VI

They had left their bedroom windows uncurtained, that the morning light might waken them, and they were hardly later than the August sun in opening their eyes on the world. Though they had slept but little, and by snatches, they turned out of bed without regret; the flood of sunlight brought warmth into their hearts and the shadowy horror of the night before was lifted with the mists of the valley; but all the same the place, once only faintly mysterious, was now actively malicious and distasteful, was tainted with a lurking dread. Thus to their pleasure at the thought of noise and London was added relief at the prospect of escape from a solitude grown fearful since yesterday. They dressed with haste and rising spirits; and it was with undisguised joy that they collected their few possessions and stuffed them into their holdalls.

William, whose toilet and preparations for the journey were completed in advance of his wife’s, descended first to the kitchen, where, in the continued and regretted absence of their housekeeper, he struggled valiantly with the making of breakfast while Griselda finished her packing. The meal so prepared fell short of complete success; coffee as brewed by William was not the same beverage as coffee prepared by Madame Peys, nor were its tepid attractions enhanced by the absence of their usual and plentiful ration of milk. Thanks to the defection of the Peys family, they were not only milkless but eggless; and such remains of bread and butter as they could find in the cupboard were the only accompaniment to William’s suggestion of coffee. In the circumstances there was but little temptation to risk the loss of the Brussels train by lingering over the table and less than five minutes sufficed for their simple meal. Having despatched it, they strapped their holdalls and stepped out briskly on their way to the station and home⁠—the sun still low on the eastward ridge of the valley and the dew still heavy on the grass. They hardly turned to look back at the cottage, so glad were they to leave it behind them; and in the elation of their spirits they sped down the path with a quite unnecessary haste. They were escaping from nature and solitude, and their hearts sang cheerily of Bloomsbury.

When they rounded the bend in the path that brought them within sight of the farm their first thought was that the missing family had returned; for outside the gate were three horses, standing riderless and with heads near together. There was something reassuring in the sight of the beasts as they stood in the sunlight shifting and flicking their tails, something that gave the lie to the terrors of the night before; the presence of horses betokened the presence of men, and the presence of men dissipated the sense of mystery that had brooded over an empty house with a nameless grave in its garden. Griselda drew a comfortable breath of relief as she supposed they had time to call in and settle the last week’s bill with Madame Peys.

“I do wish,” she pondered regretfully, “that I could understand what she says. I must say I should like to know what the explanation is⁠—about that grave⁠ ⁠… I suppose they’ve come back to fetch away the rest of the furniture, and things⁠—those aren’t their horses, though!”

“No,” William assented, considering the sleek strong beasts, “they have only got carthorses⁠ ⁠… I wonder.⁠ ⁠…”

A man stepped suddenly out from behind the shifting horses⁠—so suddenly that they both started. He had been standing by the gate with the bridles gathered in his hand, hidden by his charges from William and Griselda as they had been hidden from him. When, hearing their voices, he stepped into sight, he stood with his heels together, very erect and staring at them⁠—a young man squarely and sturdily built, with under his helmet a reddish face and a budding black moustache. He was clad in a tight-fitting greyish uniform, and a sword hung by his side. He stared and the pair stared back at him⁠—curiously but not quite so openly.

“It’s a soldier,” Griselda commented⁠—adding, like William, “I wonder⁠—” They both wondered so much that they hesitated and slackened their pace; the presence of a military man but complicated the problem of the farm. Coupled with the absence of the Peys family, it revived their suspicions of the night before, their suspicions of crime and a hasty flight from justice⁠ ⁠… and involuntarily their eyes turned to the garden, and sought the outline of the grave beyond the gooseberry bushes.

“It really does look,” Griselda whispered, “as if there was something⁠—not right.”

As she whispered the soldier rapped out a loud monosyllable; it was enunciated so curtly and sharply that they started for the second time and came to an involuntary halt. For the space of a second or two they stood open-mouthed and flustered⁠—and then Griselda, recovering from the shock, expressed her indignant opinion.

“How rude!” she said. “What does he shout at us like that for?”

“I suppose,” her husband conjectured, “he wants us to stop.”

“Well,” said Griselda, “we have stopped.” Her tone was nettled and embittered. It annoyed her to realize that, involuntarily and instinctively, she had obeyed an official order; it was not, she felt, what her Leaders would expect from a woman of her training and calibre. It was that and not fear that disconcerted her⁠—for, after the first shock of surprise at the man’s rough manner, neither she nor her husband were in the least overawed; on the contrary, as they stood side by side with their baggage in their hands, gazing into the sunburnt face of the soldier, something of the contempt they felt for his species was reflected in their light-blue eyes. Of the two pairs of light-blue eyes William’s perhaps were the more contemptuous: his anti-militarism was more habitual and ingrained than Griselda’s.

What William looked at was a creature (the soldier) of whom he knew little and talked much; his experience of the man of war was purely insular, and his attitude towards him would have been impossible in any but a native of Britain. He came of a class⁠—the English lower middle⁠—which the rules of caste and tradition of centuries debarred from the bearing of arms; a class which might, in this connection, have adapted to its own needs the motto of the House of Rohan. “Roi ne puis; prince ne daigne; Rohan je suis,” might have been suitably englished in the mouths of William’s fellows as, “Officer I cannot be; private I will not be; tradesman or clerk I am.” Further, he had lived in surroundings where the soldier was robbed of his terrors; to him the wearer of the king’s uniform was not only a person to whom you alluded at Labour meetings with the certainty of raising a jeer, but a target at whom strikers threw brickbats and bottles with energy and practical impunity. Should the target grow restive under these attentions and proceed to return them in kind, it was denounced in Parliament, foamed at by the Press, and possibly court-martialled as a sop to indignant Labour. Thus handicapped it could hardly be looked on as a formidable adversary⁠ ⁠… and William, without a thought of fear, stared the field-grey horseman in the eyes.

The field-grey horseman, on his side, stared the pair of civilians up and down⁠—with a glance that matched the courtesy of his recent manner of address⁠—until, having surveyed them sufficiently, he called over his shoulder to someone unseen within the house. There was something in his face and the tone of his loud-voiced hail that made the temper of Griselda stir within her; and for the second time that morning she wished for a command of the language of the country⁠—this time for the purposes of sharp and scathing rebuke. As a substitute she assumed the air of cold dignity with which she had entered the taxi on the night of her protest at the meeting.

“Come on, William,” she said. “Don’t take any notice of him, dear.”

The advice, though well meant, was unfortunate. As William attempted to follow both it and his wife, the soldier moved forward and struck him a cuff on the side of the head that deposited him neatly on the grass. Griselda, who⁠—in order to convey her contempt for official authority and disgust at official insolence⁠—had been pointedly surveying the meeting of hill and horizon, heard a whack and scuffle, a guttural grunt and a gasp; and turned to see William, with a hand to his cheek, lying prone at the feet of his assailant. She rounded on the man like a lion, and perhaps, with her suffragette training behind her, would have landed him a cuff in his turn; but as she raised her arm it was caught from behind and she found herself suddenly helpless in the grasp of a second grey-clad soldier⁠—who, when he heard his comrade’s hail, had come running out of the house.

“Let me go,” she cried, wriggling in his grasp as she had wriggled aforetime in the hands of a London policeman, and kicking him deftly on the shins as she had been wont to kick Robert on his. For answer he shook her to the accompaniment of what sounded like curses⁠—shook her vehemently, till her hat came off and her hair fell down, till her teeth rattled and the landscape danced about her. When he released her, with the final indignity of a butt with the knee in the rear, she collapsed on the grass by her husband’s side in a crumpled, disreputable heap. There for a minute or two she lay gasping and inarticulate⁠—until, as her breath came back and the landscape ceased to gyrate, she dragged herself up into a sitting position and thrust back the hair from her eyes. William, a yard or two away, was also in a sitting position with his hand pressed against his cheekbone; while over him stood the assailants in field-grey, apparently snapping out questions.

“I don’t understand,” she heard him protest feebly, “I tell you I don’t understand. Griselda, can’t you explain to them that I don’t speak French?”

“Comprends pas,” said Griselda, swallowing back tears of rage. “Comprends pas⁠—so it’s not a bit of good your talking to us. Parlez pas français⁠—but that won’t prevent me from reporting you for this disgraceful assault. You cowards⁠—you abominable cowards! You’re worse than the police at home, which is saying a good deal. I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourselves. I’ve been arrested three times and I’ve never been treated like this.”

At this juncture one of the men in field-grey seized William by the collar and proceeded to turn out his pockets⁠—extracting from their recesses a purse, a pipe, a handkerchief, a fountain pen, and a green-covered Cook’s ticket. He snapped back the elastic on the Cook’s ticket, and turned the leaves that remained for the journey home.

“London,” he ejaculated suddenly, pronouncing the vowels in un-English fashion as O’s.

“London!” his companion echoed him⁠—and then, as if moved by a common impulse, they called on the name of Heinz.

There was an answering hail from the farmhouse kitchen, whence issued promptly a fattish young man with a mug in his hand, and a helmet tilted on his nose. With him the assailants of William and Griselda entered into rapid and throaty explanations; whereat Heinz nodded assentingly as he advanced down the garden path to the gate, surveying the captives with interest and a pair of little pig’s-eyes. Having reached the gate he leaned over it, mug in hand, and looked down at William and Griselda.

“English,” he said in a voice that was thicker than it should have been at so early an hour of the morning; “English⁠—you come from London?⁠ ⁠… I have been two years in London; that is why I speak English. I was with a hairdresser in the Harrow Road two years; and I know also the Strand and the Angel and Buckingham Palace and the Elephant.” (He was plainly proud of his acquaintance with London topography.) “All of them I know, and when we arrive in London I shall show them all to my friends.” He waved his hand vaguely and amiably to indicate his grey-clad companions. “You come from London, but you shall not go back there, because you are now our prisoners. I drink your damn bad health and the damn bad health of your country and the damn bad health of your king.”

He suited the action to the word and drained his mug; and having drained it till it stood upright upon his nose, proceeded to throw it over his shoulder to shatter on the brick path. Whether from natural good temper or the cheering effect of potations his face was wreathed in an amiable smile as he crossed his arms on the bar of the gate and continued to address his audience⁠—

“We shall take you to our officer and you will be prisoners, and if you are spies you will be shot.”

There was something so impossible about the announcement that William and Griselda felt their courage return with a rush. Moreover, though the words of Heinz were threatening the aspect of Heinz was not; his fat young face with its expansive and slightly inebriated smile was ridiculous rather than terrifying, even under the brim of a helmet. William, thankful for the English acquired during the two years’ hairdressing in the Harrow Road, admonished him with a firmness intended to sober and dismay.

“This is not a time for silly jokes. I am afraid that you do not realize the seriousness of the situation. I shall feel it my duty to make a full report to your superiors⁠—when you will find it is no laughing matter. My wife and I, proceeding quietly to the station, have been grossly and violently assaulted by your two companions. We gave them no provocation, and the attack was entirely uncalled for. I repeat, I shall feel it my duty to report their conduct in the very strongest terms.”

He felt as he spoke that the reproof would have carried more weight had it been delivered in a standing position; but his head still reeled from the stinging cuff it had received and he felt safer where he was⁠—on the ground. It annoyed him that the only apparent effect of his words upon Heinz was a widening of his already wide and owlish smile.

“Oh, you’ll report their conduct, will you?” he repeated pleasantly and thickly. “And who will you report it to, old son?”

William stiffened at the familiarity, and the tone of his reply was even colder and more dignified than that of the original rebuke.

“To the nearest police authority; I shall not leave Belgium until my complaint has been attended to. If necessary I shall apply for redress to the British Consul in Brussels.”

The expansive smile on the face of Heinz was suddenly ousted by an expression of infinite astonishment. His fat chin dropped, his little eyes widened, and he pushed back his helmet, that he might stare the better at William.

“Say it again,” he demanded⁠—slowly and as if doubtful of his ears, “You shall apply to the British Consul⁠—the British Consul at Brussels?”

“Certainly,” William assured him firmly; and Griselda echoed “Certainly.” The threat they judged had made the desired impression, for so blank and disturbed was the countenance of Heinz that his two companions broke into guttural questioning. The former hairdresser checked them with a gesture and addressed himself once more to William.

“I think,” he announced, “you are balmy on the crumpet, both of you. Balmy,” he repeated, staring from one to the other and apparently sobered by the shock of his own astonishment. Suddenly a gleam of intelligence lit up his little pig’s-eyes⁠—he leaned yet further over the gate, pointed a finger and queried⁠—

“You do not read the newspapers?”

“As a rule I do,” William informed him, “but we have not seen any lately⁠—not since we left England.”

“And how long is it since you left England?”

William told him it was over three weeks.

“Three weeks,” the other repeated, “three weeks without newspapers⁠ ⁠… and I think you do not speak French, eh?”

“My wife,” William answered, “understands it⁠—a little. But we neither of us speak it.” His manner was pardonably irritated, and if he had not judged it imprudent he would have refused point-blank to answer this purposeless catechism. Nor was his pardonable irritation lessened when amusement once more gained the upper hand in Heinz. Suddenly and unaccountably he burst into hearty laughter⁠—rocked and trembled with it, holding to the gate and wiping the tears from his cheeks. Whatever the joke it appealed also to his comrades, who, once it was imparted between Heinz’s paroxysms, joined their exquisite mirth to his own. The three stood swaying in noisy merriment, while Griselda, white-faced and tight-lipped, and William with a fast disappearing left eye awaited in acute and indignant discomfort some explanation of a jest that struck them as untimely. It came only when Heinz had laughed himself out. Wiping the tears once more from his eyes, and with a voice still weakened by pleasurable emotion, he gave them in simple and unpolished language the news of the European cataclysm.

“I tell you something, you damn little ignorant silly fools. There is a war since you came to Belgium.”

Probably they thought it was a drunken jest, for they made no answer beyond a stare, and Heinz proceeded with enjoyment.

“A War. The Greatest that ever was. Germany and Austria⁠—and Russia and France and Belgium and England and Serbia.”

He spoke slowly, dropping out his words that none might fail of their effect and ticked off on a finger the name of each belligerent.

“Our brave German troops have conquered Belgium and that is why we are here. We shall also take Paris and we shall also take Petersburg and we shall also take London. We shall march through Regent Street and Leicester Square and over Waterloo Bridge. Our Kaiser Wilhelm shall make peace in Westminster Abbey, and we shall take away all your colonies. What do you think of that, you damn little fools?”

There are statements too large as there are statements too wild for any but the unusually imaginative to grasp at a first hearing. Neither William nor Griselda had ever entertained the idea of a European War; it was not entertained by any of their friends or their pamphlets. Rumours of war they had always regarded as foolish and malicious inventions set afloat in the interest of Capitalism and Conservatism with the object of diverting attention from Social Reform or the settlement of the Woman Question; and to their ears, still filled with the hum of other days, the announcement of Heinz was even such a foolish invention. Nor, even had they given him credence, would they in these first inexperienced moments have been greatly perturbed or alarmed; their historical ignorance was so profound, they had talked so long and so often in terms of war, that they had come to look on the strife of nations as a glorified scuffle on the lines of a Pankhurst demonstration. Thus Griselda, taught by The Suffragette, used the one word “battle” for a small street row and the fire and slaughter of Eylau⁠—or would have so used it, had she known of the slaughter of Eylau. And that being the case, Heinz’s revelation of ruin and thunder left her calm⁠—disappointingly so.

“I think,” she said loftily, in answer to his question, “that you are talking absolute nonsense.”

There are few men who like to be balked of a sensation and Heinz was not among them. He reddened with annoyance at the lack of success of his bombshell.

“You do not believe it,” he said. “You do not believe that our brave German troops have taken Belgium and will shortly take Paris and London? Very well, I will teach you. I will show you. You shall come with us to our officer and you shall be shot for spies.”

He came through the gate and clambered into his saddle, his companions following suit; William and Griselda instinctively scrambled to their feet and stood gazing up in uncertainty at the three grey mounted men.

“Get on,” said Heinz with a jerk of his head down the valley; and as William and Griselda still stood and gazed his hand went clap to his side and a sword flashed out of its sheath. Griselda shrieked in terror as it flashed over William’s head⁠—and William bawled and writhed with pain as it came down flat on his shoulder.

“Get on,” Heinz repeated⁠—adding, “damn you!” and worse⁠—as the blade went up again; and William and Griselda obeyed him without further hesitation. Their heads were whirling and their hearts throbbing with rage; but they choked back its verbal expression and stumbled down the valley path⁠—in the clutch of brute force and with their world crumbling about them. It was a most unpleasant walk⁠—or rather trot; they were bruised, they were aching from the handling they had received, and their breath came in sobs from the pace they were forced to keep up. Did they slacken it even for an instant and fall level with the walking horses, Heinz shouted an order to “Hurry, you swine!” and flashed up his threatening sword; whereupon, to keep out of its painful and possibly dangerous reach, they forced themselves to a further effort and broke into a shambling canter. The sweat poured off them as they shambled and gasped, casting anxious glances at the horses’ heads behind them; and their visible distress, their panting and their impotent anger, was a source of obvious and unrestrained gratification to Heinz and his jovial companions. They jeered at the captives’ clumsy running and urged them to gallop faster. When Griselda tripped over a tussock and sprawled her length on the grass, they applauded her downfall long and joyously and begged her to repeat the performance. The jeers hurt more than the shaking, and she staggered to her feet with tears of wretchedness and outraged dignity running openly down her nose⁠—seeking in vain for that sense of moral superiority and satisfaction in martyrdom which had always sustained her en route to the cells of Bow Street. She hated the three men who jeered at her miseries and could have killed them with pleasure; every fibre of her body was quivering with wrath and amazement. Neither she nor William could speak⁠—they had no breath left in them to speak; but every now and then as they shambled along they turned their hot faces to look at each other⁠—and saw, each, a beloved countenance red with exertion and damp with perspiration, a pair of bewildered blue eyes and a gasping open mouth.⁠ ⁠… So they trotted down the valley, humiliated, dishevelled, indignant, but still incredulous⁠—while their world crumbled about them and Europe thundered and bled.