So far
from blaming her for it, he knew that it could not be otherwise, for her
blood called to her, even as his to him, while somewhere in the onrush
of those advancing and devouring waves was her brother, with whom, so it
had often seemed to him, she was one soul. Thus, while in that his whole
sympathy and whole comprehension of her love was with him, there was as
well all that deep, silent English patriotism of which till now he had
scarcely been conscious, praying with mute entreaty that disaster and
destruction and defeat might overwhelm those advancing hordes. Once,
when the anxiety and peril were at their height, he made up his mind not
to see her that day, and spent the evening by himself. But later, when
he was actually on his way to bed, he knew he could not keep away from
her, and though it was already midnight, he drove down to Chelsea, and
found her sitting up, waiting for the chance of his coming.
For a moment, as she greeted him and he kissed her silently, they
escaped from the encompassing horror.
"Ah, you have come," she said. "I thought perhaps you might. I have
wanted you dreadfully."
The roar of artillery, the internecine strife were still. Just for a
few seconds there was nothing in the world for him but her, nor for her
anything but him.
Pages:
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413