Free Edith Wharton - Novel 14 by A Son at the Front (v2.1)

world in which people talked glibly of
sons in the war had suddenly become invisible to him, and he did not know where
he was, or what he was staring at. He noted the fact, and remembered a story of
St. Bernard—he thought it was—walking beside a beautiful lake in supersensual
ecstasy, and saying afterward: “Was there a lake? I didn’t see it.”
                 On
the way back to the hotel he passed the American Embassy, and had a vague idea
of trying to see the Ambassador and find out if the United States were not
going to devise some way of evading the tyrannous regulation that bound young
Americans to France. “And they call this a free country!” he heard himself
exclaiming.
                 The
remark sounded exactly like one of Julia’s, and this reminded him that the Ambassador
frequently dined at the Brants’. They had certainly not left his door untried;
and since, to the Brant circles, Campton was still a shaggy Bohemian, his
appeal was not likely to fortify theirs.
                 His
mind turned to Jorgenstein, and the vast web of the speculator’s financial
relations. But, after all, France was on the verge of war, if not in it; and
following up the threads of the Jorgenstein web was likely to land one in Frankfort or Vienna .
                 At
the hotel he found his sitting-room empty; but presently the door opened and
George came in laden with books, fresh yellow and grey ones in Flammarion
wrappers.
                 “Hullo,
Dad,” he said; and added: “So the silly show is on.”
                 “Mobilisation
is not war,” said Campton.
                 “No”
                 “What
on earth are all those books?”
                 “Provender. It appears we may rot at the depot for weeks.
I’ve just seen a chap who’s in my regiment.”
                 Campton
felt a sudden relief. The purchase of the books proved that George was fairly
sure he would not be sent to the front. His father went up to him and tapped
him on the chest.
                 “How about this?” He wanted to add: “I’ve just seen Fortin,
who says he’ll get you off”; but though George’s eye was cool and
unenthusiastic it did not encourage such confidences.
                 “Oh—lungs? I imagine I’m sound again.” He paused, and
stooped to turn over the books. Carelessly, he added: “But then the stethoscope
may think differently. Nothing to do but wait and see.”
                 “Of
course,” Campton agreed.
                 It
was clear that the boy hated what was ahead of him; and what more could his
father ask? Of course he was not going to confess to a desire to shirk his
duty; but it was easy to see that his whole lucid intelligence repudiated any
sympathy with the ruinous adventure.
                 “Have
you seen Adele?” Campton enquired, and George replied that he had dropped in
for five minutes, and that Miss Anthony wanted to see his father.
                 “Is
she—nervous?”
                 “Old Adele? I should say not: she’s fighting mad. La
Revanche and all the rest of it. She doesn’t realize—sancta simplicitas!”
                 “Oh,
I can see Adele throwing on the faggots!”
                 Father
and son were silent, both busy lighting cigarettes. When George’s was lit he
remarked: “Well, if we’re not called at once it’ll be a good chance to read
‘The Golden Bough’ right through.”
                 Campton
stared, not knowing the book even by name. What a queer changeling the boy was!
But George’s composure, his deep and genuine indifference to the whole
political turmoil, once more fortified his father.
                 “Have
they any news—?” he ventured. “They,” in their private language, meant the
Brants.
                 “Oh,
yes, lots: Uncle