Читать книгу Sackcloth into Silk - Warwick Deeping - Страница 19

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Rebecca had no better fortune with Augustus.

Augustus was growing very like his father both in figure and philosophy, though Augustus was more sure of the world’s ultimate salvation. He was going about with a little sly smile oozing down his chin. He could say to his intimates “Sit tight. The fools are blowing their own rotten show to pieces. All the better for us. Our turn’s coming.”

Augustus was engaged in sundry subterranean activities. He had the bitter tongue of his father, but with more slime on his lips. He might deplore Labour’s surrender to Jingoism, but the reaction would be inevitable, and he and others of the brotherhood were doing what they could to embarrass the patriots. Sabotage was the word, slipping out at night to put sand in society’s grease-box.

Rebecca caught Augustus just as he was leaving the house in Chalfont Street to meet certain of his intimates. Rebecca turned the new Hampden back into the house. Emily was busy ironing in the kitchen, but when she heard her mother-in-law’s voice she came to listen at the sitting-room door.

Augustus met his mother on a higher plane than Brother George’s. He produced a philosophy, and principles. He disapproved of war; he would not be coerced into soiling his hands in the capitalist shambles. Yes, his conscience was clean, and if necessary he would suffer for it.

His mother tried sarcasm.

“I suppose, Gus, that if a burglar broke into your house, you’d get under the bed.”

Rebecca was indulging in claptrap, and Augustus told her so. She had caught the catch-cries of the crowd. She was letting herself be fooled by mob-emotion and the propaganda of a venal and purblind Press.

“I’m not to be seduced,” said her firstborn. “I can look ahead. This war is going to be the end of capitalism.”

Rebecca would not let him make a speech.

“You always were good at excuses, Gus.—It will be a fine new world with you and George running it.”

Then Emily appeared. The moment for intervention had arrived. She was more shrill and bitter than Augustus.

“I’m not going to let my husband go and be killed for a lot of shopkeepers and idle rich.—You leave Gus alone. He’s got ideals. And you—driving him to murder.”

Rebecca became very calm in the presence of Emily’s indignation.

“You’re one of the—careful ones too, are you, Emily.”

“Careful?—I like that.”

Once again Emily planted her barb.

“I know what’s at the back of your mind. Favouritism, favouritism. You want to push poor Gus into the trenches and keep that little sucking-pig—safe.”

Rebecca rose from her chair.

“Thank you, Emily. If you can’t keep your temper, I’ll try to keep mine.”