Chapter 13

But there were no letters. And she was obliged to sit at her desk in the
corner and listen to what people said about what was happening, and now
and then to Lord Coombe speaking in low tones to the Duchess of his
anxiety and uncertainty about Donal. Anxiety was increasing on every
side and such of the unthinking multitude as had at last ceased to
believe that one magnificent English blow would rid the earth of
Germany, had begun to lean towards belief in a vision of German millions
adding themselves each day to other millions advancing upon France,
Belgium, England itself, a grey encroaching mass rolling forward and
ever forward, overwhelming even neutral countries until not only Europe
but the whole world was covered, and the mailed fist beat its fragments
into such dust as it chose. Even those who had not lost their heads and
who knew more than the general public, wore grave faces because they
felt they knew too little and could not know more. Coombe's face was
hard and grey many days.

"It seems as if one lost them in the flood sometimes," Robin heard him
say to the Duchess. "I saw his mother yesterday and could give her no
definite news. She believes that he is where the worst fighting is going
on. I could not tell her he was not."

As, when they had been together, the two had not thought of any future,
so, now Robin was alone, she could not think of any to-morrow--perhaps
she would not. She lived only in the day which was passing. She rose,
dressed and presented herself to the Duchess for orders; she did the
work given her to do, she saw the day gradually die and the lights
lighted; she worked as long as she was allowed to do so--and then the
day was over and she climbed the staircase to her room.

Sometimes she sat and wrote letters to Donal--long yearning letters, but
when they were written she tore them into pieces or burned them. If they
were to keep their secret she could not send such letters because there
were so many chances that they would be lost. Still there was a hopeless
comfort in writing them, in pouring out what she would not have written
even if she had been sure that it would reach him safely. No girl who
loved a man who was at the Front would let him know that it seemed as if
her heart were slowly breaking. She must be brave--brave! But she was
not brave, that she knew. The news from the Front was worse every day;
there were more women with awful faces; some workers had dropped out and
came no more. One of them who had lost three sons in one battle had died
a few days after the news arrived because the shock had been too great
for her strength to endure. There were new phases of anguish on all
sides. She did all she was called on to do with a secret passion of