Not that that would matter, if he did the right thing. But this was the wrong thing. It would be a surrender to stupidity. It would be the sale of his intelligence for the sake of position, and peace with Joyce—a sin against the Light. Peace with Joyce? Joyce’s love and favour? It would be worth while to surrender a good deal for that—everything in the world, but a man’s honour to himself.
These people, Bellasis, and Alban, and Kenneth Murless, and all their kind, extremists in reaction, were asking him to betray his sympathy with the men who had been his comrades in the lousy trenches. To go right over to the Bellasis side—one day to give an order to shoot, perhaps—would be to break faith with Bill Huggett and all poor devils like him.
He saw Huggett now as a Type, the Cockney soldier back to civil life, back to his slums, trying to keep his “kids,” uncertain of work from one week to another, begging “bobs” from passers-by when there was no work. It was to bring such men to heel that the Bellasis band were organising their forces, recruiting University boys, and unemployed officers—the way to conflict! What had old Christy said? “Loyalty to lies is disloyalty to truth.”
So in that second or two, these thoughts rushed into Bertram’s head, and he made his decision.
“No, General. Thanks very much.”
General Bellasis rose from his chair, and flung the end of his cigar into the fire.
“Let’s join the ladies,” he said sternly, as though dismissing a battalion on parade.
Lord Ottery awakened from his dose.
“Yes, a game of bridge, eh?”
Kenneth Murless opened the door, and waited until the General and Ottery had left the room, and then Alban looking black-tempered. For a moment Kenneth lingered, glancing at Bertram, who was standing by the chimney-piece, staring into the redness of the log-fire.