‘There is still a chance.’
And Walter answered wearily:
‘I suppose there is!’
So the spring wore on. Every week I wrote to Hugo, and every
week he wrote to me, and from those letters I drew strength and
courage and happiness.
Walter said that he could not understand it; now, when the news
was at its worst, I seemed so cheerful and serene, he said. I
could only smile and admit that it was true.
It seemed to me that I was bound by my compact with Hugo. I had
pledged myself to carry on with my job; I would make a success
of my marriage with Walter, for Hugo’s sake, and the determination
to do so gave a new purpose to life.
I did not look far ahead, I did not make plans for the future,
the present was enough in itself, with Hugo’s letters as points
of light to look for, and mine to him, as the expression of a
week’s fighting.
I could give much more to Walter now, and I gave it, and I felt
him turn more and more to me for strength.
When I was in bed at night, I could see Hugo so clearly sometimes,
that I could hardly believe it was not true. It was as if the
war was between us, noise and confusion, and horror . . . and
I could get through that, and somewhere behind it, I found Hugo . . .
and there were shell holes, and barbed wire, and all that sort
of thing about, but it didn’t matter . . . Hugo was there, and
it was all happy, and wonderful, and I knew that he was alive.
My son was born on the 15th of July, the same day that the German
advance was held. In the strange serenity and confidence of these
last months, I had felt sure that it would be a son this time.
He was called John, after Walter’s father, but I counted it partly
for Cousin John as well.
It seemed to me that this son was a symbol of victory . . . not
of Foch over Ludendorf, nor the Entente over Germany; these things
were again remote to me, and unreal, but of peace over war, strength
over weakness, light over darkness. I was filled with a sense
of fulfilment and triumph, and of peace.