Michael bent down.

"Come, Petsy," he said, "come to bed in my room."

The dog looked at him for a moment as if weighing his trustworthiness.

Then he got up and, with grotesque Chinese high-stepping walk, came to him.

"He'll be all right with me," he said to the maid.

He took Petsy into his room next door, and laid him on the chair in which his mother had sat. The dog moved round in a circle once or twice, and then settled himself down to sleep. Michael went to bed also, and lay awake about a couple of minutes, not thinking, but only being, while the owls hooted outside.

He awoke into complete consciousness, knowing that something had aroused him, even as three days ago when the telephone rang to summon him to his mother's deathbed. Then he did not know what had awakened him, but now he was sure that there had been a tapping on his door. And after he had sat up in bed completely awake, he heard Petsy give a little welcoming bark. Then came the noise of his small, soft tail beating against the cushion in the chair.

Michael had no feeling of fright at all, only of longing for something that physically could not be. And longing, only longing, once more he said:

"Come in, mother."

He believed he heard the door whisper on the carpet, but he saw nothing.

Only, the room was full of his mother's presence. It seemed to him that, in obedience to her, he lay down completely satisfied. . . . He felt no curiosity to see or hear more. She was there, and that was enough.

He woke again a little after dawn. Petsy between the window and the door had jumped on to his bed to get out of the draught of the morning wind.

For the door was opened.

That morning the coffin was carried down the long winding path above the deep-water reach, where Michael and Francis at Christmas had heard the sound of stealthy rowing, and on to the boat that awaited it to ferry it across to the church. There was high tide, and, as they pa.s.sed over the estuary, the stillness of supreme noon bore to them the tolling of the bell. The mourners from the house followed, just three of them, Lord Ashbridge, Michael, and Aunt Barbara, for the rest were to a.s.semble at the church. But of all that, one moment stood out for Michael above all others, when, as they entered the graveyard, someone whom he could not see said: "I am the Resurrection and the Life," and he heard that his father, by whom he walked, suddenly caught his breath in a sob.

All that day there persisted that sense of complete detachment from all but her whose body they had laid to rest on the windy hill overlooking the broad water. His father, Aunt Barbara, the cousins and relations who thronged the church were no more than inanimate shadows compared with her whose presence had come last night into his room, and had not left him since. The affairs of the world, drums and the torch of war, had pa.s.sed for those hours from his knowledge, as at the centre of a cyclone there was a windless calm. To-morrow he knew he would pa.s.s out into the tumult again, and the minutes slipped like pearls from a string, dropping into the dim gulf where the tempest raged. . . .

He went back to town next morning, after a short interview with his father, who was coming up later in the day, when he told him that he intended to go back to his regiment as soon as possible. But, knowing that he meant to go by the slow midday train, his father proposed to stop the express for him that went through a few minutes before. Michael could hardly believe his ears. . . .

CHAPTER XV

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 I must 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 I sing? 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 I suppose 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."