I told him all that happened, described the anxiety we were all experiencing; the match burned down to his finger, but he did not appear to observe the fact. I said Mr. Hillier went up to town each evening, after his work at the Arsenal, and walked, at a swift rate, about different quarters of London in the attempt to find his elder daughter. That Master Edward had supplied officials on his railway with a copy of Miss Muriel's photograph, and an urgent appeal that they would keep a good look-out. That Miss Katherine, in all of her spare time from the bank, made inquiries at girls' clubs, and homes, and associations. That the one card received by me was written in a confident manner, and that I was still hoping.
"Still hoping?" he echoed, rather sharply. "No use in doing that. Plenty of folk are still hoping in regard to the war, and doing precious little else." He found his cap, and put it on: looked around for his great-coat.
"Where are you going, Herbert, my dear?"
"Going to try to find her," he answered. "If she's lost, I don't care a hang what becomes of me!" Within two minutes he had gone.
The extraordinary thing, from my point of view, was that I, reckoning myself a woman who took notice of everything that went on around me, should have omitted to notice that my nephew was in love, should have had no sort of idea that he was in love with Miss Muriel. I wished I had taken the opportunity to tell him of the girl's defects; her indifference to everyone but herself, her ever-changing projects, her frank intention of marrying money, the circumstance that she alone, out of all the members of the Hillier family, had allowed the war to have no effect upon her. But when I considered this, it became clear that nothing I said would have made any alteration, so far as Herbert was concerned. If someone had called at the shop and mentioned that Cartwright had killed three wives, and was now liable to a charge of bigamy, it is probable I should have contented myself with the remark that at any rate he was a well-spoken and a good-looking man. And this in no way means that love is blind. On the contrary, love uses eye-glasses which have the ability to exaggerate all the virtues of the person looked at, and to minimise all the defects.
A postcard arrived from Herbert on the last day of his leave: it was headed Victoria Station, and it had been written with an indelible pencil.
"Have not discovered her. Good-bye. Please send me news."
I had little time to enjoy the pleasures and amenities of Greenwich, but I saw enough of the borough to assure myself that, despite an air of increasing age, it was not without its attractions. There was always the riverside with the pier and arriving and departing steamers, ships going up and down, and a walk to be taken along the narrow railed passage from King William Street to Park Row, and, at low tide, bare-legged youngsters playing on the beach, or larking with the high and dry boats. There was the market, off Nelson Street, where those of us who were economically minded made selections and effected bargains.
I recall, in particular, a Sunday afternoon of May when the Park gave me a special comfort of mind. The week had been a trying one. The Lusitania shock had not passed off, a question of re-arranging the Cabinet was in the air, and local politicians shook their heads, and, making groups near the Baths corner of Royal Hill, discussed the matter gravely; the London tram-strike was still on; one or two journals were making an attack on Kitchener; up in the north there had occurred the worst railway accident that ever happened in Great Britain, with two hundred of the Royal Scots killed; a two days' list of casualties from the front contained over three thousand names; the Germans were using new methods, and we had lost some ground near Ypres; there had been naval disasters, and a wooden tip-cat, driven by an energetic child with a stick, had caught me just under the eye. I went out of Gloucester Place where sun-blinds had been fixed on the balconies, and entered the Park by the Crooms' Hill gate that enabled one to avoid the at times over-crowded lower part. The pink hawthorn was in full blossom, yellow laburnum was at its best, chestnut trees were candelabraed with white, and, in the enclosure at the foot of the Observatory Hill, wild grasses stood thick and high. The inclined roadway took me to the tea-house, where, inside the tall railings, folk sat at tables in the shadow of trees, and watched the friendly sparrows that hopped about on the close-shaven lawn. There, it was possible on that Sunday afternoon to forget about the war (on week-days there came the boom of testing of guns at Woolwich to remind, and the hurrying to and fro of Red Cross vans, and the War Department motor lorries). There, one could gaze north and see nothing but the calm sky; at the end of the Avenue the Park took a sudden dip, and landscape was out of sight. Captain and Mrs. Winterton came in at the gate as I was at my second cup; folk commented on their odd appearance, and young women giggled, but to me it seemed that the surroundings fitted them appropriately.