Blake's Burden

"My wife; she died in Simla twenty years ago," said Challoner gravely, and passing on, stopped before a water-colour drawing of his son.

It had been painted when Bertram was young, and he had his mother's dreamy look. Mrs. Chudleigh missed the hardness of expression that marked the Challoners.

"A sketch rather than a finished study, but there's talent in it," she remarked. "The subject's temperament has been cleverly seized; I have met Captain Challoner."

"My wife's work," said the Colonel. "Although I value it, I have thought she was mistaken in this drawing. My son is a man of action, and this is the face of a sentimentalist."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Chudleigh; "his mother should know him best."

"Undoubtedly," agreed Challoner, who looked disturbed at the suggestion. "Still, perhaps, in painting a portrait the artist may be misled into unduly emphasizing some single, passing phase of the sitter's character. A lad's moods are variable; his nature has not had time to harden into its mould. I imagine this is what has happened, because if the likeness is faithful, my son has changed since then."

"One does not change much in essentials," Mrs. Chudleigh answered thoughtfully. "But what would you have different? It is a good and very likeable face."

"There is a hint of weakness; something that suggests a too sensitive disposition." The Colonel pointed to an officer in the old East India Company's uniform whose expression was grim and arrogant. "A crude piece of work, but he has the Challoner look."

"It may sound presumptuous, but I think you are scarcely doing the family justice. One can see the salient characteristics of the male line in this example, but they're too strongly marked. Good qualities, such as resolution and courage, may degenerate through being developed to exaggeration at the expense of others, and after all Captain Challoner strikes me as a much finer type. I'm afraid you undervalue the gift of imagination."

"These others," said Challoner, indicating the portraits generally, "had imagination enough to do their duty, often in difficult situations. I don't know that one needs much more."

"A stern doctrine; it seems to bar out a good deal of the beauty and joy of life. But I see some landscapes yonder."

She led him up to several small impressionist sketches in water-colour of Indian subjects, and stopped in admiration.

"These are very good. I know the country, and they make you realise what it is like. There is genius here."

"My son did them," said Challoner with dry amusement. "I can see their cleverness, but I'll admit that I think them rather a waste of time."

"A shocking view. Would you sooner have had him study his drill book or attend a kit inspection?"

"On the whole, I believe so. It would be more in line with his profession."

Mrs. Chudleigh gave him a direct, reproachful glance. "I know your son and that he is a good soldier, but I feel you were wrong when you sent him into the army. With training, he might have made a great artist."

Challoner regarded her with frank astonishment. "But, my dear lady, would you prefer the latter; a coverer of canvases, a mere portrayer of action instead of a doer? Is it better to paint human passions and emotions than to control and direct your own and those of others?"

"Painting is his work," Mrs. Chudleigh persisted. "He has the temperament; you can see it triumphing over circumstances. In spite of his duties, the amusements he must be expected to take part in, and, no doubt, the banter of the mess, he finds time to make these sketches. Then they exhibit more than mere skill with the brush; they show clear understanding and the power of feeling."

"The latter is a dangerous gift. A man of action is better without it."

"Your son has it, and it cannot be got rid of; but in a sense, you're right. Sensibility must be a handicap to a soldier now and then, making him realize dangers and cruelties he had better have been blind to." Mrs. Chudleigh paused and added with a thoughtful air: "Captain Challoner's courage and coolness are known, but I think they must cost him more than is required of his comrades. I mean that his having something to overcome before he can practise them, and yet always doing so, shows a fine moral fibre."

Challoner looked grave. He had suspected what he thought were symptoms of weakness in his son, though Bertram had never given way to it. His companion's talk disturbed him because it seemed to prove the correctness of his suppositions, but he was shortly relieved of her.

Margaret Keith, who had watched closely, decided that Mrs. Chudleigh had been alone with her host long enough, but for a time she could see no suitable means of separating them. By and by, however, Millicent came towards her and she beckoned the girl.

"Isn't Arrowdale near your aunts' place in the North?" she said. "There's a picture of the hills round it that I think you would like. Ask Colonel Challoner to show it you."

Millicent joined the others, and when she spoke about the picture Mrs. Chudleigh went away. She thought she had said enough, for her object had been to plant a seed of doubt about his son's character in Challoner's; mind. If he considered sensitiveness, artistic talent, and imagination failings in a Challoner, she had given him food for thought, which was as far as she wished to go just then, and on the whole she thought she had reason to be satisfied. When she had moved away, Challoner showed Millicent a picture of grey hills and a sullen tarn, half revealed between folds of rolling vapour, and the girl was stirred to keen appreciation.

"It's beautiful and full of life," she said. "One can see the mist drive by and the ripples break upon the stones. Perhaps it's because I know the tarn I like the picture so much, but it makes one realize the rugged grandeur and melancholy charm of the place. I suppose that is genius; who is the painter?"

"My son," said the Colonel, and added with a curious smile: "You are the second person who has lately tried to persuade me that he should have been an artist."

Millicent saw he was troubled, though she could not imagine the reason.

"I hardly know Captain Challoner, whom I only met once, but it is obvious that he has talent. You would sooner have him a soldier?"

"Very much sooner."'

"But he is one and I understand has distinguished himself. After all, it is perhaps a mistake to think of genius as limited to one ability, music or painting for example. Real genius, the power of understanding, is more comprehensive; the man who has it ought to be successful at whatever he undertakes."

"I'm dubious," said Challoner. "It strikes me as a rather daring theory."

"It isn't mine," Millicent answered, blushing. "It's a favourite theme of a philosopher I'm fond of, and he insists upon it when he speaks about great men. Perhaps I'm talking too freely, but I feel that Captain Challoner's being able to paint well shouldn't prevent his making a good officer."

"Great men are scarce. I'm content that my son has so far done his duty quietly and well; all I could wish for is that if any exceptional call should be made on him he should rise to the occasion. That is the supreme test, and men one expects much from sometimes fail to meet it."

Millicent guessed that he was thinking of a man who had been dear to him and had apparently broken down beneath sudden stress.

"It must be hard to judge them unless one knows all the circumstances," she remarked.

"Not when a man has entered his country's service. He must carry out his orders; what he is sent to do must be done. No excuse can justify disobedience and failure. But we are getting too serious and I am boring you. There is another picture I think you would like to see."

Soon afterwards Mrs. Foster said that she must go, and when she and her friends had left, Challoner sat alone for a time while the pictures faded as dusk crept into the gallery. A man of practical abilities with a stern perception of his duty, he was inclined to distrust all that made its strongest appeal to the senses. Art and music he thought were vocations for women; in his opinion it was hardly fitting that a man should exploit his emotions by expressing them for public exhibition. Indeed, he regarded sentimentality of any kind as a failing, and it had been suggested that his son possessed the dangerous gift. One of his guests had gone further and hinted that Bertram should never have been a soldier. Challoner could not agree with this conclusion, but he thought there was, perhaps, a grain of truth in it. Then he banished his disturbing thoughts and went out in search of Greythorpe.

During the next week Mrs. Chudleigh met Challoner twice and skilfully led the conversation to his son. Then she heard from Sedgwick, who said that if he could obtain the vacant appointment it would give him an opportunity of making his mark. The time was ripe for a bold stroke which would lead to the acquisition of valuable territory, but he could not carry out his plans unless he had full command. They were, he felt, bound to succeed, but he frankly owned that he meant to force the hand of the Colonial authorities and could not act while he held a subordinate position. Accordingly he begged Mrs. Chudleigh to exert all her influence to secure his promotion, adding that his name had been mentioned in connexion with the post, but that there were other candidates with stronger claims on those who had the power to make the appointment.

Mrs. Chudleigh had already been at work in different quarters, but she thought Colonel Challoner the most likely man to help her, though he might be difficult to persuade and she could not hurry him. She had moreover had several confidential talks with Lieutenant Walters and had extracted a good deal of information. This enabled her to form a plausible theory of what had happened during the night attack, and she was inclined to think that even an experienced soldier could not find much fault with the conclusions she had arrived at, but she did not wish to make use of it unless compelled.

When it was getting dark one evening Foster, who was crossing a meadow with two young men carrying guns dropped behind to speak to a keeper as Mrs. Chudleigh and Millicent came forward to meet the party. Soon afterwards he joined his wife, who had waited for him, and they walked to the house behind the others.

"How did you get on at the Seymours' this afternoon?" he asked. "Did Ada air her views for the benefit of your friends?"

Mrs. Foster laughed, for Ada Seymour was a lady with strong opinions which she was fond of proclaiming.

"Yes," she said; "in fact, she went farther than usual and rather forgot her manners. After a while Mrs. Chudleigh took exception to something she said and Miss Graham was drawn into the argument. Somewhat to my surprise, she supported Ada and spoke really well, but Ada was getting angry and I was so busy trying to smooth things down that I hardly know what it was all about."

"The degeneracy of the age and the insidious influence of luxury no doubt. Ada can't keep off these topics and she makes some surprising statements when she warms up, but I'm not surprised that Mrs. Chudleigh and Miss Graham took opposite sides."

"Why?"

"They're very different types; about as different as a moonlight night and a spring morning."

Mrs. Foster looked at him sharply and he chuckled.

"Not often so poetical, am I? But I prefer the bright morning; moonlight's a tricky, elusive thing, apt to dazzle and mislead one. However, does Mrs. Chudleigh intend to remain long? She looks like a fixture."

"She doesn't inconvenience you."

"Not at all. She's amusing and that and moderate good looks are all you expect from a woman, so long as you don't mean to marry her. I'm interested in your friend; very much so, although I can't see her game."

"What do you mean by her game?"

"If you don't know, it isn't often you're so dull. She's up to something and Meg Keith sees it; she keeps a close watch on the woman and when she's forced to take her eyes off her sets Miss Graham on guard."

"Do you mean that Miss Graham informs her of what Mrs. Chudleigh says or does?"

"Nothing farther from my thoughts. Meg Keith has lots of pluck, but she'd be shy of suggesting such a course to that girl. What she does is not to trust the woman alone when she can help it; when you see Mrs. Chudleigh you'll generally find Meg or her companion in the neighbourhood. The plot's interesting and the Colonel's in it. I've an idea that Meg's somehow defending him. He's an old friend and she's as staunch as they're made."

"If there is more in the situation than appears on the surface, you had better leave it alone. You won't improve matters by interfering."

"Seen that all along," Foster agreed. "I'll stick to my shooting, but provided that I keep my hands off, there's no harm in looking on. But you mark me; there'll be developments."

He broke off with a chuckle and Mrs. Foster walked on in thoughtful silence. Her husband occasionally showed shrewd observation, and she believed that he was right in the present instance. Something was undoubtedly going on, but she could not determine what it was. As she entered the hall she saw Millicent talking to one of her sporting guests who had shown a preference for her society and Mrs. Chudleigh watching. The latter liked admiration but her expression indicated critical scrutiny rather than jealousy. Mrs. Foster imagined that she was trying to analyse the girl's charm. Then as she came forward with her husband the others joined them and shortly afterwards tea was brought in.