Germany, as voicedby the War Lord. And as milestones along the way they had come were setthe records of their infamy, in rapine and ruthless slaughter of theinnocent. Just at first, as he sat alone in his room, Michael butcontemplated images that seemed to form in his mind without hisvolition, and, emotion-numb from the shock, they seemed external tohim. Sometimes he had a vision of Francis lying without mark or wound orviolence on him in some vineyard on the hill-side, with face as quietas in sleep turned towards a moonlit sky. Then came another picture, andFrancis was walking across the terrace at Ashbridge with his gunover his shoulder, towards Lord Ashbridge and the Emperor, who stoodtogether, just as Michael had seen the three of them when they camein from the shooting-party. As Francis came near, the Emperor put acartridge into his gun and shot him. . . . Yes, that was it: that waswhat had happened. The marvellous peacemaker of Europe, the fire-enginewho, as Hermann had said, was ready to put out all conflagrations,the fatuous mountebank who pretended to be a friend to England, whoconducted his own balderdash which he called music, had changed his roleand shown his black heart and was out to kill.
Wild panoramas like these streamed through Michael's head, as ifprojected there by some magic lantern, and while they lasted he wasconscious of no grief at all, but only of a devouring hate for the mad,lawless butchers who had caused Francis's death, and willingly at thatmoment if he could have gone out into the night and killed a German, andmet his death himself in the doing of it, he would have gone to hisdoom as to a bridal-bed. But by degrees, as the stress of these unsoughtimaginings abated, his thoughts turned to Francis himself again, who,through all his boyhood and early manhood, had been to him a sort ofideal and inspiration. How he had loved and admired him, yet never witha touch of jealousy! And Francis, whose letter lay open by him on thetable, lay dead on the battlefields of France. There was the envelope,with the red square mark of the censor upon it, and the sheet with itsgay scrawl in pencil, asking for proper cigarettes. And, with a pangof remorse, all the more vivid because it concerned so trivial a thing,Michael recollected that he had not sent them. He had meant to do soyesterday afternoon but something had put it out of his head. Neveragain would Francis ask him to send out cigarettes. Michael laid hishead on his arms, so that his face was close to that pencilled note, andthe relief of tears came to him.
Soon he raised himself again, not ashamed of his sorrow, but somehowashamed of the black hate that before had filled him. That was gone forthe present, anyhow, and Michael was glad to find it vanished. Insteadthere was an aching pity, not for Francis alone nor for himself, but forall those concerned in this hideous business. A hundred and a thousandhomes, thrown suddenly to-day into mourning, were there: no doubt therewere houses in that Bavarian village in the pine woods above which heand Hermann had spent the day when there was no opera at Baireuth wherea son or a brother or a father were mourned, and in the kinship ofsorrow he found himself at peace with all who had suffered loss, withall who were living through days of deadly suspense. There was nothingeffeminate or sentimental about it; he had never been manlier than inthis moment when he claimed his right to be one with them. It was rightto pause like this, with his hand clasped in the hands of friends andfoes alike. But without disowning that, he knew that Francis's death,which had brought that home to him, had made him eager also for his ownturn to come, when he would go out to help in the grim work that lay infront of him. He was perfectly ready to die if necessary, and if not, tokill as many Germans as possible. And somehow the two aspects of itall, the pity and the desire to kill, existed side by side, neitheroverlapping nor contradicting one another.
His servant came into the room with a pencilled note, which he opened.It was from Sylvia.
"Oh, Michael, I have just called and am waiting to know if you will seeme. I have seen the news, and I want to tell you how sorry I am. But ifyou don't care to see me I know you will say so, won't you?"
Though an hour before he had turned back on his way to go to Sylvia, hedid not hesitate now.
"Yes, ask Miss Falbe to come up," he said.
She came up immediately, and once again as they met, the world and thewar stood apart from them.
"I did not expect you to come, Michael," she said, "when I saw the news.I did not mean to come here myself. But--but I had to. I had just tofind out whether you wouldn't see me, and let me tell you how sorry Iam."
He smiled at her as they stood facing each other.
"Thank you for coming," he said; "I'm so glad you came. But I had to bealone just a little."
"I didn't do wrong?" she asked.
"Indeed you didn't. I did wrong not to come to you. I loved Francis, yousee."
Already the shadow threatened again. It was just the fact that he lovedFrancis that had made it impossible for him to go to her, and he couldnot explain that. And as the shadow began to fall she gave a littleshudder.
"Oh, Michael, I know you did," she said. "It's just that which concernsus, that and my sympathy for you. He was such a dear. I only saw him,I know, once or twice, but from that I can guess what he was to you. Hewas a brother to you--a--a--Hermann."
Michael felt, with Sylvia's hand in his, they were both runningdesperately away from the shadow that pursued them. Desperately he triedwith her to evade it. But every word spoken between them seemed but tobring it nearer to them.
"I only came to say that," she said. "I had to tell you myself, to seeyou as I told you, so that you could know how sincere, how heartfelt--"
She stopped suddenly.
"That's all, my dearest," she added. "I will go away again now."
Across that shadow that had again fallen between them they looked andyearned for each other.
"No, don't go--don't go," he said. "I want you more than ever. We arehere, here and now, you and I, and what else matters in comparison ofthat? I loved Francis, as you know, and I love Hermann, but there is ourlove, the greatest thing of all. We've got it--it's here. Oh, Sylvia, wemust be wise and simple, we must separate things, sort them out, not letthem get mixed with one another. We can do it; I know we can. There'snothing outside us; nothing matters--nothing matters."
There was just that ray of sun peering over the black cloud thatillumined their faces to each other, while already the sharp peakedshadow of it had come between them. For that second, while he spoke, itseemed possible that, in the middle of welter and chaos and death andenmity, these two souls could stand apart, in the passionate serene oflove, and the moment lasted for just as long as she flung herself intohis arms. And then, even while her face was pressed to his, and whilethe riotous blood of their pressed lips sang to them, the shadow fellacross them. Even as he asserted the inviolability of the sanctuary inwhich they stood, he knew it to be an impossible Utopia--that he shouldfind with her the peace that should secure them from the raging storm,the cold shadow--and the loosening of her arms about his neck butendorsed the message of his own heart. For such heavenly security cannotcome except to those who have been through the ultimate bitterness thatthe world can bring; it is not arrived at but through complete surrenderto the trial of fire, and as yet, in spite of their opposed patriotism,in spite of her sincerest sympathy with Michael's loss, the assaulton the most intimate lines of the fortress had not yet been delivered.Before they could reach the peace that passed understanding, a fiercerattack had to be repulsed, they had to stand and look at each otherunembittered across waves and billows of a salter Marah than this.
But still they clung, while in their eyes there passed backwards andforwards the message that said, "It is not yet; it is not thus!" Theyhad been like two children springing together at the report of somethunder-clap, not knowing in the presence of what elemental outpouringof force they hid their faces together. As yet it but boomed on thehorizon, though messages of its havoc reached them, and the test wouldcome when it roared and lightened overhead. Already the tension of theapproaching tempest had so wrought on them that for a month past theyhad been unreal to each other, wanting ease, wanting confidence; andnow, when the fir
st real shock had come, though for a moment it threwthem into each other's arms, this was not, as they knew, the real, thefinal reconciliation, the touchstone that proved the gold. Francis'sdeath, the cousin whom Michael loved, at the hands of one of the nationto whom Sylvia belonged, had momentarily made them feel that all elsebut their love was but external circumstance; and, even in the momentof their feeling this, the shadow fell again, and left them chilly andshivering.
For a moment they still held each other round the neck and shoulder,then the hold slipped to the elbow, and soon their hands parted. As yetno word had been said since Michael asserted that nothing else mattered,and in the silence of their gradual estrangement the sanguine falsity ofthat grew and grew and grew.
"I know what you feel," she said