He was divided between gratitude and indignation. His new-found maturity
seemed to be slipping from him. Somehow here at home they always managed
to make him feel like a small boy.
"Honestly, mother, I'd rather go to father and tell him about it. He'd
make a row, probably, but at least you'd be out of it."
She ignored his protest, as she always ignored protests against her own
methods of handling matters.
"I'm accustomed to it," was her sole reply. But her resigned voice
brought her, as it always had, the ready tribute of the boy's sympathy.
"Sit down, Graham, I want to talk to you."
He sat down, still uneasily fingering the roll of bills. Just how far
Natalie's methods threatened to undermine his character was revealed
when, at a sound in Clayton's room, he stuck the money hastily into his
pocket.
"Have you noticed a change in your father since he came back?"
Her tone was so ominous that he started.
"He's not sick, is he?"
"Not that. But--he's different. Graham, your father thinks we may be
forced into the war."
"Good for us. It's time, that's sure."
"Graham!"
"Why, good heavens, mother," he began, "we should have been in it last
May. We should--"
She was holding out both hands to him, piteously.
"You wouldn't go, would you?"
"I might have to go," he evaded.
"You wouldn't, Graham. You're all I have. All I have left to live for.
You wouldn't need to go. It's ridiculous. You're needed here. Your
father needs you."
"He needs me the hell of a lot," the boy muttered. But he went over and,
stooping down, kissed her trembling face.
"Don't worry about me," he said lightly. "I don't think we've got spine
enough to get into the mix-up, anyhow. And if we have--"
"You won't go. Promise me you won't go."
When he hesitated she resorted to her old methods with both Clayton and
the boy. She was doing all she could to make them happy. She made no
demands, none. But when she asked for something that meant more than
life to her, it was refused, of course. She had gone through all sorts
of humiliation to get him that money, and this was the gratitude she
received.
Graham listened. She was a really pathetic figure, crouched in her low
chair, and shaken with terror. She must have rather a bad time; there
were so many things she dared not take to his father. She brought them
to him instead, her small grievances, her elaborate extravagances, her
disappointments. It did not occur to him that she transferred to his
young shoulders many of her own burdens. He was only grateful for her
confidence, and a trifle bewildered by it. And she had helped him out of
a hole just now.