Three weeks later, Michael was sitting in his rooms in Half Moon Street,
where he had arrived last night, expecting Sylvia. Since that attack at
dawn in the trenches, he had been in hospital in France while his arm
was mending. The bone had not been broken, but the muscles had been so
badly torn that it was doubtful whether he would ever recover more than
a very feeble power in it again. In any case, it would take many months
before he recovered even the most elementary use of it.
Those weeks had been a long-drawn continuous nightmare, not from the
effect 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, that
he had to tell Sylvia all that had happened in those ten minutes while
the grey morning grew rosy. This sense of compulsion was deaf to all
reasoning, however plausible. He knew perfectly well that unless he told
Sylvia who it was whom he had shot at point-blank range, as he leaped
the last wire entanglement, no one else ever could. Hermann was buried
now in the same grave as others who had fallen that morning: his name
would be given out as missing from the Bavarian corps to which he
belonged, and in time, after the war was over, she would grow to believe
that she would never see him again.
But the sheer impossibility of letting this happen, though it entailed
nothing on him except the mere abstention from speech, took away the
slightest temptation that silence offered. He knew that again and again
Sylvia would refer to Hermann, wondering where he was, praying for his
safety, hoping perhaps even that, like Michael, he would be wounded and
thus escape from the inferno at the front, and it was so absolutely
out of the question that he should listen to this, try to offer little
encouragements, wonder with her whether he was not safe, that even
in his most depressed and shrinking hours he never for a moment
contemplated silence. Certainly he had to tell her that Hermann was
dead, and to account for the fact that he knew him to be dead. And
in the long watches of the wakeful night, when his mind moved in the
twilight of drowsiness and fever and pain, it was here that a certain
temptation entered. For it was easy to say (and no one could ever
contradict him) that some man near him, that one perhaps who had fallen
back with a grunt, had killed Hermann on the edge of the trench. Humanly
speaking, there was no chance at all of that innocent falsehood being
disproved. In the scurry and wild confusion of the attack none but he
would remember exactly what had happened, and as he thought of that
tossing and turning, it seemed to one part of his mind that the
innocence of that falsehood would even be laudable, be heroic. It would
save Sylvia the horrible shock of knowing that her lover had killed her
brother; it would save her all that piercing of the iron into her soul
that must inevitably be suffered by her if she knew the truth. And who
could 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 bear
to see him again, still less sleep in the arms of the one who had killed
her brother. That knowledge, even if she could put it out of mind in
pity and sorrow for Michael, would surely return and return again,
and tear her from him sobbing and trembling. There was all to risk
in telling her the truth; sorrow and bitterness for her and for him
separation and a lifelong regret were piled up in the balance against
the unknown weight of her love. Indeed, there was love on both sides of
that balance. Who could tell how the gold weighed against the gold?
Yet, after those drowsy, pain-streaked nights, when the sober light of
dawn crept in at the windows, then, morning after morning, Michael knew
that the inward compulsion was in no way weakened by all the reasons
that he had urged. It remained ruthless and tender, a still small voice
that was heard after the whirlwind and the fire. For the very reason why
he longed to spare Sylvia this knowledge, namely, that they loved each
other, was precisely the reason why he could not spare her. Yet it
seemed so wanton, so useless, so unreasonable to tell her, so laden with
a risk both for him and her that no standard could measure. But he no
more contemplated--except in vain imagination--making up some ingenious
story of this kind which would account for his knowledge of Hermann’s
death than he contemplated keeping silence altogether. It was not
possible for him not to tell her everything, though, when he pictured
himself doing so, he found himself faced by what seemed an inevitable
impossibility. 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 in
the paper, stories of German cruelty and what not, had overclouded the
serenity of their love. What would happen when this news, no report or
hearsay, came to her?
He had not heard her foot on the stairs, nor did she wait for his
servant to announce her; but, a little before her appointed time, she
burst in upon him midway between smiles and tears, all tenderness.
“Michael, my dear, my dear,” she cried, “what a morning for me! For the
first time to-day when I woke, I forgot about the war. And your poor
arm? How goes it? Oh, I will take care, but I must and will have you in
my arms.”
He had risen to greet her, and softly and gently she put her arms round
his 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 him
like that again. He could not part with her at the very moment he had
got 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! I
never knew how much till you went away.”
Looking at her, feeling her arms round him, Michael felt that what he
had to say was beyond the power of his lips to utter. And yet, here in
her presence, the absolute necessity of telling her climbed like some
peak into the ample sunrise far above the darkness and the mists that
hung low about it.
“And what lots you must have to tell me,” she said. “I want to hear
all--all.”
Suddenly Michael put up his left hand and took away from his neck the
arm that encircled it. But he did not let go of it. He held it in his
hand.
“I have to tell you one thing at once,” he said. She looked at him, and
the smile that burned in her eyes was extinguished. From his gesture,
from his tone, she knew that he spoke of something as serious as their
love.
“What is it?” she said. “Tell me, then.”
He did not falter, but looked her full in the face. There was no
breaking it to her, or letting her go through the gathering suspense of
guessing.
“It concerns Hermann,” he said. “It concerns Hermann and me. The last
morning that I was in the trenches, there was an attack at dawn from
the German lines. They tried to rush our trench in the dark. Hermann
led 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 arm
on the table by him and, leaning his head on it, covering his eyes he
went on. But his voice, up till now quite steady, faltered and failed,
as the sobs gathered in his throat.
“He fell across the parapet close to me,” he said. . . . “I lifted him
somehow into our trench. . . . I was wounded, then. . . . He lay at the
bottom of the trench, Sylvia. . . . And I would to God it had been I who
lay there. . . . Because I loved him. . . . Just at the end he opened
his eyes, and saw me, and knew me. And he said--oh, Sylvia, Sylvia!--he
said ‘Lieber Gott, Michael. Good morning, old boy.’ And then he
died. . . . I have told you.”
And at that Michael broke down utterly and completely for the first time
since the morning of which he spoke, and sobbed his heart out, while,
unseen to him, Sylvia sat with hands clasped together and stretched
towards him. Just for a little she let him weep his fill, but her
yearning 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.