knitted into him, made part of him, so must they be to her. . . .And when they had shared that, when, like water gushing from a springshe flooded him, there was that other news which he had seen on thenewsboards that they had to share together.
Sylvia had been alone all day with her mother; but, before Michaelarrived, Mrs. Falbe (after a few more encouraging remarks about war ingeneral, to the effect that Germany would soon beat France, and what ablessing it was that England was an island) had taken her book up to herroom, and Sylvia was sitting alone in the deep dusk of the evening. Shedid not even trouble to turn on the light, for she felt unable to applyherself to any practical task, and she could think and take hold ofherself better in the dark. All day she had longed for Michael to cometo her, though she had not cared to see anybody else, and several timesshe had rung him up, only to find that he was still out, supposedlywith his mother, for he had been summoned to her early that morning, andsince then no news had come of him. Just before dinner had arrived theannouncement of the declaration of war, and Sylvia sat now trying tofind some escape from the encompassing nightmare. She felt confusedand distracted with it; she could not think consecutively, butonly contemplate shudderingly the series of pictures that presentedthemselves to her mind. Somewhere now, in the hosts of the Fatherland,which was hers also, was Hermann, the brother who was part of herself.When she thought of him, she seemed to be with him, to see the glintof his rifle, to feel her heart on his heart, big with passionatepatriotism. She had no doubt that patriotism formed the essence of hisconsciousness, and yet by now probably he knew that the land beloved byhim, where he had made his home, was at war with his own. She could notbut know how often his thoughts dwelled here in the dark quiet studiowhere she sat, and where so many days of happiness had been passed. Sheknew what she was to him, she and her mother and Michael, and the hostsof friends in this land which had become his foe. Would he have gone,she asked herself, if he had guessed that there would be war between thetwo? She thought he would, though she knew that for herself she wouldhave made it as hard as possible for him to do so. She would have usedevery argument she could think of to dissuade him, and yet she felt thather entreaties would have beaten in vain against the granite of his andher nationality. Dimly she had foreseen this contingency when, a fewdays ago, she had asked Michael what he would do if England went to war,and now that contingency was realised, and Hermann was even now perhapson his way to violate the neutrality of the country for the sake ofwhich England had gone to war. On the other side was Michael, into whosekeeping she had given herself and her love, and on which side was she?It was then that the nightmare came close to her; she could not tell,she was utterly unable to decide. Her heart was Michael's; her heartwas her brother's also. The one personified Germany for her, the otherEngland. It was as if she saw Hermann and Michael with bayonet and riflestalking each other across some land of sand-dunes and hollows, creepingcloser to each other, always closer. She felt as if she would havegladly given herself over to an eternity of torment, if only they couldhave had one hour more, all three of them, together here, as on thatnight of stars and peace when first there came the news which for themoment had disquieted Hermann.
She longed as with thirst for Michael to come, and as her solitudebecame more and more intolerable, a hundred hideous fancies obsessedher. What if some accident had happened to Michael, or what, if in thistremendous breaking of ties that the war entailed, he felt that he couldnot see her? She knew that was an impossibility; but the whole world hadbecome impossible. And there was no escape. Somehow she had to adjustherself to the unthinkable; somehow her relations both with Hermann andMichael had to remain absolutely unshaken. Even that was not enough:they had to be strengthened, made impregnable.
Then came a knock on the side door of the studio that led into thestreet: Michael often came that way without passing through the house,and with a sense of relief she ran to it and unlocked it. And even ashe stepped in, before any word of greeting had been exchanged, she flungherself on him, with fingers eager for the touch of his solidity. . . .
"Oh, my dear," she said. "I have longed for you, just longed for you.I never wanted you so much. I have been sitting in the darkdesolate--desolate. And oh! my darling, what a beast I am to think ofnothing but myself. I am ashamed. What of your mother, Michael?"
She turned on the light as they walked back across the studio, andMichael saw that her eyes, which were a little dazzled by the changefrom the dark into the light, were dim with unshed tears, and her handsclung to him as never before had they clung. She needed him now withthat imperative need which in trouble can only turn to love for comfort.She wanted that only; the fact of him with her, in this land in whichshe had suddenly become an alien, an enemy, though all her friendsexcept Hermann were here. And instantaneously, as a baby at the breast,she found that all his strength and serenity were hers.
They sat down on the sofa by the piano, side by side, with handsintertwined before Michael answered. He looked up at her as he spoke,and in his eyes was the quiet of love and death.
"My mother died an hour ago," he said. "I was with her, and as I hadlonged might happen, she came back to me before she died. For two orthree minutes she was herself. And then she said to me, 'My son,' andsoon she ceased breathing."
"Oh, Michael," she said, and for a little while there was silence, andin turn it was her presence that he clung to. Presently he spoke again.
"Sylvia, I'm so frightfully hungry," he said. "I don't think I've eatenanything since breakfast. May we go and forage?"
"Oh, you poor thing!" she cried. "Yes, let's go and see what there is."
Instantly she busied herself.
"Hermann left the cellar key on the chimney-piece, Michael," she said."Get some wine out, dear. Mother and I don't drink any. And there's someham, I know. While you are getting wine, I'll broil some. And therewere some strawberries. I shall have some supper with you. What a goodthought! And you must be famished."
As they ate they talked perfectly simply and naturally of the hundredassociations which this studio meal at the end of the evening calledup concerning the Sunday night parties. There was an occasion on whichHermann tried to recollect how to mull beer, with results that smelledlike a brickfield; there was another when a poached egg had fallen,exploding softly as it fell into the piano. There was the occasion,the first on which Michael had been present, when two eminent actorsimitated each other; another when Francis came and made himself soimmensely agreeable. It was after that one that Sylvia and Hermann hadsat and talked in front of the stove, discussing, as Sylvia laughed toremember, what she would say when Michael proposed to her. Then had comethe break in Michael's attendances and, as Sylvia allowed, a certainfalling-off in gaiety.
"But it was really Hermann and I who made you gay originally," she said."We take a wonderful deal of credit for that."
All this was as completely natural for them as was the impromptu meal,and soon without effort Michael spoke of his mother again, and presentlyafterwards of the news of war. But with him by her side Sylvia foundher courage come back to her; the news itself, all that it certainlyimplied, and all the horror that it held, no longer filled her withthe sense that it was impossibly terrible. Michael did not diminish theawfulness of it, but he gave her the power of looking out bravely at it.Nor did he shrink from speaking of all that had been to her so grim anightmare.
"You haven't heard from Hermann?" he asked.
"No. And I suppose we can't hear now. He is with his regiment, that'sall; nor shall we hear of him till there is peace again."
She came a little closer to him.
"Michael, I have to face it, that I may never see Hermann again," shesaid. "Mother doesn't fear it, you know. She--the darling--she livesin a sort of dream. I don't want her to wake from it. But how can I getaccustomed to the thought that perhaps I shan't see Hermann again? Imust get accustomed to it: I've got to live with it, and not quarrelwith it."
He took up her hand, enclosing it in his.
"But, one
doesn't quarrel with the big things of life," he said. "Isn'tit so? We haven't any quarrel with things like death and duty. Dear me,I'm afraid I'm preaching."
"Preach, then," she said.
"Well, it's just that. We don't quarrel with them: they managethemselves. Hermann's going managed itself. It had to be."
Her voice quivered as she spoke now.
"Are you going?" she asked. "Will that have to be?"
Michael looked at her a moment with infinite tenderness.
"Oh, my dear, of course it will," he said. "Of course, one doesn't knowyet what the War Office will do about the Army. I suppose it's possiblethat they will send troops to France. All that concerns me is