The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [4944]
"We brought her out of her shell," said Terry, genially, "because the country is going to make history to-night. The sort of history Audrey has been shouting for for months."
The little party was very grave. Yet, of them all, only the Spencers would be directly affected. The Mackenzies had no children.
"Button, my secretary," Terry announced, "is in Washington. He is to call me here when the message is finished."
"Isn't it possible," said Natalie, recalling a headline from the evening paper, "that the House may cause an indefinite delay?"
And, as usual, Clayton wondered at the adroitness with which, in the talk that followed, she escaped detection.
They sat long at the table, rather as though they clung together. And Nolan insisted on figuring the cost of war in money.
"Queer thing," he said. "In ancient times the cost of war fell almost entirely on the poor. But it's the rich who will pay for this war. All taxation is directed primarily against the rich."
"The poor pay in blood," said Audrey, rather sharply. "They give their lives, and that is all they have."
"Rich and poor are going to do that, now," old Terry broke in. "Fight against it all you like, you members of the privileged class, the draft is coming. This is every man's war."
But Clayton Spencer was watching Natalie. She had paled and was fingering her liqueur-glass absently. Behind her lowered eyelids he surmised that again she was planning. But what? Then it came to him, like a flash. Old Terry had said the draft would exempt married men. She meant to marry Graham to a girl she detested, to save him from danger.
Through it all, however, and in spite of his anger and apprehension, he was sorry for her. Sorry for her craven spirit. Sorry even with an understanding that came from his own fears. Sorry for her, that she had remained an essential child in a time that would tax the utmost maturity. She was a child. Even her selfishness was the selfishness of a spoiled child. She craved things, and the spirit, the essence of life, escaped her.
And beside him was Audrey, valiant-eyed, courageous, honest. Natalie and Audrey! Some time during the evening his thoughts took this form: that there were two sorts of people in the world: those who seized their own happiness, at any cost; and those who saw the promised land from a far hill, and having seen it, turned back.
CHAPTER XXXI
Graham was waiting in Clayton's dressing-room when he went up-stairs. Through the closed door they could hear Natalie's sleepy and rather fretful orders to her maid. Graham rose when he entered, and threw away his cigaret.
"I guess it has come, father."
"It looks like it."
A great wave of tenderness for the boy flooded over him. That tall, straight body, cast in his own mold, but young, only ready to live, that was to be cast into the crucible of war, to come out - God alone knew how. And not his boy only, but millions of other boys. Yet - better to break the body than ruin the soul.
"How is mother taking it?"
Natalie's voice came through the door. She was insisting that the house be kept quiet the next morning. She wanted to sleep late. Clayton caught the boy's eyes on him, and a half smile on his face.
"Does she know?"
"Yes."
"She isn't taking it very hard, is she?" Then his voice changed. "I wish you'd talk to her, father. She's - well, she's got me! You see, I promised her not to go in without her consent."
"When did you do that?"
"The night we broke with Germany in February. I was a fool, but she was crying, and I didn't know what else to do. And" - there was a ring of desperation in his voice - "she's holding me to it. I've been to her over and over again."
"And you want to go?"
"Want to go! I've got to go."
He broke out then into a wild appeal. He wanted to get away. He was making a mess of all sorts of things. He wasn't any good. He would try to make good in the army. Maybe it was only the adventure he wanted - he didn't know. He hadn't