"You don't think there is the faintest chance of England coming in, do you? Please write to me fully, and get Mike to write. I have heard from neither of you, and as I am sure you must have written, I conclude that letters are stopped. I went to the theatre last night: there was a tremendous scene of patriotism. The people are war-mad."Since then nothing had been heard from him, and to-day, as Michael drove down to see Sylvia, he saw on the news-boards that Belgium had appealed to England against the violation of her territory by the German armies en route for France. Overtures had been made, asking for leave to pass through the neutral territory: these Belgium had rejected. This was given as official news. There came also the report that the Belgian remonstrances would be disregarded. Should she refuse passage to the German battalions, that could make no difference, since it was a matter of life and death to invade France by that route.
Sylvia was out in the garden, where, hardly a month ago, they had spent that evening of silent peace, and she got up quickly as Michael came out.
"Ah, my dear," she said, "I am glad you have come. I have got the horrors. You saw the latest news? Yes? And have you heard again from Hermann? No, I have not had a word."He kissed her and sat down.
"No, I have not heard either," he said. "I expect he is right.
Letters have been stopped."
"And what do you think will be the result of Belgium's appeal?" she asked.
"Who can tell? The Prime Minister is going to make a statement on Monday. There have been Cabinet meetings going on all day."She looked at him in silence.
"And what do you think?" she asked.
Quite suddenly, at her question, Michael found himself facing it, even as, when the final catastrophe was more remote, he had faced it with Falbe. All this week he knew he had been looking away from it, telling himself that it was incredible. Now he discovered that the one thing he dreaded more than that England should go to war, was that she should not. The consciousness of national honour, the thing which, with religion, Englishmen are most shy of speaking about, suddenly asserted itself, and he found on the moment that it was bigger than anything else in the world.
"I think we shall go to war," he said. "I don't see personally how we can exist any more as a nation if we don't. We--we shall be damned if we don't, damned for ever and ever. It's moral extinction not to."She kindled at that.
"Yes, I know," she said, "that's what I have been telling myself;but, oh, Mike, there's some dreadful cowardly part of me that won't listen when I think of Hermann, and . . ."She broke off a moment.
"Michael," she said, "what will you do, if there is war?"He took up her hand that lay on the arm of his chair.
"My darling, how can you ask?" he said. "Of course I shall go back to the army."For one moment she gave way.
"No, no," she said. "You mustn't do that."And then suddenly she stopped.
"My dear, I ask your pardon," she said. "Of course you will. Iknow that really. It's only this stupid cowardly part of me that--that interrupted. I am ashamed of it. I'm not as bad as that all through. I don't make excuses for myself, but, ah, Mike, when Ithink of what Germany is to me, and what Hermann is, and when Ithink what England is to me, and what you are! It shan't appear again, or if it does, you will make allowance, won't you? At least I can agree with you utterly, utterly. It's the flesh that's weak, or, rather, that is so strong. But I've got it under."She sat there in silence a little, mopping her eyes.
"How I hate girls who cry!" she said. "It is so dreadfully feeble!
Look, Mike, there are some roses on that tree from which I plucked the one you didn't think much of. Do you remember? You crushed it up in my hand and made it bleed."He smiled.
"I have got some faint recollection of it," he said.
Sylvia had got hold of her courage again.
"Have you?" she asked. "What a wonderful memory. And that quiet evening out here next day. Perhaps you remember that too. That was real: that was a possession that we shan't ever part with."She pointed with her finger.
"You and I sat there, and Hermann there," she said. "And mother sat--why, there she is. Mother darling, let's have tea out here, shall we? I will go and tell them."Mrs. Falbe had drifted out in her usual thistledown style, and shook hands with Michael.
"What an upset it all is," she said, "with all these dreadful rumours going about that we shall be at war. I fell asleep, Ithink, a little after lunch, when I could not attend to my book for thinking about war.""Isn't the book interesting?" asked Michael.
"No, not very. It is rather painful. I do not know why people write about painful things when there are so many pleasant and interesting things to write about. It seems to me very morbid."Michael heard something cried in the streets, and at the same moment he heard Sylvia's step quickly crossing the studio to the side door that opened on to it. In a minute she returned with a fresh edition of an evening paper.
"They are preparing to cross the Rhine," she said.
Mrs. Falbe gave a little sigh.
"I don't know, I am sure," she said, "what you are in such a state about, Sylvia. Of course the Germans want to get into France the easiest and quickest way, at least I'm sure I should. It is very foolish of Belgium not to give them leave, as they are so much the strongest.""Mother darling, you don't understand one syllable about it," said Sylvia.
"Very likely not, dear, but I am very glad we are an island, and that nobody can come marching here. But it is all a dreadful upset, Lord--I mean Michael, what with Hermann in Germany, and the concert tour abandoned. Still, if everything is quiet again by the middle of October, as I daresay it will be, it might come off after all. He will be on the spot, and you and Michael can join him, though I'm not quite sure if that would be proper. But we might arrange something: he might meet you at Ostend.""I'm afraid it doesn't look very likely," remarked Michael mildly.
