“Dear,” she said gently, as they sat by the window after supper, “I don’t know how you feel about it, but I am beginning to think that our life here is almost too peaceful. It is beautiful to sit here together and dream and forget the world—but is it a preparation for the life we are to lead? Is it a preparation for our work?”
William sighed a gentle sigh of relief, and his hand went out to his wife’s in a squeeze of agreement and gratitude. As usual, their minds had jumped together and the thought of twain had been uttered by the lips of one.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing myself,” he said. “It has struck me more than once. As you say, it’s beautiful here in the heart of the country—nothing could be more beautiful. But I have wondered, especially lately, if it isn’t enervating. It is good for some people, perhaps; but when you have an aim in life and the fighting spirit in you—”
“Yes,” Griselda flared responsively, “it’s the fighting spirit—and the Cause calling to us. I’ve been hearing the call getting louder and louder; we can’t stand aside any longer, we haven’t the right to stand aside. How can I—how dare I—rest and enjoy myself when, there are noble women struggling for freedom, suffering for freedom, keeping the flag flying—?”
And the unconscious little humbug clasped her hands and, from force of habit, rose to her feet, addressing an imaginary audience. William, an equally unconscious humbug, also rose to his feet and kissed her. It was one of those happy and right-minded moments in which inclination agrees with duty, and they were able to admire themselves and each other for a sacrifice which had cost them nothing.
The decision taken, there remained only the details of their speedy departure to settle. Their first impatient impulse was to leave for Brussels on the morrow, but on consideration they decided that the morrow would be too soon. Investigation of a local timetable revealed the fact that the connection with Brussels—the only tolerable connection—meant a start in the very early morning; but an early start meant an overnight warning to the farm-boy, Philippe, that his services would be needful to carry their bags to the station—and the farm-people, all of them, went to bed soon after the sun and were certainly by now asleep. There was, further, the old lady to settle with where financial matters were concerned, and it always took time to make out her illegible bill. On reflection, therefore, they decided for the following day.
“I hope,” Griselda meditated, “that I shall be able to make Madame Peys understand that we want the boy the first thing in the morning. I expect she will see what I mean if I show her the train in the timetable and say ‘Philippe,’ and point to the bags. That ought to make it clear. It rather detracts from the enjoyment of being abroad—not being able to make people understand what you say. Interlaken was much more convenient in that way; all the waiters spoke English quite nicely. And the understanding is even more difficult than the speaking. Tonight Madame was talking away hard to me all the time she was cooking our supper, but I couldn’t make out one word she said—only that she was very excited. I said, ‘Oui, oui,’ every now and then, because she seemed to expect it, and I was sorry to see her upset. I thought perhaps one of the people at the farm was ill, but I’ve seen her son and his wife and the boy since, so it can’t be that. Of course, she may have other relations in some other part of the country—or perhaps something has happened to one of the cows. I could see she was worried.”
They sat until late side by side by the open window and talked in snatches of the world they were going back to—the dear, familiar, self-important world of the agitated and advanced. Its dust was already in their nostrils, its clamour already in their ears; in three days more they would be in it once again with their own little turbulent folk. The mere thought increased their sense of their own value, and they grew gay and excited as they talked and planned, instinctively turning their backs on the window and shutting out sight and sound of the country peace, the oppressive peace in which they had no part.
“What shall we do tomorrow, darling?” Griselda asked at length. The question was prompted by her longing for tomorrow to be over and her mind was in search of some method for inducing it to pass with swiftness.
They considered the point with that object in view, and decided that should the day prove fine they would spend it away from the cottage, taking their lunch with them. There was a winding path leading up through the woods to the heights which they had not yet explored except for a short distance; they would start out, provisioned, soon after breakfast, to go where the path led them, and eat their meal on the hilltop. Then home to supper, settlement with Madame, and an early departure next morning. … So they planned comfortably and without misgiving, while the world seethed in the melting-pot and the Kaiser battered at Liège.
“If it’s fine,” William cautioned again as they mounted the stairs to bed. “I’ve heard thunder several times in the distance, so we may have a storm in the morning.”
There was no storm or sign of a storm in the morning. It must have passed over, Griselda said; she had listened to its faint and distant mutterings for half-an-hour before she fell asleep. Their
