ON the day of the famous “Armistice,” old Mr. Durham did what was for him an unusual thing—he went to London. Moreover he rose so early and went off so surreptitiously that “Riverside Sam” opined “there must be something in the wind.” What that “something” was could not be divined, but the pretty little “Sentimentalist,” finding him gone when she called, as was her morning custom, at his cottage, was made somewhat anxious by his sudden departure. However there was no means of allaying her anxiety, as the one old cook-housekeeper who “managed” the cottage for him “didn’t know nothink” as she averred, except that “he’d got up, ’ad his coffee and went out,” telling her not to expect him home till the following day as he was going to town on business. The fair Sylvia heard this explanation, but was scarcely satisfied. It was not like him, she thought, to rush off suddenly to London without at least calling to see Dr. Maynard and telling him of his intended absence for a couple of days. And she,—like “Riverside Sam,”—felt there must be “something in the wind.”
On this particular day she happened to be very much alone. The Philosopher had taken himself off to Oxford almost as suddenly as old Durham had taken himself off to London,—her father was engrossed in the writing of an article for the dullest of monthly magazines, and the whole house was curiously silent. Far away in the great metropolis the sirens and guns had announced the “Armistice,”—that cessation of battle which appeared to make the German foe consider himself the victor,—but here in the heart of a quiet country there was a wonderful stillness—the lovely stillness of far-stretching fields and the slow-winding river,—a stillness too which suggested the monotony of life without some stirring action or emotion to vibrate through its tranquillity. And, for some inexplicable reason the usually well-braced and cheerful spirit of the Sentimentalist began to droop,—a cloud of melancholy darkened her mind, and she pictured herself alone—always alone!—alone in the old Manor house, stitching at her embroidery or working in her garden, with nothing further to look forward to but just placid comfort and well-being for the rest of her days! Surely she could never stand it! Better to marry the Philosopher and rub up against all his odd humours and eccentricities, than have nothing whatever to move her out of the rut of the easy commonplace! Better perhaps to become a “loud” woman like some of the modern vulgar,—women who stoop to the baseness of betraying their friends’ confidences and publishing them in “rag” newspapers for so much cash down,—better to be a “film” star (or tallow-dip!) than live wholly without any sort of “sensation”! And yet!—she raised her eyes and saw a warm shaft of the sun strike on a bunch of brown sedges near the river, flecking the whole plant with gold, and close by on a leafless twig, a robin perched, looking at her with its fearless bright eyes, and ruffling its bonny crimson breast, and as she saw this little “phrase” of nature, this wordless speech which means so much to the simple heart and pure mind, her mood changed and brightened.
“After all I’d rather live a dull life than a low one!” she said to herself. “I’d rather be honest than mean! I wouldn’t like to look at myself in the glass and know that I was a despicable little scandal-monger, raking up stories about my friends and sneering at them and taking money for doing it! That sort of thing may be ‘sensational’ but it’s disgraceful! And as for films and ‘stars,’ I hope they’ll all go out one day and never come back! And I’ll be content as I am—I’ve so much to be thankful for!—and if Jack ever comes home—”
She broke off in her musings here, being called by her father. She ran off to obey the summons, and was soon busy with the various trifles he wanted in the way of string, sealing-wax and a long envelope in which to enclose his magazine article for the post. The old gentleman looked very cheerful, and rubbed his hands joyously over “Armistice Day.”
“They’ve stopped killing each other for the time being,” he said. “And that’s a mercy! Dear, dear! What fools men are, to be sure! As if any Governmental quarrel should be settled by the murdering of innocent men! There’s no sense of justice in it.”
“But is there any justice in anything?” queried Sylvia, with sadness in her tone as she put the question. “It doesn’t seem to me that there is!”
Her father looked at her tenderly.
“Anything the matter, little girl?” he asked. “You don’t seem very bright! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,—really nothing!” she answered, quickly. “Only—I find it hard to believe in justice when such dreadful cruelties happen as have been happening in the war,—when innocent people are killed, and men torture each other in every imaginable way—”
“Yet justice is done,” said Dr. Maynard, gravely. “Sooner or later,—believe that, my dear! For all the lives wasted there will be a reckoning—not in our way, but in God’s way! We must not doubt that Right is the ruling power, always bound to come uppermost!”