The doubt, though, was almost as uninformed as the optimism. He could see Mary’s lips moving: what was she signaling to him? Ah, that was it. She was repeating what she had said as they turned up the drive. “You’ll stay young, please. You’ll keep your hope, my faith, your youth.”
Yes, so he would. He wouldn’t let Mary down, he wouldn’t be beaten by Staithley. Punch—queer how much he turned to memories of Punch for mental figures—had a cartoon in an Almanac during the war. A tattered soldier, beaten to the knee, represented one year; a fresh upstanding soldier, taking the standard from the first, represented the next year. Was the motto “Carry on”? Well, a good motto for peace too. William was coming to the end of his tether, and Rupert must make ready to take from his hands the standard of the Service.
He had to learn, to learn, and for this thing which mattered most he had not found a teacher, but he must keep his hope. Somewhere was light. Somewhere was illumination. Somewhere was a teacher.
A servant came into the room. “Mr. Bradshaw wishes to speak to Sir Rupert on the telephone,” he said, and a scoffing laugh from Gertrude died stillborn at a look from the ci-devant, insignificant Lady Hepplestall. Rupert went to the door, like a blind man who is promised sight; and it is permissible to hope that Phoebe Bradshaw, from the place in which she was, saw the face of Rupert Hepplestall as he answered the call to the telephone of Tom Bradshaw, his adviser.