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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
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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
MICHAEL
176
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.
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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
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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
MICHAEL
177
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.
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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
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