in Staithley Hall, but for him; and his admission that Staithley had been in his mind was evidence that he knew occultly the root cause of his derangement. These letters, he told her, were the answer to it all, and they could be nothing but the call to Staithley, an ultimatum which he meant to obey, of which he had the charming grace to admit that he was glad. Indeed, indeed, she would rejoice with him. He was going to Staithley, to work, to be cured by work and the tonic air of the moors of the poison London had dropped into his system.
“This will finish off that old bogey,” he exulted and she exulted with him as she bent her eyes to read the letters. She read and saw with what disastrous optimism she had misunderstood. And he stood there aglow with happiness, expectant of her congratulations when this was not the beginning of new life but the death of hope! “Well?” he asked. “Well?”
“It does seem to depend on you,” she hedged.
“Uncle William would if he dared, eh? He’s as good as asking me to dare for him, and I’ll dare all right. I’ll wire that I’ll see him to-morrow afternoon. That’s soon enough. I’ll go by car. It’s a beastly railway journey.”
“Aren’t you deciding very quickly, Rupert?”
“I thought for a solid five minutes before I handed the letters across to you.” He was most indignant at her imputation of hastiness.