"I don't--I don't know," she cried feverishly. "If Van Zwieten is there he won't escape so easily."
"Nonsense! Van Zwieten is not omnipotent, as you seem to think. Thank God that your husband is safe, child, and don't go out to meet your troubles."
"I do--I do. I am grateful. Oh, the poor women! The poor fatherless children! Oh, father, what a terrible thing war is!"
"It is indeed," sighed Mr. Scarse. "I remember the Crimea and all the misery it brought. That is why I was so anxious to avert this war. But we are in the midst of it now and we must go through with it. At all events, Brenda, your husband is safe. There will be no more fighting for him."
"I'm sorry for that," she said, much to his surprise. "Harold will eat his heart out now. I would rather he were fighting."
"You are not easy to please, my dear," said her father, drily. "So far as his safety is concerned, he is in the best position. You need not be afraid to look at the papers now."
"I am foolish, I know, father. But I wish he had not been taken. I don't want him to be wrapped up in cotton wool while other men are fighting."
"He would agree with you there. However, you must look upon it as the fortune of war. He will have to stay where he is till peace is proclaimed, and God knows when that will be in the present temper of this misguided nation. Come home now."
So home they went and did their best to take a cheerful view of things. It was a sad Christmas for Brenda, and for hundreds of other women who had suffered far more severely than she had done. To hear of "peace and goodwill" was like mockery in her ears. She knew that the war was a just one; that it had been forced upon England by the ambition of an obstinate old man and that in going through with this terrible business the country was fulfilling, as ever, her appointed mission of civilization. But even so, it was terrible to open the papers and read sad tales of grief and disaster. Hundreds of young lives--the flower of British manhood--were being sacrificed to the horrible Moloch of war; and the end was not yet in sight.
Toward the end of December the nation had been somewhat cheered by the news of General French's victory at Colesberg, but the year ended in gloom and sorrow and the wailing of Rachel for her children. And on the Continent the enemies of freedom and honest government rejoiced at the blows an enlightened Government was receiving. Truly, in those dark hours, Britannia was the Niobe of nations. But she set her teeth and fought on.