Arthur saw that his father hated having him about the pit. Towards the beginning of January he was forced to complain about the quality of the new timber props in Five Quarter Seam. Barras flared instantly.
“Mind your own business and leave me to mind mine. When I want your advice I’ll ask for it.”
Arthur made no reply. He knew that the props were inferior, some of them quite perished at the base. He was appalled at the quality of the material his father was using. With mounting prices and feverish production money flowed into the Neptune. Yet, despite the lesson of the disaster, nothing was being spent to ensure better and safer conditions in the pit.
That same evening the Tynecastle Argus announced in double headlines that the Military Service Act had become law.
When he read the news Barras could not conceal his satisfaction.
“That’ll shake the shirkers up a bit,” he announced from the head of the table. “It’s high time we had a comb out. There are too many of them tucked away in their funk holes.” He gave a short triumphant laugh. “This’ll give them something to think about.”
It was supper, one of the rare occasions when Arthur was present; and although Barras addressed his remarks to Aunt Carrie the sting in them was for Arthur.
“It’s quite scandalous, Caroline,” he went on loudly, “the number of able-bodied young men who ought to be fighting for their country. They’ve got out of it so far by digging themselves into jobs where they’re not wanted. They’ve refused to take the hint, don’t you see, to join the army. Well, upon my soul, it’s high time they were kicked into it.”
“Yes, Richard,” Aunt Carrie murmured, with a trembling glance towards Arthur, who kept his eyes fixed upon his plate.
“I knew it was coming of course,” Barras continued in the same tone. “And I’ve no doubt I shall have a hand in the working of it. Between ourselves I’ve been approached to sit on the local Tribunal.”
“The Tribunal, Richard?” Aunt Carrie faltered.
“Yes, indeed,” Richard declared, studiously avoiding Arthur’s eye. “And I shan’t stand any nonsense, I assure you. This is serious at last and the sooner everyone realises it the better. I was discussing it with Hetty only the other day. She feels pretty strongly that it’s high time the slackers were wakened up. And weeded out.”
Arthur raised his eyes slowly and looked at his father. Barras was dressed in a new grey suit and he wore a flower in his buttonhole. Lately he had ordered himself a number of new suits, much smarter than his usual style — Arthur suspected him of having changed his tailor in Tynecastle — and he had taken to wearing a buttonhole regularly, a pink carnation usually, picked from the new plants in the conservatory. His appearance was exaggeratedly spruce, his eye bright, he had an intent, oddly excited air.
“You wait and see, Caroline,” he laughed, with immense satisfaction, “what a rush to the colours when the tribunals get busy!”
There was a silence while Aunt Carrie, in an access of distress, fluttered her glance from one to the other. Then Barras looked at his watch; the usual gesture. “Well,” he remarked in a conscious tone, “I must get along now, Caroline. Don’t let anyone trouble to stay up for me. I shall be late I expect. I’m taking Hetty to the King’s. Must carry on in spite of the war. It’s ‘The Maid of the Mountains,’ very good I’m told, the full London company. Hetty is tremendously keen to see it.” He rose, fingering the flower in his buttonhole. Then, ignoring Arthur, but with a brisk nod to Caroline, he strode out of the room.
Arthur remained seated at the table, perfectly still and silent. He was well aware that Hetty and his father went about together a great deaclass="underline" the new suits, the buttonhole, the spurious veneer of youth were all indicative of that fact. It had begun in an attitude of reparation — Arthur had treated Hetty shamefully, and the obligation of “making it up to Hetty” had devolved upon Barras. Yet Arthur suspected that the relationship had progressed beyond the bounds of mere amendment. He did not know. He sighed heavily at his own thoughts. That sigh made Aunt Carrie stir uneasily.
“You’ve eaten scarcely anything to-night, Arthur,” she murmured. “Why don’t you have some of this trifle?”
“I’m not hungry, Aunt Carrie.”
“But it’s so good, my dear,” she remonstrated in her troubled voice. He shook his head silently, seeing her through his pain. He had a sudden impulse to unburden himself to her, to pour out the whole affliction that lay upon his mind. But he restrained himself, he saw clearly that it would be purposeless. Aunt Carrie was kind, she loved him in her own way, yet her timidity, her awe of his father, rendered her incapable of helping him.
He got up from the table and went out of the dining-room. In the hall he stood with head bent, undecided. At a moment such as this his gentle nature thirsted for sympathy. If only Hetty had been here… a lump came into his throat… he felt lost and helpless. Turning, he went slowly upstairs. And then, as he passed his mother’s room, he stopped suddenly. With a spontaneous gesture he put his hand upon the door knob and entered the room.
“How are you to-night, mother?” he asked.
She looked round sharply, propped up on her pillows, her pale fat face both querulous and questioning.
“I have a headache,” she answered. “And you gave me such a start opening the door so sharp.”
“I’m sorry, mother.” He sat down quietly on the edge of the bed.
“Oh no, Arthur,” she protested. “Not there, my dear, I can’t bear anyone sitting on my bed, not with this headache, it worries me so.”
He stood up again, flushing slightly.
“I’m sorry, mother,” he said once more. He made himself see her point of view, refusing to let himself be hurt. She was his mother. Out of subliminal depths a memory of early tenderness affected him, a vague sensation of her bending over him, her lace gown open and drooping upon him, enclosing and protecting him. Now he yielded to that childish recollection and, craving her loving kindness, he exclaimed in a broken voice:
“Mother, will you let me talk something over with you?”
She considered him querulously.
“I have such a headache.”
“It won’t take long. Oh, I do want your advice.”
“No, no, Arthur,” she protested, closing her eyes as though his eagerness startled her. “Really, I can’t. Some other time perhaps. My head does ache so frightfully.”
He drew back, silenced, his whole expression altered by the rebuff.
“What is it, do you think, Arthur,” she went on with closed eyes, “that keeps on giving me these headaches? I’ve been wondering if it’s the gun-fire in France, the vibrations, you know, travelling through the air. Of course I can’t hear the firing, that I do fully understand, but it has occurred to me that the vibrations might set up something. Naturally that wouldn’t explain my backache and that has been quite bad lately, too. Tell me, Arthur, do you think the gun-fire has any influence?”
“I don’t know, mother,” he answered heavily and paused, collecting himself. “I should hardly think it could affect your back.”