“The passion for self-sacrifice,” he said, quoting Markham. “I was told the other day it was one of the causes of war. … Don’t look at me so reproachfully—I’m not a pacifist. Give me a kiss and believe me.”
She laughed and gave him the kiss he asked for, and for a minute or two he drew her out of the crowd-life and they were alone together as they had been on the night of their betrothal. Then the spirit of restlessness took hold of her again and she rose suddenly, declaring they must find out what was happening—they must go out and see for themselves.
“It’s only just past ten,” he argued. “What can be happening for another two hours? There’ll only be a crowd—walking up and down and waiting.”
It was just the crowd and its going to and fro that she needed, and she set to work to coax him out of his reluctance. There would never be another night like this one—they must see it together and remember it as long as they lived. … Perhaps, her point gained, she was remorseful, for she rewarded his assent with a caress and a coaxing apology.
“We shall have so many evenings to ourselves,” she told him—“and tonight—tonight we don’t only belong to ourselves.”
He could feel her arm tremble and thrill on his own as they came in sight of the Clock Tower and the swarm of expectant humanity that moved and murmured round Westminster. On him the first impression was of seething insignificance that the Clock Tower dwarfed and the dignity of night reproved; on her, as he knew by the trembling of her fingers, a quickening of life and sensation. …
They were still at the shifting edges of the crowd when a man’s voice called “Phillida!” and one of her undergraduate cousins linked himself on to their company. For nearly an hour the three moved backwards and forwards—through the hum and mutter of voices, the ceaseless turning of eyes to Big Ben and the shuffling of innumerable feet. … When the quarters chimed, there was always a hush; when eleven throbbed solemnly, no man stirred till the last beat died. … With silence and arrested movement the massed humanity at the base of the Clock Tower was no longer a seething insignificance; without speech, without motion, it was suddenly dignified—life faced with its destiny and intent upon a Moving Finger. …
“Only one more hour,” whispered Phillida as the silence broke; and the Rathbone boy, to show he was not moved, wondered if it was worth their while to stay pottering about for an hour? … No one answered his question, since it needed no answer; and, the dignity of silence over, they drifted again with the crowd.
IV
The Moving Finger had written off another five minutes or so when police were suddenly active and sections of the crowd lunged uncomfortably; way was being made for the passing of an official car—and in the backward swirl of packed humanity Theodore was thrust one way, Phillida and the Rathbone boy another. For a moment he saw them as they looked round and beckoned him; the next, the swirl had carried him yet further—and when it receded they were lost amongst the drifting, shifting thousands. After ten minutes more of pushing to and fro in search of them, Theodore gave up the chase as fruitless and made his way disconsolately to the Westminster edge of the crowd. … Phillida, if he knew her, would stay till the stroke of midnight, later if the spirit moved her; and she had an escort in the Rathbone boy, who, in due time, would see her home. … There was no need to worry—but he cursed the luck of what might be their last evening.
For a time he lingered uncertainly on the edge of the pushing, shuffling mass; perhaps would have lingered till the hour struck, if there had not drifted to his memory the evening at Vallance’s when Holt had declared this night to be impossible—and when Markham had “made it war.” And, with that, he remembered also that Markham had rooms nearby—in one of the turnings off Great Smith Street.
There was a light in the room that he knew for Markham’s and it was only after he had rung that he wondered what had urged him to come. He was still wondering when the door opened and could think of no better explanation than “I saw you were up—by your light.”
“If you’d passed five minutes ago,” said Markham, as he led the way upstairs, “you wouldn’t have seen any light. I’m only just back from the lab—and dining off biscuits and whisky.”
“Is this making any difference to you, then?” Theodore asked. “I mean, in the way of work?”
Markham nodded as he poured out his visitor’s whisky. “Yes, I’m serving the country—the military people have taken me over, lock and stock: with everyone else, apparently, who has ever done chemical research. I’ve been pretty hard at it the last few days, ever since the scare was serious. … And you—are you soldiering?”
“No,” said Theodore and told him of the departmental prohibition.
“It mayn’t make much difference in the end,” said Markham. … “You see, I was right—the other evening.”
“Yes,” Theodore answered, “I believe that was why I came in. The crowd tonight reminded me of what you said at Vallance’s—though I don’t think I believed you then. … How long is it going to last?”
“God knows,” said Markham, with his mouth full of biscuit. “We shall have had enough of it—both sides—before very long; but it’s one thing to march into hell with your head up and another to find a way out. … There’s only one thing I’m fairly certain about—I ought to have been strangled at birth.”
Theodore stared at him, not sure he had caught the last words.
“You ought to—?”
“Yes—you heard me right. If the
