One close thundery morning about a week later, Michael was sitting at
his piano in his shirtsleeves, busy practising. He was aware that at the
other end of the room the telephone was calling for him, but it seemed
to be of far greater importance at the minute to finish the last page of
one of the Bach fugues, than to attend to what anybody else might have
to say to him. Then it suddenly flashed across him that it might be
Sylvia who wanted to speak to him, or that there might be news about his
mother, and his fingers leaped from the piano in the middle of a bar,
and he ran and slid across the parquet floor.
But it was neither of these, and compared to them it was a case of
“only” Hermann who wanted to see him. But Hermann, it appeared, wanted
to see him urgently, and, if he was in (which he was) would be with him
in ten minutes.
But the Bach thread was broken, and Michael, since it was not worth
while trying to mend it for the sake of these few minutes, sat down by
the open window, and idly took up the morning paper, which as yet he had
not opened, since he had hurried over breakfast in order to get to his
piano. The music announcements on the outside page first detained him,
and seeing that the concert by the Falbes, which was to take place in
five or six days, was advertised, he wondered vaguely whether it was
about that that Hermann wanted to see him, and, if so, why he could not
have said whatever he had to say on the telephone, instead of cutting
things short with the curt statement that he wished to see him urgently,
and would come round at once. Then remembering that Francis had been
playing cricket for the Guards yesterday, he turned briskly over to the
last page of sporting news, and found that his cousin had distinguished
himself by making no runs at all, but by missing two expensive catches
in the deep field. From there, after a slight inspection of a couple
of advertisement columns, he worked back to the middle leaf, where were
leaders and the news of nations and the movements of kings. All this
last week he had scanned such items with a growing sense of amusement
in the recollection of Hermann’s disquiet over the Sarajevo murders,
and Aunt Barbara’s more detailed and vivid prognostications of coming
danger, for nothing more had happened, and he supposed--vaguely only,
since the affair had begun to fade from his mind--that Austria had
made inquiries, and that since she was satisfied there was no public
pronouncement to be made.
The hot breeze from the window made the paper a little unmanageable for
a moment, but presently he got it satisfactorily folded, and a big black
headline met his eye. A half-column below it contained the demands which
Austria had made in the Note addressed to the Servian Government.
A glance was sufficient to show that they were framed in the most
truculent and threatening manner possible to imagine. They were not
the reasonable proposals that one State had a perfect right to make
of another on whose soil and with the connivance of whose subjects the
murders had been committed; they were a piece of arbitrary dictation, a
threat levelled against a dependent and an inferior.
Michael had read them through twice with a growing sense of uneasiness
at the thought of how Lady Barbara’s first anticipations had been
fulfilled, when Hermann came in. He pointed to the paper Michael held.
“Ah, you have seen it,” he said. “Perhaps you can guess what I wanted to
see you about.”
“Connected with the Austrian Note?” asked Michael.
“Yes.”
“I have not the vaguest idea.”
Hermann sat down on the arm of his chair.
“Mike, I’m going back to Germany to-day,” he said. “Now do you
understand? I’m German.”
“You mean that Germany is at the back of this?”
“It is obvious, isn’t it? Those demands couldn’t have been made without
the consent of Austria’s ally. And they won’t be granted. Servia will
appeal to Russia. And . . . and then God knows what may happen. In the
event of that happening, I must be in my Fatherland ready to serve, if
necessary.”
“You mean you think it possible you will go to war with Russia?” asked
Michael.
“Yes, I think it possible, and, if I am right, if there is that
possibility, I can’t be away from my country.”
“But the Emperor, the fire-engine whom you said would quench any
conflagration?”
“He is away yachting. He went off after the visit of the British fleet
to Kiel. Who knows whether before he gets back, things may have gone
too far? Can’t you see that I must go? Wouldn’t you go if you were me?
Suppose you were in Germany now, wouldn’t you hurry home?”
Michael was silent, and Hermann spoke again.
“And if there is trouble with Russia, France, I take it, is bound to
join her. And if France joins her, what will England do?”
The great shadow of the approaching storm fell over Michael, even as
outside the sultry stillness of the morning grew darker.
“Ah, you think that?” asked Michael.
Hermann put his hand on Michael’s shoulder.
“Mike, you’re the best friend I have,” he said, “and soon, please God,
you are going to marry the girl who is everything else in the world to
me. You two make up my world really--you two and my mother, anyhow.
No other individual counts, or is in the same class. You know that,
I expect. But there is one other thing, and that’s my nationality. It
counts first. Nothing, nobody, not even Sylvia or my mother or you can
stand between me and that. I expect you know that also, for you saw,
nearly a year ago, what Germany is to me. Perhaps I may be quite wrong
about it all--about the gravity, I mean, of the situation, and perhaps
in a few days I may come racing home again. Yes, I said ‘home,’ didn’t
I? Well, that shows you just how I am torn in two. But I can’t help
going.”
Hermann’s hand remained on his shoulder gently patting it. To Michael
the world, life, the whole spirit of things had suddenly grown sinister,
of the quality of nightmare. It was true that all the ground of this
ominous depression which had darkened round him, was conjectural and
speculative, that diplomacy, backed by the horror of war which surely
all civilised nations and responsible govermnents must share, had, so
far from saying its last, not yet said its first word; that the wits of
all the Cabinets of Europe were at this moment only just beginning to
stir themselves so as to secure a peaceful solution; but, in spite
of this, the darkness and the nightmare grew in intensity. But as to
Hermann’s determination to go to Germany, which made this so terribly
real, since it was beginning to enter into practical everyday life,
he had neither means nor indeed desire to combat it. He saw perfectly
clearly that Hermann must go.
“I don’t want to dissuade you,” he said, “not only because it would be
useless, but because I am with you. You couldn’t do otherwise, Hermann.”
“I don’t see that I could. Sylvia agrees too.”
A terrible conjecture flashed through Michael’s mind.
“And she?” he asked.
“She can’t leave my mother, of course,” said Hermann, “and, after all,
I may be on a wild goose chase. But I can’t risk being unable to get to
Germany, if--if the worst happens.”
The ghost of a smile played round his mouth for a moment.
“And I’m not sure that she could leave you, Mike,” he added.
Somehow this, though it gave Michael a moment of intensest relief to
know that Sylvia remained, made the shadow grow deeper, accentuated the
lines of the storm which had begun to spread over the sky. He began
to see as nightmare no longer, but as stern and possible realities,
something of the unutterable woe, the divisions, the heart-breaks which
menaced.
“Hermann, what do you think will happen?” he said. “It is incredible,
unfaceable--”
The gentle patting on his shoulder, that suddenly and poignantly
reminded him of when Sylvia’s hand was there, ceased for a moment, and
then was resumed.
“Mike, old boy,” said Hermann, “we’ve got to face the unfaceable, and
believe that the incredible is possible. I may be all wrong about it,
and, as I say, in a few days’ time I may come racing back. But, on
the other hand, this may be our last talk together, for I go off this
afternoon. So let’s face it.”
He paused a moment.
“It may be that before long I shall be fighting for my Fatherland,”
he said. “And if there is to be fighting, it may be that Germany will
before long be fighting England. There I shall be on one side, and,
since naturally you will go back into the Guards, you will be fighting
on the other. I shall be doing my best to kill Englishmen, whom I love,
and they will be doing their best to kill me and those of my blood.
There’s the horror of it, and it’s that we must face. If we met in a
bayonet charge, Mike, I should have to do my best to run you through,
and yet I shouldn’t love you one bit the less, and you must know that.
Or, if you ran me through, I shall have to die loving you just the same
as before, and hoping you would live happy, for ever and ever, as the
story-books say, with Sylvia.”
“Hermann, don’t go,” said Michael suddenly.
“Mike, you didn’t mean that,” he said.
Michael looked at him for a moment in silence.
“No, it is unsaid,” he replied.
Hermann looked round as the clock on the chimney-piece chimed.
“I must be going,” he said, “I needn’t say anything to you about Sylvia,
because all I could say is in your heart already. Well, we’ve met in
this jolly world, Mike, and we’ve been great friends. Neither you nor I
could find a greater friend than we’ve been to each other. I bless God
for this last year. It’s been the happiest in my life. Now what else is
there? Your music: don’t ever be lazy about your music. It’s worth while
taking all the pains you can about it. Lord! do you remember the evening
when I first tried your Variations? . . . Let me play the last one now.
I want something jubilant. Let’s see, how does it go?”
He held his hands, those long, slim-fingered hands, poised for a moment
above the keys, then plunged into the glorious riot of the full chords
and scales, till the room rang with it. The last chord he held for a
moment, and then sprang up.
“Ah, that’s good,” he said. “And now I’m going to say good-bye, and go
without looking round.”
“But might I see you off this afternoon?” asked Michael.
“No, please don’t. Station partings are fussy and disagreeable. I want
to say good-bye to you here in your quiet room, just as I shall say
goodbye to Sylvia at home. Ah, Mike, yes, both hands and smiling. May
God give us other meetings and talks and companionship and years of
love, my best of friends. Good-bye.”
Then, as he had said, he walked to the door without looking round, and
next moment it had closed behind him.
Throughout the next week the tension of the situation grew ever greater,
strained towards the snapping-point, while the little cloud, the man’s
hand, which had arisen above the eastern horizon grew and overspread the
heavens in a pall that became ever more black and threatening. For a few
days yet it seemed that perhaps even now the cataclysm might be averted,
but gradually, in spite of all the efforts of diplomacy to loosen the
knot, it became clear that the ends of the cord were held in hands that
did not mean to release their hold till it was pulled tight. Servia
yielded to such demands as it was possible for her to grant as an
independent State; but the inflexible fingers never abated one jot
of their strangling pressure. She appealed to Russia, and Russia’s
remonstrance fell on deaf ears, or, rather, on ears that had determined
not to hear. From London and Paris came proposals for conference, for
arbitration, with welcome for any suggestion from the other side which
might lead to a peaceful solution of the disputed demands, already
recognised by Europe as a firebrand wantonly flung into the midst
of dangerous and inflammable material. Over that burning firebrand,
preventing and warding off all the eager hands that were stretched to
put it out, stood the figure of the nation at whose bidding it had been
flung there.
Gradually, out of the thunder-clouds and gathering darkness, vaguely at
first and then in definite and menacing outline, emerged the inexorable,
flint-like face of Germany, whose figure was clad in the shining armour
so well known in the flamboyant utterances of her War Lord, which had
been treated hitherto as mere irresponsible utterances to be greeted
with a laugh and a shrugged shoulder. Deep and patient she had always
been, and now she believed that the time had come for her patience to
do its perfect work. She had bided long for the time when she could
best fling that lighted brand into the midst of civilisation, and she
believed she had calculated well. She cared nothing for Servia nor for
her ally. On both her frontiers she was ready, and now on the East
she heeded not the remonstrance of Russia, nor her sincere and cordial
invitation to friendly discussion. She but waited for the step that she
had made inevitable, and on the first sign of Russian mobilisation she,
with her mobilisation ready to be completed in a few days, peremptorily
demanded that it should cease. On the Western frontier behind the
Rhine she was ready also; her armies were prepared, cannon fodder in
uncountable store of shells and cartridges was prepared, and in endless
battalions of men, waiting to be discharged in one bull-like rush, to
overrun France, and holding the French armies, shattered and dispersed,
with a mere handful of her troops, to hurl the rest at Russia.
The whole campaign was mathematically thought out. In a few months at
the outside France would be lying trampled down and bleeding; Russia
would be overrun; already she would be mistress of Europe, and prepared
to attack the only country that stood between her and world-wide
dominion, whose allies she would already have reduced to impotence.
Here she staked on an uncertainty: she could not absolutely tell what
England’s attitude would be, but she had the strongest reason for hoping
that, distracted by the imminence of civil strife, she would be unable
to come to the help of her allies until the allies were past helping.
For a moment only were seen those set stern features mad for war;
then, with a snap, Germany shut down her visor and stood with sword
unsheathed, waiting for the horror of the stupendous bloodshed which
she had made inevitable. Her legions gathered on the Eastern front
threatening war on Russia, and thus pulling France into the spreading
conflagration and into the midst of the flame she stood ready to cast
the torn-up fragments of the treaty that bound her to respect the
neutrality of Belgium.
All this week, while the flames of the flung fire-brand began to spread,
the English public waited, incredulous of the inevitable. Michael, among
them, found himself unable to believe even then that the bugles were
already sounding, and that the piles of shells in their wicker-baskets
were being loaded on to the military ammunition trains. But all the
ordinary interests in life, all the things that busily and contentedly
occupied his day, one only excepted, had become without savour. A dozen
times in the morning he would sit down to his piano, only to find
that he could not think it worth while to make his hands produce these
meaningless tinkling sounds, and he would jump up to read the paper
over again, or watch for fresh headlines to appear on the boards of
news-vendors in the street, and send out for any fresh edition. Or he
would walk round to his club and spend an hour reading the tape news and
waiting for fresh slips to be pinned up. But, through all the nightmare
of suspense and slowly-dying hope, Sylvia remained real, and after he
had received his daily report from the establishment where his mother
was, with the invariable message that there was no marked change of any
kind, and that it was useless for him to think of coming to see her, he
would go off to Maidstone Crescent and spend the greater part of the day
with the girl.
Once during this week he had received a note from Hermann, written at
Munich, and on the same day she also had heard from him. He had gone
back to his regiment, which was mobilised, as a private, and was very
busy with drill and duties. Feeling in Germany, he said, was elated and
triumphant: it was considered certain that England would stand aside, as
the quarrel was none of hers, and the nation generally looked forward to
a short and brilliant campaign, with the occupation of Paris to be made
in September at the latest. But as a postscript in his note to Sylvia he
had added:
“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. I know
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 I think of what
Germany is to me, and what Hermann is, and when I think 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, I think, 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.
“Oh, and are you pessimistic too, like Sylvia? Pray don’t be
pessimistic. There is a dreadful pessimist in my book, who always thinks
the worst is going to happen.”
“And does it?” asked Michael.
“As far as I have got, it does, which makes it all the worse. Of course
I am very anxious about Hermann, but I feel sure he will come back
safe to us. I daresay France will give in when she sees Germany is in
earnest.”
Mrs. Falbe pulled the shattered remnants of her mind together. In her
heart of hearts she knew she did not care one atom what might happen to
armies and navies and nations, provided only that she had a quantity
of novels to read, and meals at regular hours. The fact of being on an
island was an immense consolation to her, since it was quite certain
that, whatever happened, German armies (or French or Soudanese, for that
matter) could not march here and enter her sitting-room and take her
books away from her. For years past she had asked nothing more of the
world than that she should be comfortable in it, and it really seemed
not an unreasonable request, considering at how small an outlay of money
all the comfort she wanted could be secured to her. The thought of war
had upset her a good deal already: she had been unable to attend to her
book when she awoke from her after-lunch nap; and now, when she hoped to
have her tea in peace, and find her attention restored by it, she found
the general atmosphere of her two companions vaguely disquieting. She
became a little more loquacious than usual, with the idea of talking
herself back into a tranquil frame of mind, and reassuring to herself
the promise of a peaceful future.
“Such a blessing we have a good fleet,” she said. “That will make us
safe, won’t it? I declare I almost hate the Germans, though my dear
husband was one himself, for making such a disturbance. The papers all
say it is Germany’s fault, so I suppose it must be. The papers
know better than anybody, don’t they, because they have foreign
correspondents. That must be a great expense!”
Sylvia felt she could not endure this any longer. It was like having a
raw wound stroked. . . .
“Mother, you don’t understand,” she said. “You don’t appreciate what is
happening. In a day or two England will be at war with Germany.”
Mrs. Falbe’s book had slipped from her knee. She picked it up and
flapped the cover once or twice to get rid of dust that might have
settled there.
“But what then?” she said. “It is very dreadful, no doubt, to think
of dear Hermann being with the German army, but we are getting used to
that, are we not? Besides, he told me it was his duty to go. I do not
think for a moment that France will be able to stand against Germany.
Germany will be in Paris in no time, and I daresay Hermann’s next letter
will be to say that he has been walking down the boulevards. Of course
war is very dreadful, I know that. And then Germany will be at war with
Russia, too, but she will have Austria to help her. And as for Germany
being at war with England, that does not make me nervous. Think of our
fleet, and how safe we feel with that! I see that we have twice as many
boats as the Germans. With two to one we must win, and they won’t be
able to send any of their armies here. I feel quite comfortable again
now that I have talked it over.”
Sylvia caught Michael’s eye for a moment over the tea-urn. She felt he
acquiesced in what she was intending to say.
“That is good, then,” she said. “I am glad you feel comfortable about
it, mother dear. Now, will you read your book out here? Why not, if I
fetch you a shawl in case you feel cold?”
Mrs. Falbe turned a questioning eye to the motionless trees and the
unclouded sky.
“I don’t think I shall even want a shawl, dear,” she said. “Listen, how
the newsboys are calling! is it something fresh, do you think?”
A moment’s listening attention was sufficient to make it known that
the news shouted outside was concerned only with the result of a county
cricket match, and Michael, as well as Sylvia, was conscious of a
certain relief to know that at the immediate present there was no fresh
clang of the bell that was beating out the seconds of peace that still
remained. Just for now, for this hour on Saturday afternoon, there was
a respite: no new link was forged in the intolerable sequence of
events. But, even as he drew breath in that knowledge, there came
the counter-stroke in the sense that those whose business it was to
disseminate the news that would cause their papers to sell, had just a
cricket match to advertise their wares. Now, when the country and
when Europe were on the brink of a bloodier war than all the annals of
history contained, they, who presumably knew what the public desired
to be informed on, thought that the news which would sell best was that
concerned with wooden bats and leather balls, and strong young men
in flannels. Michael had heard with a sort of tender incredulity Mrs.
Falbe’s optimistic reflections, and had been more than content to let
her rest secure in them; but was the country, the heart of England, like
her? Did it care more for cricket matches, as she for her book, than for
the maintenance of the nation’s honour, whatever that championship might
cost? . . . And the cry went on past the garden-walk. “Fine innings by
Horsfield! Result of the Oval match!”
And yet he had just had his tea as usual, and eaten a slice of cake, and
was now smoking a cigarette. It was natural to do that, not to make a
fuss and refuse food and drink, and it was natural that people should
still be interested in cricket. And at the moment his attitude towards
Mrs. Falbe changed. Instead of pity and irritation at her normality, he
was suddenly taken with a sense of gratitude to her. It was restful to
suspense and jangled nerves to see someone who went on as usual. The sun
shone, the leaves of the plane-trees did not wither, Mrs. Falbe read
her book, the evening paper was full of cricket news. . . . And then the
reaction from that seized him again. Supposing all the nation was like
that. Supposing nobody cared. . . . And the tension of suspense strained
more tightly than ever.
For the next forty-eight hours, while day and night the telegraph wires
of Europe tingled with momentous questions and grave replies, while
Ministers and Ambassadors met and parted and met again, rumours
flew this way and that like flocks of wild-fowl driven backwards and
forwards, settling for a moment with a stir and splash, and then with
rush of wings speeding back and on again. A huge coal strike in the
northern counties, fostered and financed by German gold, was supposed to
be imminent, and this would put out of the country’s power the ability
to interfere. The Irish Home Rule party, under the same suasion, was
said to have refused to call a truce. A letter had been received in
high quarters from the German Emperor avowing his fixed determination to
preserve peace, and this was honey to Lord Ashbridge. Then in turn each
of these was contradicted. All thought of the coal strike in this crisis
of national affairs was abandoned; the Irish party, as well as the
Conservatives, were of one mind in backing up the Government, no matter
what postponement of questions that were vital a month ago, their
cohesion entailed; the Emperor had written no letter at all. But through
the nebulous mists of hearsay, there fell solid the first drops of the
imminent storm. Even before Michael had left Sylvia that afternoon,
Germany had declared war on Russia, on Sunday Belgium received a Note
from Berlin definitely stating that should their Government not grant
the passage to the German battalions, a way should be forced for them.
On Monday, finally, Germany declared war on France also.
The country held its breath in suspense at what the decision of the
Government, which should be announced that afternoon, should be. One
fact only was publicly known, and that was that the English fleet, only
lately dismissed from its manoeuvres and naval review, had vanished.
There were guard ships, old cruisers and what not, at certain ports,
torpedo-boats roamed the horizons of Deal and Portsmouth, but the great
fleet, the swift forts of sea-power, had gone, disappearing no one knew
where, into the fine weather haze that brooded over the midsummer sea.
There perhaps was an indication of what the decision would be, yet there
was no certainty. At home there was official silence, and from abroad,
apart from the three vital facts, came but the quacking of rumour,
report after report, each contradicting the other.
Then suddenly came certainty, a rainbow set in the intolerable cloud. On
Monday afternoon, when the House of Commons met, all parties were known
to have sunk their private differences and to be agreed on one point
that should take precedence of all other questions. Germany should not,
with England’s consent, violate the neutrality of Belgium. As far as
England was concerned, all negotiations were at an end, diplomacy had
said its last word, and Germany was given twenty-four hours in which to
reply. Should a satisfactory answer not be forthcoming, England would
uphold the neutrality she with others had sworn to respect by force
of arms. And at that one immense sigh of relief went up from the whole
country. Whatever now might happen, in whatever horrors of long-drawn
and bloody war the nation might be involved, the nightmare of possible
neutrality, of England’s repudiating the debt of honour, was removed.
The one thing worse than war need no longer be dreaded, and for the
moment the future, hideous and heart-rending though it would surely be,
smiled like a land of promise.
Michael woke on the morning of Tuesday, the fourth of August, with the
feeling of something having suddenly roused him, and in a few seconds he
knew that this was so, for the telephone bell in the room next door sent
out another summons. He got straight out of bed and went to it, with a
hundred vague shadows of expectation crossing his mind. Then he learned
that his mother was gravely ill, and that he was wanted at once. And in
less than half an hour he was on his way, driving swiftly through the
serene warmth of the early morning to the private asylum where she had
been removed after her sudden homicidal outburst in March.