“I have to admit that I was wrong,” he observed; “quite wrong. I certainly thought it impossible that any British troops could cross the Channel till a decisive fleet action had been fought. And, well—I don’t mind saying to you, Mrs. Otway, I still think it a pity that we have sent our Army abroad.”
Three days later Rose and her mother each received a quaint-looking postcard from “Somewhere in France.” There was neither postmark nor date. The first four words were printed, but what was really very strange was the fact that the sentences written in were almost similar in each case. But whereas Jervis Blake wrote his few words in English, Major Guthrie’s few words were written in French.
Jervis Blake’s postcard ran:
“I am quite well and very happy. This is a glorious country. I will write a letter soon.” And then “J. B.”
That of Major Guthrie:
“I am quite well.” Then, in queer archaic French, “and all goes well with me. I trust it is the same with thee. Will write soon.”
But he, mindful of the fact that it was an open postcard, with your Scotchman’s true caution, had not even added his initials.
Mrs. Otway’s only comment on hearing that Jervis Blake had written Rose a postcard from France, had been the words, said feelingly, and with a sigh, “Ah, well! So he has gone out too? He is very young to see something of real war. But I expect that it will make a man of him, poor boy.”
For a moment Rose had longed to throw herself in her mother’s arms and tell her the truth; then she had reminded herself that to do so would not be fair to Jervis. Jervis would have told his people of their engagement if she had allowed him to do so. It was she who had prevented it. And then—and then—Rose also knew, deep in her heart, that if anything happened to Jervis, she would far rather bear the agony alone. She loved her mother dearly, but she told herself, with the curious egoism of youth, that her mother would not understand.
Rose had been four years old when her father died; she thought she could remember him, but it was a very dim, shadowy memory. She did not realise, even now, that her mother had once loved, once lost, once suffered. She did not believe that her mother knew anything of love—of real love, of true love, of such love as now bound herself to Jervis Blake.