“What a man!” cried Bertram. “What colossal intolerance!”
His mother reproved him, timidly.
“Your father’s a good man, my dear. You must be patient with his point of view. Those dreadful politics—”
Bertram raged inwardly against his father, with a storm of anger at the unyielding, deep-dug, inhuman prejudice of his attitude to life, but for his mother’s sake he swallowed the bitter words that rose in him. He tried to comfort her by reminding her of news she’d received from young Digby. The boy was coming back from Dublin on leave. He might have heard something about Susan and Dennis. Anyhow, it would be good to see him. He had been very lucky.
But his mother shook her head, and refused to be comforted.
“Digby is my chief anxiety. I lie awake at night thinking of him in the midst of all those raids and searches and murderous attacks. I can hardly forgive your father for letting him join the Black and Tans, as they call them. He’s so young. Such a child!”
Bertram growled that it was a disgrace to the family, anyhow. The Black and Tans were dragging England’s reputation in the mud. They were no better than hooligans. The scum of the Army that had fought for Liberty.
Again his mother reproved him. They were doing their duty In upholding law and order, she said, and Bertram laughed bitterly, thinking of what old Christy would say to that, and Janet Welford. But how could he argue with his mother, so wan-looking, so melancholy? She had withered like the flowers in her vase. He had been tempted to tell her about his own troubles, to ask her advice about Joyce, who was so “distant” from him now, so unresponsive to his love. . . . But he could not burden his little mother with more family tragedies. He rose and kissed her forehead, and said, “It’s all very difficult!” It was his old familiar jest.
She smiled at him, and seemed to brighten.
“You’ve always been good and true,” she told him. “How’s dear Joyce?”