Edith Wharton - Novel 14 by A Son at the Front (v2.1) Read Free Book Online Page B

himself of
it and carried it back to the sitting-room. There he sat down by the lamp and
read.
                 First
George’s name, his domicile, his rank as a marechal des logis of dragoons, the
number of his regiment and its base: all that was already familiar. But what
was this on the next page?
                 “In
case of general mobilisation announced to the populations of France by public proclamations, or by notices
posted in the streets, the bearer of this order is to rejoin his regiment at.
                 “He
is to take with him provisions for one day.”
                 “He
is to present himself at the station ofon the third day of mobilisation at 6 o’clock to 24
o’clock . The first
day is that on which the order of mobilisation is published.”
                 “The
days of mobilisation are counted from 0 o’clock to 24 o’clock. The first day is
that on which the order of mobilisation is published.”
                 Campton
dropped the book and pressed his hands to his temples. “The days of
mobilisation are counted from 0 o’clock to 24 o’clock. The first day is that on
which the order of mobilisation is published.” Then, if France mobilised that day, George would start the
second day after, at six in the morning. George might be going to leave him
within forty-eight hours from that very moment!
                 Campton
had always vaguely supposed that, some day or other, if war came, a telegram
would call George to his base; it had never occurred to him that every detail
of the boy’s military life had long since been regulated by the dread power
which had him in its grasp.
                 He
read the next paragraph: “The bearer will travel free of charge” and thought
with a grin how it would annoy Anderson Brant that the French government should
presume to treat his stepson as if he could not pay his way. The plump bundle
of bank-notes on the dressing-table seemed to look with ineffectual scorn at
the red book that sojourned so democratically in the same pocket. And Campton,
picturing George jammed into an overcrowded military train, on the plebeian
wooden seat of a third-class compartment, grinned again, forgetful of his own
anxiety in the vision of Brant’s exasperation.
                 Ah,
well, it wasn’t war yet, whatever they said!
                 He
carried the red book back to the dressing-table. The light falling across the
bed drew his eye to the young face on the pillow. George lay on his side, one
arm above his head, the other laxly stretched along the bed. He had thrown off
the blankets, and the sheet, clinging to his body, modelled his slim flank and
legs as he lay in dreamless rest.
                 For
a long time Campton stood gazing; then he stole back to the sitting-room,
picked up a sketch-book and pencil and returned. He knew there was no danger of
waking George, and he began to draw, eagerly but
deliberately, fascinated by the happy accident of the lighting, and of the
boy’s position.
                 “Like
a statue of a young knight I’ve seen somewhere,” he said to himself, vexed and
surprised that he, whose plastic memories were always so precise, should not
remember where; and then his pencil stopped. What he had really thought was:
“Like the effigy of a young knight”—though he had instinctively changed the
word as it formed itself. He leaned in the doorway, the sketch-book in hand,
and continued to gaze at his son. It was the clinging sheet, no doubt, that
gave him that look … and the white glare of the electric burner.
                 If
war came, that was just the way a boy might lie on a
battlefield—or afterward in a hospital bed. Not his boy, thank heaven; but very
probably his boy’s friends: hundreds and thousands of boys like his boy, the
age of his boy, with a laugh like his boy’s… The wicked waste of it! Well,