seem to concern him; all he had to dothat moment was to get Hermann out of fire, and just as he dragged hislegs over the parapet, so that his weight fell firm and solid on tohim, he felt what seemed a sharp tap on his right arm, and could notunderstand why it had become suddenly powerless. It dangled loosely fromsomewhere above the elbow, and when he tried to move his hand he foundhe could not.
Then came a stab of hideous pain, which was over almost as soon as hehad felt it, and he heard a man close to him say, "Are you hit, sir?"
It was evident that this surprise attack had failed, for five minutesafterwards all was quiet again. Out of the grey of dawn it had come, andbefore dawn was rosy it was over, and Michael with his right arm numbbut for an occasional twinge of violent agony that seemed to him morelike a scream or a colour than pain, was leaning over Hermann, who layon his back quite still, while on his tunic a splash of blood slowlygrew larger. Dawn was already rosy when he moved slightly and opened hiseyes.
"Lieber Gott, Michael!" he whispered, his breath whistling in histhroat. "Good morning, old boy!"
CHAPTER XVII
Three weeks later, Michael was sitting in his rooms in Half Moon Street,where he had arrived last night, expecting Sylvia. Since that attack atdawn in the trenches, he had been in hospital in France while his armwas mending. The bone had not been broken, but the muscles had been sobadly torn that it was doubtful whether he would ever recover more thana very feeble power in it again. In any case, it would take many monthsbefore he recovered even the most elementary use of it.
Those weeks had been a long-drawn continuous nightmare, not from theeffect of the injury he had undergone, nor from any nervous breakdown,but from the sense of that which inevitably hung over him. For he knew,by an inward compulsion of his mind that admitted of no argument, thathe had to tell Sylvia all that had happened in those ten minutes whilethe grey morning grew rosy. This sense of compulsion was deaf to allreasoning, however plausible. He knew perfectly well that unless he toldSylvia who it was whom he had shot at point-blank range, as he leapedthe last wire entanglement, no one else ever could. Hermann was buriednow in the same grave as others who had fallen that morning: his namewould be given out as missing from the Bavarian corps to which hebelonged, and in time, after the war was over, she would grow to believethat she would never see him again.
But the sheer impossibility of letting this happen, though it entailednothing on him except the mere abstention from speech, took away theslightest temptation that silence offered. He knew that again and againSylvia would refer to Hermann, wondering where he was, praying for hissafety, hoping perhaps even that, like Michael, he would be wounded andthus escape from the inferno at the front, and it was so absolutelyout of the question that he should listen to this, try to offer littleencouragements, wonder with her whether he was not safe, that evenin his most depressed and shrinking hours he never for a momentcontemplated silence. Certainly he had to tell her that Hermann wasdead, and to account for the fact that he knew him to be dead. Andin the long watches of the wakeful night, when his mind moved in thetwilight of drowsiness and fever and pain, it was here that a certaintemptation entered. For it was easy to say (and no one could evercontradict him) that some man near him, that one perhaps who had fallenback with a grunt, had killed Hermann on the edge of the trench. Humanlyspeaking, there was no chance at all of that innocent falsehood beingdisproved. In the scurry and wild confusion of the attack none but hewould remember exactly what had happened, and as he thought of thattossing and turning, it seemed to one part of his mind that theinnocence of that falsehood would even be laudable, be heroic. It wouldsave Sylvia the horrible shock of knowing that her lover had killed herbrother; it would save her all that piercing of the iron into her soulthat must inevitably be suffered by her if she knew the truth. And whocould tell what effect the knowledge of the truth would have on her?Michael felt that it was at the least possible that she could never bearto see him again, still less sleep in the arms of the one who had killedher brother. That knowledge, even if she could put it out of mind inpity and sorrow for Michael, would surely return and return again,and tear her from him sobbing and trembling. There was all to riskin telling her the truth; sorrow and bitterness for her and for himseparation and a lifelong regret were piled up in the balance againstthe unknown weight of her love. Indeed, there was love on both sides ofthat balance. Who could tell how the gold weighed against the gold?
Yet, after those drowsy, pain-streaked nights, when the sober light ofdawn crept in at the windows, then, morning after morning, Michael knewthat the inward compulsion was in no way weakened by all the reasonsthat he had urged. It remained ruthless and tender, a still small voicethat was heard after the whirlwind and the fire. For the very reason whyhe longed to spare Sylvia this knowledge, namely, that they loved eachother, was precisely the reason why he could not spare her. Yet itseemed so wanton, so useless, so unreasonable to tell her, so laden witha risk both for him and her that no standard could measure. But he nomore contemplated--except in vain imagination--making up some ingeniousstory of this kind which would account for his knowledge of Hermann'sdeath than he contemplated keeping silence altogether. It was notpossible for him not to tell her everything, though, when he picturedhimself doing so, he found himself faced by what seemed an inevitableimpossibility. Though he did not see how his lips could frame the words,he knew they had to. Yet he could not but remember how mere reports inthe paper, stories of German cruelty and what not, had overclouded theserenity of their love. What would happen when this news, no report orhearsay, came to her?
He had not heard her foot on the stairs, nor did she wait for hisservant to announce her; but, a little before her appointed time, sheburst in upon him midway between smiles and tears, all tenderness.
"Michael, my dear, my dear," she cried, "what a morning for me! For thefirst time to-day when I woke, I forgot about the war. And your poorarm? How goes it? Oh, I will take care, but I must and will have you inmy arms."
He had risen to greet her, and softly and gently she put her arms roundhis neck, drawing his head to her.
"Oh, my Michael!" she whispered. "You've come back to me. Lieber Gott,how I have longed for you!"
"Lieber Gott!" When last had he heard those words? He had to tell her.He would tell her in a minute or two. Perhaps she would never hold himlike that again. He could not part with her at the very moment he hadgot her.
"You look ever so well, Michael," she said, "in spite of your wound.You're so brown and lean and strong. And oh, how I have wanted you! Inever knew how much till you went away."
Looking at her, feeling her arms round him, Michael felt that what hehad to say was beyond the power of his lips to utter. And yet, here inher presence, the absolute necessity of telling her climbed like somepeak into the ample sunrise far above the darkness and the mists thathung low about it.
"And what lots you must have to tell me," she said. "I want to hearall--all."
Suddenly Michael put up his left hand and took away from his neck thearm that encircled it. But he did not let go of it. He held it in hishand.
"I have to tell you one thing at once," he said. She looked at him, andthe smile that burned in her eyes was extinguished. From his gesture,from his tone, she knew that he spoke of something as serious as theirlove.
"What is it?" she said. "Tell me, then."
He did not falter, but looked her full in the face. There was nobreaking it to her, or letting her go through the gathering suspense ofguessing.
"It concerns Hermann," he said. "It concerns Hermann and me. The lastmorning that I was in the trenches, there was an attack at dawn fromthe German lines. They tried to rush our trench in the dark. Hermannled them. He got right up to the trench. And I shot him. I did not know,thank God!"
Suddenly Michael could not bear to look at her any more. He put his armon the table by him and, leaning his head on it, covering his eyes hewent on. But his voice, up till now quite steady, faltered and failed,as the sobs gathered in his throat.
br /> "He fell across the parapet close to me," he said. . . . "I lifted himsomehow into our trench. . . . I was wounded, then. . . . He lay at thebottom of the trench, Sylvia. . . . And I would to God it had been I wholay there. . . . Because I loved him. . . . Just at the end he openedhis eyes, and saw me, and knew me. And he said--oh, Sylvia, Sylvia!--hesaid 'Lieber Gott, Michael. Good morning, old boy.' And then hedied. . . . I have told you."
And at that Michael broke down utterly and completely for the first timesince the morning of which he spoke, and sobbed his heart out, while,unseen to him, Sylvia sat with hands clasped together and stretchedtowards him. Just for a little she let him weep his fill, but heryearning for him would not be withstood. She knew why he had told her,her whole heart spoke of the hugeness of it.
Then once more she laid her arm on his neck.
"Michael, my heart!" she said.
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