It was but a day or two after the outbreak of the war that it was believed that an expeditionary force was to be sent to France, to help in arresting the Teutonic tide that was now breaking over Belgium; but no public and authoritative news came till after the first draft of the force had actually set foot on French soil.
From the regiment of the Guards which Michael had rejoined, Francis was among the first batch of officers to go, and that evening Michael took down the news to Sylvia. Already stories of German barbarity were rife, of women violated, of defenceless civilians being shot down for no object except to terrorise, and to bring home to the Belgians the unwisdom of presuming to cross the will of the sovereign people. To-night, in the evening papers, there had been a fresh batch of these revolting stories, and when Michael entered the studio where Sylvia and her mother were sitting, he saw the girl let drop behind the sofa the paper she had been reading.
He guessed what she must have found there, for he had already seen the paper himself, and her silence, her distraction, and the misery of her face confirmed his conjecture.
"I've brought you a little news to-night," he said. "The first draft from the regiment went off to-day."Mrs. Falbe put down her book, marking the place.
"Well, that does look like business, then," she said, "though Imust say I should feel safer if they didn't send our soldiers away.
Where have they gone to?"
"Destination unknown," said Michael. "But it's France. My cousin has gone.""Francis?" asked Sylvia. "Oh, how wicked to send boys like that."Michael saw that her nerves were sharply on edge. She had given him no greeting, and now as he sat down she moved a little away from him. She seemed utterly unlike herself.
"Mother has been told that every Englishman is as brave as two Germans," she said. "She likes that.""Yes, dear," observed Mrs. Falbe placidly. "It makes one feel safer. I saw it in the paper, though; I read it."Sylvia turned on Michael.
"Have you seen the evening paper?" she asked.
Michael knew what was in her mind.
"I just looked at it," he said. "There didn't seem to be much news.""No, only reports, rumours, lies," said Sylvia.
Mrs. Falbe got up. It was her habit to leave the two alone together, since she was sure they preferred that; incidentally, also, she got on better with her book, for she found conversation rather distracting. But to-night Sylvia stopped her.
"Oh, don't go yet, mother," she said. "It is very early."It was clear that for some reason she did not want to be left alone with Michael, for never had she done this before. Nor did it avail anything now, for Mrs. Falbe, who was quite determined to pursue her reading without delay, moved towards the door.
"But I am sure Michael wants to talk to you, dear," she said, "and you have not seen him all day. I think I shall go up to bed."Sylvia made no further effort to detain her, but when she had gone, the silence in which they had so often sat together had taken on a perfectly different quality.
"And what have you been doing?" she said. "Tell me about your day.
No, don't. I know it has all been concerned with war, and I don't want to hear about it.""I dined with Aunt Barbara," said Michael. "She sent you her love.
She also wondered why you hadn't been to see her for so long."Sylvia gave a short laugh, which had no touch of merriment in it.
"Did she really?" she asked. "I should have thought she could have guessed. She set every nerve in my body jangling last time I saw her by the way she talked about Germans. And then suddenly she pulled herself up and apologised, saying she had forgotten. That made it worse! Michael, when you are unhappy, kindness is even more intolerable than unkindness. I would sooner have Lady Barbara abusing my people than saying how sorry she is for me. Don't let's talk about it! Let's do something. Will you play, or shall Ising? Let's employ ourselves."
Michael followed her lead.
"Ah, do sing," he said. "It's weeks since I have heard you sing."She went quickly over to the bookcase of music by the piano.
"Come, then, let's sing and forget," she said. "Hermann always said the artist was of no nationality. Let's begin quick. These are all German songs: don't let's have those. Ah, and these, too!
What's to be done? All our songs seem to be German."Michael laughed.
"But we've just settled that artists have no nationality, so Isuppose art hasn't either," he said.
Sylvia pulled herself together, conscious of a want of control, and laid her hand on Michael's shoulder.
"Oh, Michael, what should I do without you?" she said. "And yet--well, let me sing."
She had placed a volume of Schubert on the music-stand, and opening it at random he found "Du Bist die Ruhe." She sang the first verse, but in the middle of the second she stopped.
"I can't," she said. "It's no use."
He turned round to her.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," he said. "But you know that."She moved away from him, and walked down to the empty fireplace.
"I can't keep silence," she said, "though I know we settled not to talk of those things when necessarily we cannot feel absolutely at one. But, just before you came in, I was reading the evening paper. Michael, how can the English be so wicked as to print, and I suppose to believe, those awful things I find there? You told me you had glanced at it. Well, did you glance at the lies they tell about German atrocities?""Yes, I saw them," said Michael. "But it's no use talking about them.""But aren't you indignant?" she said. "Doesn't your blood boil to read of such infamous falsehoods? You don't know Germans, but Ido, and it is impossible that such things can have happened."Michael felt profoundly uncomfortable. Some of these stories which Sylvia called lies were vouched for, apparently, by respectable testimony.
"Why talk about them?" he said. "I'm sure we were wise when we settled not to."She shook her head.
