“Do you mean, Miss Chandos, that in your opinion it’s my duty to stay here?”
Quite unreasonably—as she admitted to herself afterwards—Cicely became conscious of exasperation. At the moment, naturally enough, she was unable to analyse her emotions. Inasmuch as she wanted Grimshaw to stay for her personal motives, inasmuch also as she knew that such men must be sorely needed elsewhere, his grave question kindled civil war in her own heart. Taken at a disadvantage, she temporised:
“My opinion doesn’t count.”
“But it does,” he assured her.
Man and maid looked at each other with troubled eyes, each dismally conscious of spaces to be bridged, of bristling obstacles to be surmounted. In each, moreover, was the somewhat inchoate conviction that this horrible war imposed itself as paramount. Individuals were engulfed. The best leapt, like Curtius, into the abyss. And dominating this paralysing faith in the necessity of personal sacrifice was the instinct to obey without questioning, to scrap self at any cost. Cicely divined that Grimshaw must do his duty, and that he would do it, ultimately, even if she urged him to stay in Upworthy. To test him, to make certain of his quality, she said slowly, almost with defiance:
“And if I believed that, if—if I gave an opinion—which—which I don’t,” she hastened to add, “what weight could it have against your own?” As he remained silent, she continued vehemently: “No, no; you will act for yourself. Nothing else is possible.”
“I suppose not.”
“I venture to guess that you have made up your mind, Mr. Grimshaw.”
“Not quite.”
Torn within, he presented an impassive face to his interlocutress. His voice seemed to Cicely colder. An older woman would have read him easily. Unhappily, too, for both of them, they were standing on the village green within sight of inquisitive eyes. Alone in Mrs. Rockram’s snug parlour, in front of a warming fire, Grimshaw might have spoken and put his fate to the touch. The snow, the grey-white landscape, the approaching shades of evening, chilled speech. But never had Cicely appeared so sweet to him, so desirable. To go from her without a word ravaged him. To speak with entire frankness meant trouble, a burden placed upon slender shoulders. Was it possible to give her a glimpse of his feelings? Could one cold-dispelling ray shoot from his heart to hers before they parted? Physically speaking, hands and feet were growing icy.