ll 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 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
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