Soon he raised himself again, not ashamed of his sorrow, but somehow ashamed of the black hate that before had filled him. That was gone for the present, anyhow, and Michael was glad to find it vanished. Instead there was an aching pity, not for Francis alone nor for himself, but for all those concerned in this hideous business. A hundred and a thousand homes, thrown suddenly to-day into mourning, were there: no doubt there were houses in that Bavarian village in the pine woods above which he and Hermann had spent the day when there was no opera at Baireuth where a son or a brother or a father were mourned, and in the kinship of sorrow he found himself at peace with all who had suffered loss, with all who were living through days of deadly suspense. There was nothing effeminate or sentimental about it; he had never been manlier than in this moment when he claimed his right to be one with them. It was right to pause like this, with his hand clasped in the hands of friends and foes alike. But without disowning that, he knew that Francis's death, which had brought that home to him, had made him eager also for his own turn to come, when he would go out to help in the grim work that lay in front of him. He was perfectly ready to die if necessary, and if not, to kill as many Germans as possible. And somehow the two aspects of it all, the pity and the desire to kill, existed side by side, neither overlapping nor contradicting one another.
His servant came into the room with a pencilled note, which he opened. It was from Sylvia.
"Oh, Michael, I have just called and am waiting to know if you will see me. I have seen the news, and I want to tell you how sorry Iam. But if you don't care to see me I know you will say so, won't you?"Though an hour before he had turned back on his way to go to Sylvia, he did not hesitate now.
"Yes, ask Miss Falbe to come up," he said.
She came up immediately, and once again as they met, the world and the war stood apart from them.
"I did not expect you to come, Michael," she said, "when I saw the news. I did not mean to come here myself. But--but I had to. Ihad just to find out whether you wouldn't see me, and let me tell you how sorry I am."He smiled at her as they stood facing each other.
"Thank you for coming," he said; "I'm so glad you came. But I had to be alone just a little.""I didn't do wrong?" she asked.
"Indeed you didn't. I did wrong not to come to you. I loved Francis, you see."Already the shadow threatened again. It was just the fact that he loved Francis that had made it impossible for him to go to her, and he could not explain that. And as the shadow began to fall she gave a little shudder.
"Oh, Michael, I know you did," she said. "It's just that which concerns us, that and my sympathy for you. He was such a dear. Ionly saw him, I know, once or twice, but from that I can guess what he was to you. He was a brother to you--a--a--Hermann."Michael felt, with Sylvia's hand in his, they were both running desperately away from the shadow that pursued them. Desperately he tried with her to evade it. But every word spoken between them seemed but to bring it nearer to them.
"I only came to say that," she said. "I had to tell you myself, to see you as I told you, so that you could know how sincere, how heartfelt--"She stopped suddenly.
"That's all, my dearest," she added. "I will go away again now."Across that shadow that had again fallen between them they looked and yearned for each other.
"No, don't go--don't go," he said. "I want you more than ever. We are here, here and now, you and I, and what else matters in comparison of that? I loved Francis, as you know, and I love Hermann, but there is our love, the greatest thing of all. We've got it--it's here. Oh, Sylvia, we must be wise and simple, we must separate things, sort them out, not let them get mixed with one another. We can do it; I know we can. There's nothing outside us;nothing matters--nothing matters."
There was just that ray of sun peering over the black cloud that illumined their faces to each other, while already the sharp peaked shadow of it had come between them. For that second, while he spoke, it seemed possible that, in the middle of welter and chaos and death and enmity, these two souls could stand apart, in the passionate serene of love, and the moment lasted for just as long as she flung herself into his arms. And then, even while her face was pressed to his, and while the riotous blood of their pressed lips sang to them, the shadow fell across them. Even as he asserted the inviolability of the sanctuary in which they stood, he knew it to be an impossible Utopia--that he should find with her the peace that should secure them from the raging storm, the cold shadow--and the loosening of her arms about his neck but endorsed the message of his own heart. For such heavenly security cannot come except to those who have been through the ultimate bitterness that the world can bring; it is not arrived at but through complete surrender to the trial of fire, and as yet, in spite of their opposed patriotism, in spite of her sincerest sympathy with Michael's loss, the assault on the most intimate lines of the fortress had not yet been delivered. Before they could reach the peace that passed understanding, a fiercer attack had to be repulsed, they had to stand and look at each other unembittered across waves and billows of a salter Marah than this.
