middle of it now.
She looked up at him flashing with indignation, and a retort as stingingas his rose to her lips. And then quite suddenly, all her anger wentfrom her, as her, heart told her, in a voice that would not be silenced,the complete justice of what he had said, and the appeal that Michaelrefrained from making was made by her to herself. Remorse held her onits spikes for her abominable suggestion, and with it came a senseof utter desolation and misery, of hatred for herself in having thusquietly and deliberately said what she had said. She could not accountfor it, nor excuse herself on the plea that she had spoken in passion,for she had spoken, as he felt, in cold blood. Hence came the misery inthe knowledge that she must have wounded Michael intolerably.
Her lips so quivered that when she first tried to speak no words wouldcome. That she was truly ashamed brought no relief, no ease to hersurrender, for she knew that it was her real self who had spoken thusincredibly. But she could at least disown that part of her.
"I beg your pardon, Michael," she said. "I was atrocious. Will youforgive me? Because I am so miserable."
He had nothing but love for her, love and its kinsman pity.
"Oh, my dear, fancy you asking that!" he said.
Just for the moment of their reconciliation, it seemed to both that theycame closer to each other than they had ever been before, and the chanceof the need of any such another reconciliation was impossible to theverge of laughableness, so that before five minutes were past he couldmake the smile break through her tears at the absurdity of the momentthat now seemed quite unreal. Yet that which was at the root of theirtemporary antagonism was not removed by the reconciliation; at mostthey had succeeded in cutting off the poisonous shoot that had suddenlysprouted from it. The truth of this in the days that followed washorribly demonstrated.
It was not that they ever again came to the spoken bitterness of words,for the sharpness of them, once experienced, was shunned by each ofthem, but times without number they had to sheer off, and not approachthe ground where these poisoned tendrils trailed. And in that sense ofhaving to take care, to be watchful lest a chance word should bring theperil close to them, the atmosphere of complete ease and confidence,in which alone love can flourish, was tainted. Love was there, but itsflowers could not expand, it could not grow in the midst of this bitterair. And what made the situation more and increasingly difficult wasthe fact that, next to their love for each other, the emotion thatmost filled the mind of each was this sense of race-antagonism. It wasimpossible that the news of the war should not be mentioned, for thatwould have created an intolerable unreality, and all that was in theirpower was to avoid all discussion, to suppress from speech all thefeelings with which the news filled them. Every day, too, there camefresh stories of German abominations committed on the Belgians, and eachknew that the other had seen them, and yet neither could mention them.For while Sylvia could not believe them, Michael could not help doingso, and thus there was no common ground on which they could speak ofthem. Often Mrs. Falbe, in whose blood, it would seem, no sense ofrace beat at all, would add to the embarrassment by childlike comments,saying at one time in reference to such things that she made a point ofnot believing all she saw in the newspapers, or at another ejaculating,"Well, the Germans do seem to have behaved very cruelly again!" But noemotion appeared to colour these speeches, while all the emotion of theworld surged and bubbled behind the silence of the other two.
Then followed the darkest days that England perhaps had ever known, whenthe German armies, having overcome the resistance of Belgium, suddenlyswept forward again across France, pushing before them like the jetsamand flotsam on the rim of the advancing tide the allied armies. Often inthese appalling weeks, Michael would hesitate as to whether he should goto see Sylvia or not, so unbearable seemed the fact that she did not andcould not feel or understand what England was going through. So farfrom blaming her for it, he knew that it could not be otherwise, for herblood called to her, even as his to him, while somewhere in the onrushof those advancing and devouring waves was her brother, with whom, so ithad often seemed to him, she was one soul. Thus, while in that his wholesympathy and whole comprehension of her love was with him, there was aswell all that deep, silent English patriotism of which till now he hadscarcely been conscious, praying with mute entreaty that disaster anddestruction and defeat might overwhelm those advancing hordes. Once,when the anxiety and peril were at their height, he made up his mind notto see her that day, and spent the evening by himself. But later, whenhe was actually on his way to bed, he knew he could not keep away fromher, and though it was already midnight, he drove down to Chelsea, andfound her sitting up, waiting for the chance of his coming.
For a moment, as she greeted him and he kissed her silently, theyescaped from the encompassing horror.
"Ah, you have come," she said. "I thought perhaps you might. I havewanted you dreadfully."
The roar of artillery, the internecine strife were still. Just for afew seconds there was nothing in the world for him but her, nor for heranything but him.
"I couldn't go to bed without just seeing you," he said. "I won't keepyou up."
They stood with hands clasped.
"But if you hadn't come, Michael," she said, "I should have understood."
And then the roar and the horror began again. Her words were thesimplest, the most directly spoken to him, yet could not but evoke thespectres that for the moment had vanished. She had meant to let herlove for him speak; it had spoken, and instantly through the momentarysunlight of it, there loomed the fierce and enormous shadow. It couldnot be banished from their most secret hearts; even when the doorswere shut and they were alone together thus, it made its entrance,ghost-like, terrible, and all love's bolts and bars could not keep itout. Here was the tragedy of it, that they could not stand embraced withclasped hands and look at it together and so rob it of its terrors, for,at the sight of it, their hands were loosened from each other's, and inits presence they were forced to stand apart. In his heart, as surelyas he knew her love, Michael knew that this great shadow under whichEngland lay was shot with sunlight for Sylvia, that the anxiety, theawful suspense that made his fingers cold as he opened the daily papers,brought into it to her an echo of victorious music that beat to thetramp of advancing feet that marched ever forward leaving the glitteringRhine leagues upon leagues in their rear. The Bavarian corps in whichHermann served was known to be somewhere on the Western front, forthe Emperor had addressed them ten days before on their departure fromMunich, and Sylvia and Michael were both aware of that. But theywho loved Hermann best could not speak of it to each other, and theknowledge of it had to be hidden in silence, as if it had been someguilty secret in which they were the terrified accomplices, instead ofits being a bond of love which bound them both to Hermann.
In addition to the national anxiety, there was the suspense of thosewhose sons and husbands and fathers were in the fighting line. Columnsof casualty lists were published, and each name appearing there was asword that pierced a home. One such list, published early in September,was seen by Michael as he drove down on Sunday morning to spend the restof the day with Sylvia, and the first name that he read there was thatof Francis. For a moment, as he remembered afterwards, the print haddanced before his eyes, as if seen through the quiver of hot air. Thenit settled down and he saw it clearly.
He turned and drove back to his rooms in Half Moon Street, feeling thatstrange craving for loneliness that shuns any companionship. He must,for a little, sit alone with the fact, face it, adjust himself to it.Till that moment when the dancing print grew still again he had not, inall the anxiety and suspense of those days, thought of Francis's deathas a possibility even. He had heard from him only two mornings before,in a letter thoroughly characteristic that saw, as Francis always saw,the pleasant and agreeable side of things. Washing, he had announced,was a delusion; after a week without it you began to wonder why you hadever made a habit of it. . . . They had had a lot of marching, alwaysin the wrong direction, but everyone knew that
would soon be over. . . .Wasn't London very beastly in August? . . . Would Michael see if hecould get some proper cigarettes out to him? Here there was nothing butlittle black French affairs (and not many of them) which tied a knot inthe throat of the smoker. . . . And now Francis, with all his gaietyand his affection, and his light pleasant dealings with life, lay deadsomewhere on the sunny plains of France, killed in action by shellor bullet in the midst of his youth and strength and joy in life, togratify the damned dreams of the man who had been the honoured guestat Ashbridge, and those who had advised and flattered and at the endperhaps just used him as their dupe. To their insensate greed andswollen-headed lust for world-power was this hecatomb of sweet andpleasant lives offered, and in their onward course through the vinesand corn of France they waded through the blood of the slain whose onlycrime was that they had dared to oppose the will of