Time for Silence

When Jean Pascal rose to go, I could see that Edward was loath to part with his company. Jean Pascal was aware of this and there was no doubt that it pleased him.

Back in the drawing room, he said, “What a delightful child!”

“I think so, too.”

“I can’t help marveling that he is my great-grandchild.”

“Life is very odd, isn’t it?”

“You must bring him to visit me. He would be interested in the vineyards.”

I could see there were plans in his eyes.

As I considered his suggestion I said, “It all seems so incongruous. Edward is your great-grandchild…his father is a spy involved in the murder of his mother. Will he ever know it?”

Jean Pascal was silent and I went on. “Should he know the truth? Is it right to keep it back? Hasn’t everyone the right to know who he or she is?”

Jean Pascal said slowly, “That is a point which can be argued from several angles. Is the truth sacrosanct? Someone once said, ‘Speech is silvern, Silence is golden,’ and someone else said, ‘Where ignorance is bliss, ’Tis folly to be wise.’ ”

“I know. But what will happen when he is a man and he might want to know? It is certain that he will.”

Jean Pascal was thoughtful. Then he said, “Edward believes he belongs to you now. Soon he will be asking questions which will have to be answered. What does the world think? Here is a boy whose parents were killed during the bombardment of Mons. You, a young English schoolgirl, who had struck up a friendship with his parents, found him in the garden of the wrecked cottage. You were getting out of France before the German advance and you brought him with you. That is best. His father responsible for the murder of his mother? His mother putting him out with foster-parents, ashamed of his birth? No, no. Let us keep to the more pleasant account. There is often a time for talking, Lucinda, and there is a time for silence. As regards this matter of Edward, it should always be a time for silence.”

I smiled at him. This man who had experienced most things life had to offer was knowledgeable in the ways of the world, and I believed he was right. This was a time for silence.

It seemed a long time before the train came in. The platform was crowded with people, for it was a troop train bringing back heroes from the Front.

A great cheer went up when the train steamed into the station. We surged forth…everyone there, men, women and children, seeking the one person whose return meant so much to them…the end of fear, the new hope in a future no longer tormented by thoughts of war and the fearful desolation of bereavement.

It was some time before we found each other.

And there he was. I saw him a second or so before he saw me. He looked older…a little worn…but there was a wonderful light in his eyes.

Like others on that crowded platform, we flung ourselves into each other’s arms…unashamed of our emotion.

“Robert!” I cried. I could think of nothing to say but his name.

“Lucinda, Lucinda,” he said. “I’ve come home….”