Chapter 32

Many other thoughts filled his mind on his railroad journey to Scotland.
He questioned himself as to how deeply he still felt the importance of
there coming into the racked world a Head of the House of Coombe, how
strongly he was still inspired by the centuries old instinct that a
House of Coombe must continue to exist as part of the bulwarks of
England. The ancient instinct still had its power, but he was curiously
awakening to a slackening of the bonds which caused a man to specialise.
It was a reluctant awakening--he himself had no part in the slackening.
The upheaval of the whole world had done it and of the world England
herself was a huge part--small, huge, obstinate, fighting England.
Bereft of her old stately beauties, her picturesque splendours of habit
and custom, he could not see a vision of her, and owned himself desolate
and homesick. He was tired. So many men and women were tired--worn out
with thinking, fearing, holding their heads up while their hearts were
lead. When all was said and done, when all was over, what would the new
England want--what would she need? And England was only a part. What
would the ravaged world need as it lay--quiet at last--in ruins
physical, moral and mental? He had no answer. Wiser men than he had no
answer. Only time would tell. But the commonest brain cells in the
thickest skull could argue to the end which proved that only men and
women could do the work to be done. The task would be one for gods, or
demigods, or supermen--but there remained so far only men and women to
face it--to rebuild, to reinspire with life, to heal unearthly gaping
wounds of mind and soul. Each man or woman born strong and given the
chance to increase in vigour which would build belief in life and
living, in a future, was needed as breath and air are needed--even such
an one as in the past would have wielded a sort of unearned sceptre as a
Head of the House of Coombe. A man born a blacksmith, if he were of
like quality, would meet equally the world's needs, but each would be
doing in his way his part of that work which it seemed to-day only
demigod and superman could fairly confront.

There was time for much thinking in long hours spent shut in a railroad
carriage and his mind was, in these days, not given to letting him rest.

He had talked with many men back from the Front on leave and he had
always noted the marvel of both minds and bodies at the relief from
strain--from maddening noise, from sights of death and horror, from the
needs of decency and common comfort and cleanliness which had become
unheard of luxury. London, which to the Londoner seemed caught in the
tumult and turmoil of war, was to these men rest and peace.

Coombe felt, when he descended at the small isolated