MICHAEL

by E. F. Benson

CHAPTER I

Though there was nothing visibly graceful about Michael Comber, heapparently had the art of giving gracefully. He had already told hiscousin Francis, who sat on the arm of the sofa by his table, that therewas no earthly excuse for his having run into debt; but now when themoment came for giving, he wrote the cheque quickly and eagerly, as ifthoroughly enjoying it, and passed it over to him with a smile that wasextraordinarily pleasant. 

"There you are, then, Francis, " he said; "and I take it from you thatthat will put you perfectly square again. You've got to write to me, remember, in two days' time, saying that you have paid those bills. Andfor the rest, I'm delighted that you told me about it. In fact, I shouldhave been rather hurt if you hadn't. "

Francis apparently had the art of accepting gracefully, which is moredifficult than the feat which Michael had so successfully accomplished. 

"Mike, you're a brick, " he said. "But then you always are a brick. Thanks awfully. "

Michael got up, and shuffled rather than walked across the room to thebell by the fireplace. As long as he was sitting down his big arms andbroad shoulders gave the impression of strength, and you would haveexpected to find when he got up that he was tall and largely made. Butwhen he rose the extreme shortness of his legs manifested itself, andhe appeared almost deformed. His hands hung nearly to his knees; he washeavy, short, lumpish. 

"But it's more blessed to give than to receive, Francis, " he said. "Ihave the best of you there. "

"Well, it's pretty blessed to receive when you are in a tight place, asI was, " he said, laughing. "And I am so grateful. "

"Yes, I know you are. And it's that which makes me feel rather cheap, because I don't miss what I've given you. But that's distinctly not areason for your doing it again. You'll have tea, won't you?"

"Why, yes, " said Francis, getting up, also, and leaning his elbow onthe chimney-piece, which was nearly on a level with the top of Michael'shead. And if Michael had gracefulness only in the art of giving, Francis's gracefulness in receiving was clearly of a piece with the restof him. He was tall, slim and alert, with the quick, soft movements ofsome wild animal. His face, brown with sunburn and pink with brisk-goingblood, was exceedingly handsome in a boyish and almost effeminatemanner, and though he was only eighteen months younger than his cousin, he looked as if nine or ten years might have divided their ages. 

"But you are a brick, Mike, " he said again, laying his long, brown handon his cousin's shoulder. "I can't help saying it twice. "

"Twice more than was necessary, " said Michael, finally dismissing thesubject. 

The room where they sat was in Michael's flat in Half Moon Street, andhigh up in one of those tall, discreet-looking houses. The windows werewide open on this hot July afternoon, and the bourdon hum of London, where Piccadilly poured by at the street end, came in blended andblunted by distance, but with the suggestion of heat, of movement, ofhurrying affairs. The room was very empty of furniture; there was a rugor two on the parquet floor, a long, low bookcase taking up the end nearthe door, a table, a sofa, three or four chairs, and a piano. Everythingwas plain, but equally obviously everything was expensive, and thegeneral impression given was that the owner had no desire to besurrounded by things he did not want, but insisted on the superlativequality of the things he did. The rugs, for instance, happened to be ofsilk, the bookcase happened to be Hepplewhite, the piano bore the mosteminent of makers' names. There were three mezzotints on the walls, adragon's-blood vase on the high, carved chimney-piece; the whole borethe unmistakable stamp of a fine, individual taste. 

"But there's something else I want to talk to you about, Francis, " saidMichael, as presently afterwards they sat over their tea. "I can't saythat I exactly want your advice, but I should like your opinion. I'vedone something, in fact, without asking anybody, but now that it's doneI should like to know what you think about it. "

Francis laughed. 

"That's you all over, Michael, " he said. "You always do a thing first, if you really mean to do it--which I suppose is moral courage--and thenyou go anxiously round afterwards to see if other people approve, which I am afraid looks like moral cowardice. I go on a differentplan altogether. I ascertain the opinion of so many people before I doanything that I end by forgetting what I wanted to do. At least, that seems a reasonable explanation for the fact that I so seldom doanything. "

Michael looked affectionately at the handsome boy who loungedlong-legged in the chair opposite him. Like many very shy persons, hehad one friend with whom he was completely unreserved, and that wasthis cousin of his, for whose charm and insouciant brilliance he had soadoring an admiration. 

He pointed a broad, big finger at him. 

"Yes, but when you are like that, " he said, "you can just float along. Other people float you. But I should sink heavily if I did nothing. I'vegot to swim all the time. "

"Well, you are in the army, " said Francis. "That's as much swimming asanyone expects of a fellow who has expectations. In fact, it's I whohave to swim all the time, if you come to think of it. You are somebody;I'm not!"

Michael sat up and took a cigarette. 

"But I'm not in the army any longer, " he said. "That's just what I amwanting to tell you. "

Francis laughed. 

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Have you been cashiered or shot orsomething?"

"I mean that I wrote and resigned my commission yesterday, " saidMichael. "If you had dined with me last night--as, by the way, youpromised to do--I should have told you then. "

Francis got up and leaned against the chimney-piece. He was conscious ofnot thinking this abrupt news as important as he felt he ought to thinkit. That was characteristic of him; he floated, as Michael had latelytold him, finding the world an extremely pleasant place, full of warmcurrents that took you gently forward without entailing the slightestexertion. But Michael's grave and expectant face--that Michael who hadbeen so eagerly kind about meeting his debts for him--warned him that, however gossamer-like his own emotions were, he must attempt to ballasthimself over this. 

"Are you speaking seriously?" he asked. 

"Quite seriously. I never did anything that was so serious. "

"And that is what you want my opinion about?" he asked. "If so, youmust tell me more, Mike. I can't have an opinion unless you give me thereasons why you did it. The thing itself--well, the thing itself doesn'tseem to matter so immensely. The significance of it is why you did it. "

Michael's big, heavy-browed face lightened a moment. "For a fellow whonever thinks, " he said, "you think uncommonly well. But the reasons areobvious enough. You can guess sufficient reasons to account for it. "

"Let's hear them anyhow, " said Francis. 

Michael clouded again. 

"Surely they are obvious, " he said. "No one knows better than me, unlessit is you, that I'm not like the rest of you. My mind isn't the build ofa guardsman's mind, any more than my unfortunate body is. Half our work, as you know quite well, consists in being pleasant and in liking it. Well, I'm not pleasant. I'm not breezy and cordial. I can't do it. I make a task of what is a pastime to all of you, and I only shufflethrough my task. I'm not popular, I'm not liked. It's no earthly usesaying I am. I don't like the life; it seems to me senseless. And thosewho live it don't like me. They think me heavy--just heavy. And I haveenough sensitiveness to know it. "

Michael need not have stated his reasons, for his cousin could certainlyhave guessed them; he could, too, have confessed to the truth of them. Michael had not the light hand, which is so necessary when young menwork together in a companionship of which the cordiality is an essentialpart of the work; neither had he in the social side of life thatparticular and inimitable sort of easy self-confidence which, as he hadsaid just now, enables its owner to float. Except in years he was notyoung; he could not manage to be "clubable"; he was serious and awkwardat a supper party; he was altogether without the effervescence which isnecessary in order to avoid flatness. He did his work also in the sameconscientious but leaden way; officers and men alike felt it. All thisFrancis knew perfectly well; but instead of acknowledging it, he triedquite fruitlessly to smooth it over. 

"Aren't you exaggerating?" he asked. 

Michael shook his head. 

"Oh, don't tone it down, Francis!" he said. "Even if I wasexaggerating--which I don't for a moment admit--the effect on my generalefficiency would be the same. I think what I say is true. "

Francis became more practical. 

"But you've only been in the regiment three years, " he said. "It won'tbe very popular resigning after only three years. "

"I have nothing much to lose on the score of popularity, " remarkedMichael. 

There was nothing pertinent that could be consoling here. 

"And have you told your father?" asked Francis. "Does Uncle Robertknow?"

"Yes; I wrote to father this morning, and I'm going down to Ashbridgeto-morrow. I shall be very sorry if he disapproves. "

"Then you'll be sorry, " said Francis. 

"I know, but it won't make any difference to my action. After all, I'mtwenty-five; if I can't begin to manage my life now, you may be sure Inever shall. But I know I'm right. I would bet on my infallibility. Atpresent I've only told you half my reasons for resigning, and alreadyyou agree with me. "

Francis did not contradict this. 

"Let's hear the rest, then, " he said. 

"You shall. The rest is far more important, and rather resembles asermon. "

Francis appropriately sat down again. 

"Well, it's this, " said Michael. "I'm twenty-five, and it is time thatI began trying to be what perhaps I may be able to be, instead of nottrying very much--because it's hopeless--to be what I can't be. I'mgoing to study music. I believe that I could perhaps do something there, and in any case I love it more than anything else. And if you love athing, you have certainly a better chance of succeeding in it than insomething that you don't love at all. I was stuck into the army for noreason except that soldiering is among the few employments which it isconsidered proper for fellows in my position--good Lord! how awful itsounds!--proper for me to adopt. The other things that were open werethat I should be a sailor or a member of Parliament. But the soldier waswhat father chose. I looked round the picture gallery at home the otherday; there are twelve Lord Ashbridges in uniform. So, as I shall beLord Ashbridge when father dies, I was stuck into uniform too, to be theill-starred thirteenth. But what has it all come to? If you think of it, when did the majority of them wear their smart uniforms? Chiefly whenthey went on peaceful parades or to court balls, or to the Sir JoshuaReynolds of the period to be painted. They've been tin soldiers, Francis! You're a tin soldier, and I've just ceased to be a tin soldier. If there was the smallest chance of being useful in the army, by whichI mean standing up and being shot at because I am English, I would notdream of throwing it up. But there's no such chance. "

Michael paused a moment in his sermon, and beat out the ashes from hispipe against the grate. 

"Anyhow the chance is too remote, " he said. "All the nations with armiesand navies are too much afraid of each other to do more than growl. AlsoI happen to want to do something different with my life, and you can'tdo anything unless you believe in what you are doing. I want to leavebehind me something more than the portrait of a tin soldier in thedining-room at Ashbridge. After all, isn't an artistic professionthe greatest there is? For what counts, what is of value in theworld to-day? Greek statues, the Italian pictures, the symphonies ofBeethoven, the plays of Shakespeare. The people who have made beautifulthings are they who are the benefactors of mankind. At least, so thepeople who love beautiful things think. "

Francis glanced at his cousin. He knew this interesting vital side ofMichael; he was aware, too, that had anybody except himself been in theroom, Michael could not have shown it. Perhaps there might be peopleto whom he could show it but certainly they were not those among whomMichael's life was passed. 

"Go on, " he said encouragingly. "You're ripping, Mike. "

"Well, the nuisance of it is that the things I am ripping about appearto father to be a sort of indoor game. It's all right to play the piano, if it's too wet to play golf. You can amuse yourself with painting ifthere aren't any pheasants to shoot. In fact, he will think that mywanting to become a musician is much the same thing as if I wanted tobecome a billiard-marker. And if he and I talked about it till we were ahundred years old, he could never possibly appreciate my point of view. "

Michael got up and began walking up and down the room with his slow, ponderous movement. 

"Francis, it's a thousand pities that you and I can't change places, " hesaid. "You are exactly the son father would like to have, and I shouldso much prefer being his nephew. However, you come next; that's onecomfort. "

He paused a moment. 

"You see, the fact is that he doesn't like me, " he said. "He has nosympathy whatever with my tastes, nor with what I am. I'm an awful trialto him, and I don't see how to help it. It's pure waste of time, mygoing on in the Guards. I do it badly, and I hate it. Now, you're madefor it; you're that sort, and that sort is my father's sort. But I'mnot; no one knows that better than myself. Then there's the question ofmarriage, too. "

Michael gave a mirthless laugh. 

"I'm twenty-five, you see, " he said, "and it's the family custom for theeldest son to marry at twenty-five, just as he's baptised when he's acertain number of weeks old, and confirmed when he is fifteen. It's partof the family plan, and the Medes and Persians aren't in it when thefamily plan is in question. Then, again, the lucky young woman has to besuitable; that is to say, she must be what my father calls 'one of us. 'How I loathe that phrase! So my mother has a list of the suitable, andthey come down to Ashbridge in gloomy succession, and she and I aresent out to play golf together or go on the river. And when, to ourunutterable relief, that is over, we hurry back to the house, and Iescape to my piano, and she goes and flirts with you, if you are there. Don't deny it. And then another one comes, and she is drearier than thelast--at least, I am. "

Francis lay back and laughed at this dismal picture of the rejection ofthe fittest. 

"But you're so confoundedly hard to please, Mike, " he said. "There wasan awfully nice girl down at Ashbridge at Easter when I was there, whowas simply pining to take you. I've forgotten her name. "

Michael clicked his fingers in a summary manner. 

"There you are!" he said. "You and she flirted all the time, and threemonths afterwards you don't even remember her name. If you had only beenme, you would have married her. As it was, she and I bored each otherstiff. There's an irony for you! But as for pining, I ask you whetherany girl in her senses could pine for me. Look at me, and tell me! Orrather, don't look at me; I can't bear to be looked at. "

Here was one of Michael's morbid sensitivenesses. He seldom forgot hisown physical appearance, the fact of which was to him appalling. Hisstumpy figure with its big body, his broad, blunt-featured face, hislong arms, his large hands and feet, his clumsiness in movement were tohim of the nature of a constant nightmare, and it was only with Francisand the ease that his solitary presence gave, or when he was occupiedwith music that he wholly lost his self-consciousness in this respect. It seemed to him that he must be as repulsive to others as he was tohimself, which was a distorted view of the case. Plain without doubt hewas, and of heavy and ungainly build; but his belief in the finality ofhis uncouthness was morbid and imaginary, and half his inability to geton with his fellows, no less than with the maidens who were broughtdown in single file to Ashbridge, was due to this. He knew very wellhow light-heartedly they escaped to the geniality and attractiveness ofFrancis, and in the clutch of his own introspective temperament he couldnot free himself from the handicap of his own sensitiveness, and, likeothers, take himself for granted. He crushed his own power to please bythe weight of his judgments on himself. 

"So there's another reason to complain of the irony of fate, " he said. "I don't want to marry anybody, and God knows nobody wants to marry me. But, then, it's my duty to become the father of another Lord Ashbridge, as if there had not been enough of them already, and his mother mustbe a certain kind of girl, with whom I have nothing in common. So Isay that if only we could have changed places, you would have filledmy niche so perfectly, and I should have been free to bury myself inLeipzig or Munich, and lived like the grub I certainly am, and havedrowned myself in a sea of music. As it is, goodness knows what myfather will say to the letter I wrote him yesterday, which he will havereceived this morning. However, that will soon be patent, for I go downthere to-morrow. I wish you were coming with me. Can't you manage to fora day or two, and help things along? Aunt Barbara will be there. "

Francis consulted a small, green morocco pocket-book. 

"Can't to-morrow, " he said, "nor yet the day after. But perhaps I couldget a few days' leave next week. "

"Next week's no use. I go to Baireuth next week. "

"Baireuth? Who's Baireuth?" asked Francis. 

"Oh, a man I know. His other name was Wagner, and he wrote some tunes. "

Francis nodded. 

"Oh, but I've heard of him, " he said. "They're rather long tunes, aren'tthey? At least I found them so when I went to the opera the other night. Go on with your plans, Mike. What do you mean to do after that?"

"Go on to Munich and hear the same tunes over, again. After that I shallcome back and settle down in town and study. "

"Play the piano?" asked Francis, amiably trying to enter into hiscousin's schemes. 

Michael laughed. 

"No doubt that will come into it, " he said. "But it's rather as ifyou told somebody you were a soldier, and he said: 'Oh, is that quickmarch?'"

"So it is. Soldiering largely consists of quick march, especially whenit's more than usually hot. "

"Well, I shall learn to play the piano, " said Michael. 

"But you play so rippingly already, " said Francis cordially. "You playedall those songs the other night which you had never seen before. If youcan do that, there is nothing more you want to learn with the piano, isthere?"

"You are talking rather as father will talk, " observed Michael. 

"Am I? Well, I seem to be talking sense. "

"You weren't doing what you seemed, then. I've got absolutely everythingto learn about the piano. "

Francis rose. 

"Then it is clear I don't understand anything about it, " he said. "Nor, I suppose, does Uncle Robert. But, really, I rather envy you, Mike. Anyhow, you want to do and be something so much that you are gaily goingto face unpleasantnesses with Uncle Robert about it. Now, I wouldn'tface unpleasantnesses with anybody about anything I wanted to do, and Isuppose the reason must be that I don't want to do anything enough. "

"The malady of not wanting, " quoted Michael. 

"Yes, I've got that malady. The ordinary things that one naturally doesare all so pleasant, and take all the time there is, that I don't wantanything particular, especially now that you've been such a brick--"

"Stop it, " said Michael. 

"Right; I got it in rather cleverly. I was saying that it must be rathernice to want a thing so much that you'll go through a lot to get it. Most fellows aren't like that. "

"A good many fellows are jelly-fish, " observed Michael. 

"I suppose so. I'm one, you know. I drift and float. But I don't think Isting. What are you doing to-night, by the way?"

"Playing the piano, I hope. Why?"

"Only that two fellows are dining with me, and I thought perhaps youwould come. Aunt Barbara sent me the ticket for a box at the Gaiety, too, and we might look in there. Then there's a dance somewhere. "

"Thanks very much, but I think I won't, " said Michael. "I'm ratherlooking forward to an evening alone. "

"And that's an odd thing to look forward to, " remarked Francis. 

"Not when you want to play the piano. I shall have a chop here at eight, and probably thump away till midnight. "

Francis looked round for his hat and stick. 

"I must go, " he said. "I ought to have gone long ago, but I didn't wantto. The malady came in again. Most of the world have got it, you know, Michael. "

Michael rose and stood by his tall cousin. 

"I think we English have got it, " he said. "At least, the English youand I know have got it. But I don't believe the Germans, for instance, have. They're in deadly earnest about all sorts of things--music amongthem, which is the point that concerns me. The music of the world isGerman, you know!"

Francis demurred to this. 

"Oh, I don't think so, " he said. "This thing at the Gaiety is ripping, Ibelieve. Do come and see. "

Michael resisted this chance of revising his opinion about the Germanorigin of music, and Francis drifted out into Piccadilly. It was alreadygetting on for seven o'clock, and the roadway and pavements were full ofpeople who seemed rather to contradict Michael's theory that the nationgenerally suffered from the malady of not wanting, so eagerly andnumerously were they on the quest for amusement. Already the street wasa mass of taxicabs and private motors containing, each one of them, menand women in evening dress, hurrying out to dine before the theatreor the opera. Bright, eager faces peered out, with sheen of silk andglitter of gems; they all seemed alert and prosperous and keen for thedaily hours of evening entertainment. A crowd similar in spirit pervadedthe pavements, white-shirted men with coat on arm stepped in and outof swinging club doors and the example set by the leisured class seemedcopiously copied by those whom desks and shops had made prisonersall day. The air of the whole town, swarming with the nation that issupposed to make so grave an affair of its amusements, was indescribablygay and lighthearted; the whole city seemed set on enjoying itself. The buses that boomed along were packed inside and out, and eachwas placarded with advertisement of some popular piece at theatre ormusic-hall. Inside the Green Park the grass was populous with loungingfigures, who, unable to pay for indoor entertainment, were making themost of what the coolness of sunset and grass supplied them with gratis;the newsboards of itinerant sellers contained nothing of more seriousimport than the result of cricket matches; and, as the dusk began tofall, street lamps and signs were lit, like early rising stars, so thatno hint of the gathering night should be permitted to intrude on theperpetually illuminated city. All that was sordid and sad, all that wasbusy (except on these gay errands of pleasure) was shuffled away out ofsight, so that the pleasure seekers might be excused for believing thatthere was nothing in the world that could demand their attention exceptthe need of amusing themselves successfully. The workers toiled in orderthat when the working day was over the fruits of their labour mightyield a harvest of a few hours' enjoyment; silkworms had spun so thatfrom carriage windows might glimmer the wrappings made from theircocoons; divers had been imperilled in deep seas so that the pearls theyhad won might embellish the necks of these fair wearers. 

To Francis this all seemed very natural and proper, part of therecognised order of things that made up the series of sensations knownto him as life. He did not, as he had said, very particularly careabout anything, and it was undoubtedly true that there was no motiveor conscious purpose in his life for which he would voluntarily haveundergone any important stress of discomfort or annoyance. It was truethat in pursuance of his profession there was a certain amount of "quickmarching" and drill to be done in the heat, but that was incidental tothe fact that he was in the Guards, and more than compensated for by thepleasures that were also naturally incidental to it. He would have beenquite unable to think of anything that he would sooner do than whathe did; and he had sufficient of the ingrained human tendency to dosomething of the sort, which was a matter of routine rather than effort, than have nothing whatever, except the gratification of momentarywhims, to fill his day. Besides, it was one of the conventions or evenconditions of life that every boy on leaving school "did" something fora certain number of years. Some went into business in order to acquirethe wealth that should procure them leisure; some, like himself, becamesoldiers or sailors, not because they liked guns and ships, but becauseto boys of a certain class these professions supplied honourableemployment and a pleasant time. Without being in any way slack in hisregimental duties, he performed them as many others did, without thesmallest grain of passion, and without any imaginative forecast as towhat fruit, if any, there might be to these hours spent in drill anddiscipline. He was but one of a very large number who do their workwithout seriously bothering their heads about its possible meaning orapplication. His particular job gave a young man a pleasant positionand an easy path to general popularity, given that he was willing to besociable and amused. He was extremely ready to be both the one and theother, and there his philosophy of life stopped. 

And, indeed, it seemed on this hot July evening that the streets werepopulated by philosophers like unto himself. Never had England generallybeen more prosperous, more secure, more comfortable. The heavens ofinternational politics were as serene as the evening sky; not yet wasthe storm-cloud that hung over Ireland bigger than a man's hand; east, west, north and south there brooded the peace of the close of a halcyonday, and the amazing doings of the Suffragettes but added a slightincentive to the perusal of the morning paper. The arts flourished, harvests prospered; the world like a newly-wound clock seemed to be infor a spell of serene and orderly ticking, with an occasional chime justto show how the hours were passing. 

London was an extraordinarily pleasant place, people were friendly, amusements beckoned on all sides; and for Francis, as for so manyothers, but a very moderate amount of work was necessary to win himan approved place in the scheme of things, a seat in the slow-wheelingsunshine. It really was not necessary to want, above all to undergoannoyances for the sake of what you wanted, since so many pleasurabledistractions, enough to fill day and night twice over, were so richlyspread around. 

Some day he supposed he would marry, settle down and become in time oneof those men who presented a bald head in a club window to the gazeof passers-by. It was difficult, perhaps, to see how you could enjoyyourself or lead a life that paid its own way in pleasure at the age offorty, but that he trusted that he would learn in time. At present itwas sufficient to know that in half an hour two excellent friends wouldcome to dinner, and that they would proceed in a spirit of amiablecontent to the Gaiety. After that there was a ball somewhere (he hadforgotten where, but one of the others would be sure to know), andto-morrow and to-morrow would be like unto to-day. It was idle toask questions of oneself when all went so well; the time for askingquestions was when there was matter for complaint, and with himassuredly there was none. The advantages of being twenty-three yearsold, gay and good-looking, without a care in the world, now that he hadMichael's cheque in his pocket, needed no comment, still less complaint. He, like the crowd who had sufficient to pay for a six-penny seat at amusic-hall, was perfectly content with life in general; to-morrowwould be time enough to do a little more work and glean a little morepleasure. 

It was indeed an admirable England, where it was not necessary evento desire, for there were so many things, bright, cheerful things todistract the mind from desire. It was a day of dozing in the sun, likethe submerged, scattered units or duets on the grass of the Green Park, of behaving like the lilies of the field. . . . Francis found he wasrather late, and proceeded hastily to his mother's house in SavileRow to array himself, if not "like one of these, " like an exceedinglywell-dressed young man, who demanded of his tailor the utmost of hisart; with the prospect, owing to Michael's generosity, of being paidto-morrow. 

Michael, when his cousin had left him, did not at once proceed to hisevening by himself with his piano, though an hour before he had longedto be alone with it and a pianoforte arrangement of the Meistersingers, of which he had promised himself a complete perusal that evening. But Francis's visit had already distracted him, and he found nowthat Francis's departure took him even farther away from his designedevening. Francis, with his good looks and his gay spirits, his easyfriendships and perfect content (except when a small matter of deficitand dunning letters obscured the sunlight for a moment), was exactly allthat he would have wished to be himself. But the moment he formulatedthat wish in his mind, he knew that he would not voluntarily have partedwith one atom of his own individuality in order to be Francis or anybodyelse. He was aware how easy and pleasant life would become if he couldlook on it with Francis's eyes, and if the world would look on him as itlooked on his cousin. There would be no more bother. . . . In amoment, he would, by this exchange, have parted with his own unhappytemperament, his own deplorable body, and have stepped into an amiableand prosperous little neutral kingdom that had no desires and noregrets. He would have been free from all wants, except such as couldbe gratified so easily by a little work and a great capacity for beingamused; he would have found himself excellently fitting the niche intowhich the rulers of birth and death had placed him: an eldest son ofa great territorial magnate, who had what was called a stake in thecountry, and desired nothing better. 

Willingly, as he had said, would he have changed circumstances withFrancis, but he knew that he would not, for any bait the world coulddraw in front of him, have changed natures with him, even when, toall appearance, the gain would so vastly have been on his side. It wasbetter to want and to miss than to be content. Even at this moment, when Francis had taken the sunshine out of the room with his departure, Michael clung to his own gloom and his own uncouthness, if by gettingrid of them he would also have been obliged to get rid of his owntemperament, unhappy as it was, but yet capable of strong desire. He didnot want to be content; he wanted to see always ahead of him a goldenmist, through which the shadows of unconjecturable shapes appeared. Hewas willing and eager to get lost, if only he might go wandering on, groping with his big hands, stumbling with his clumsy feet, desiring . . . 

There are the indications of a path visible to all who desire. Michaelknew that his path, the way that seemed to lead in the direction ofthe ultimate goal, was music. There, somehow, in that direction lay hisdestiny; that was the route. He was not like the majority of his sexand years, who weave their physical and mental dreams in the loom of agirl's face, in her glance, in the curves of her mouth. Deliberately, owing chiefly to his morbid consciousness of his own physical defects, he had long been accustomed to check the instincts natural to a youngman in this regard. He had seen too often the facility with whichothers, more fortunate than he, get delightedly lost in that goldenhaze; he had experienced too often the absence of attractiveness inhimself. How could any girl of the London ballroom, he had so frequentlyasked himself, tolerate dancing or sitting out with him when there wasFrancis, and a hundred others like him, so pleased to take his place?Nor, so he told himself, was his mind one whit more apt than his body. It did not move lightly and agreeably with unconscious smiles and easylaughter. By nature he was monkish, he was celibate. He could but ceaseto burn incense at such ineffectual altars, and help, as he had helpedthis afternoon, to replenish the censers of more fortunate acolytes. 

This was all familiar to him; it passed through his head unbidden, when Francis had left him, like the refrain of some well-known song, occurring spontaneously without need of an effort of memory. It wasa possession of his, known by heart, and it no longer, except formomentary twinges, had any bitterness for him. This afternoon, it istrue, there had been one such, when Francis, gleeful with his cheque, had gone out to his dinner and his theatre and his dance, inviting himcheerfully to all of them. In just that had been the bitterness--namely, that Francis had so overflowing a well-spring of content that hecould be cordial in bidding him cast a certain gloom over theseentertainments. Michael knew, quite unerringly, that Francis and hisfriends would not enjoy themselves quite so much if he was with them;there would be the restraint of polite conversation at dinner instead ofcompletely idle babble, there would be less outspoken normality at theGaiety, a little more decorum about the whole of the boyish proceedings. He knew all that so well, so terribly well. . . . 

His servant had come in with the evening paper, and the impliedsuggestion of the propriety of going to dress before he roused himself. He decided not to dress, as he was going to spend the evening alone, and, instead, he seated himself at the piano with his copy of theMeistersingers and, mechanically at first, with the ragged cloud-fleecesof his reverie hanging about his brain, banged away at the overture. He had extraordinary dexterity of finger for one who had had so littletraining, and his hands, with their great stretch, made light work ofoctaves and even tenths. His knowledge of the music enabled him to wakethe singing bird of memory in his head, and before long flute and hornand string and woodwind began to make themselves heard in his inner ear. Twice his servant came in to tell him that his dinner was ready, butMichael had no heed for anything but the sounds which his flying fingerssuggested to him. Francis, his father, his own failure in the lifethat had been thrust on him were all gone; he was with the singers ofNuremberg. 

CHAPTER II

The River Ashe, after a drowsy and meandering childhood, passedpeacefully among the sedges and marigolds of its water meadows, suddenlyand somewhat disconcertingly grows up and, without any period oftransition and adolescence, becomes, from being a mere girl of arivulet, a male and full-blooded estuary of the sea. At Coton, forinstance, the tips of the sculls of a sauntering pleasure-boat willalmost span its entire width, while, but a mile farther down, you willsee stone-laden barges and tall, red-winged sailing craft coming up withthe tide, and making fast to the grey wooden quay wall of Ashbridge, rough with barnacles. For the reeds and meadow-sweet of its margin areexchanged the brown and green growths of the sea, with their sharp, acrid odour instead of the damp, fresh smell of meadow flowers, and atlow tide the podded bladders of brown weed and long strings of marinemacaroni, among which peevish crabs scuttle sideways, take the placeof the grass and spires of loosestrife; and over the water, instead ofsinging larks, hang white companies of chiding seagulls. Here at hightide extends a sheet of water large enough, when the wind blows up theestuary, to breed waves that break in foam and spray against the barges, while at the ebb acres of mud flats are disclosed on which the boatslean slanting till the flood lifts them again and makes them strain atthe wheezing ropes that tie them to the quay. 

A year before the flame of war went roaring through Europe inunquenchable conflagration it would have seemed that nothing couldpossibly rouse Ashbridge from its red-brick Georgian repose. There wasnever a town so inimitably drowsy or so sternly uncompetitive. A hundredyears ago it must have presented almost precisely the same appearance asit did in the summer of 1913, if we leave out of reckoning a fewdozen of modern upstart villas that line its outskirts, and the veryinconspicuous railway station that hides itself behind the warehousesnear the river's bank. Most of the trains, too, quite ignore itsexistence, and pass through it on their way to more rewardingstopping-places, hardly recognising it even by a spurt of steam fromtheir whistles, and it is only if you travel by those that requirethe most frequent pauses in their progress that you will be enabled toalight at its thin and depopulated platform. 

Just outside the station there perennially waits a low-roofed andsanguine omnibus that under daily discouragement continues to hope thatin the long-delayed fulness of time somebody will want to be drivensomewhere. (This nobody ever does, since the distance to any house is sosmall, and a porter follows with luggage on a barrow. ) It carries on itsfloor a quantity of fresh straw, in the manner of the stage coaches, inwhich the problematic passenger, should he ever appear, will no doubtbury his feet. On its side, just below the window that is not made toopen, it carries the legend that shows that it belongs to the ComberArms, a hostelry so self-effacing that it is discoverable only by thesharpest-eyed of pilgrims. Narrow roadways, flanked by proportionatelynarrower pavements, lie ribbon-like between huddled shops andsquarely-spacious Georgian houses; and an air of leisure and content, amounting almost to stupefaction, is the moral atmosphere of the place. 

On the outskirts of the town, crowning the gentle hills that lie to thenorth and west, villas in acre plots, belonging to business men in thecounty town some ten miles distant, "prick their Cockney ears" and arestrangely at variance with the sober gravity of the indigenous houses. So, too, are the manners and customs of their owners, who go toStoneborough every morning to their work, and return by the train thatbrings them home in time for dinner. They do other exotic and unsuitablethings also, like driving swiftly about in motors, in playing golf onthe other side of the river at Coton, and in having parties at eachother's houses. But apart from them nobody ever seems to leave Ashbridge(though a stroll to the station about the time that the evening trainarrives is a recognised diversion) or, in consequence, ever to comeback. Ashbridge, in fact, is self-contained, and desires neither tomeddle with others nor to be meddled with. 

The estuary opposite the town is some quarter of a mile broad at hightide, and in order to cross to the other side, where lie the woods andpark of Ashbridge House, it is necessary to shout and make staccatoprancings in order to attract the attention of the antique ferryman, whois invariably at the other side of the river and generally asleep at thebottom of his boat. If you are strong-lunged and can prance and shoutfor a long time, he may eventually stagger to his feet, come acrossfor you and row you over. Otherwise you will stand but little chance ofarousing him from his slumbers, and you will stop where you are, unlessyou choose to walk round by the bridge at Coton, a mile above. 

Periodical attempts are made by the brisker inhabitants of Ashbridge, who do not understand its spirit, to substitute for this aged andineffectual Charon someone who is occasionally awake, but nothing everresults from these revolutionary moves, and the requests addressed tothe town council on the subject are never heard of again. "Old George"was ferryman there before any members of the town council were born, andhe seems to have established a right to go to sleep on the other side ofthe river which is now inalienable from him. Besides, asleep or awake, he is always perfectly sober, which, after all, is really one of thefirst requirements for a suitable ferryman. Even the representations ofLord Ashbridge himself who, when in residence, frequently has occasionto use the ferry when crossing from his house to the town, failed toproduce the smallest effect, and he was compelled to build a boathouseof his own on the farther bank, and be paddled across by himself orone of the servants. Often he rowed himself, for he used to be a fineoarsman, and it was good for the lounger on the quay to see the foamingprow of his vigorous progress and the dignity of physical toil. 

In all other respects, except in this case of "Old George, " LordAshbridge's wishes were law to the local authorities, for in thistranquil East-coast district the spirit of the feudal system witha beneficent lord and contented tenants strongly survived. It hadtriumphed even over such modern innovations as railroads, for LordAshbridge had the undoubted right to stop any train he pleased by signalat Ashbridge station. This he certainly enjoyed doing; it fed his senseof the fitness of things to progress along the platform with his genial, important tiptoe walk, and elbows squarely stuck out, to the carriagethat was at once reserved for him, to touch the brim of his grey top-hat(if travelling up to town) to the obsequious guard, and to observe theheads of passengers who wondered why their express was arrested, thrustout of carriage windows to look at him. A livened footman, as well as avalet, followed him, bearing a coat and a rug and a morning or eveningpaper and a dispatch-box with a large gilt coronet on it, and bestowedthese solaces to a railway journey on the empty seats near him. Andnot only his sense of fitness was hereby fed, but that also of thestation-master and the solitary porter and the newsboy, and suchinhabitants of Ashbridge as happened to have strolled on to theplatform. For he was THEIR Earl of Ashbridge, kind, courteous anddominant, a local king; it was all very pleasant. 

But this arrest of express trains was a strictly personal privilege;when Lady Ashbridge or Michael travelled they always went in the slowtrain to Stoneborough, changed there and abided their time on theplatform like ordinary mortals. Though he could undoubtedly haveextended his rights to the stopping of a train for his wife or son, hewisely reserved this for himself, lest it should lose prestige. Therewas sufficient glory already (to probe his mind to the bottom) for LadyAshbridge in being his wife; it was sufficient also for Michael that hewas his son. 

It may be inferred that there was a touch of pomposity about thisadmirable gentleman, who was so excellent a landlord and so hard workinga member of the British aristocracy. But pomposity would be far toosuperficial a word to apply to him; it would not adequately connotehis deep-abiding and essential conviction that on one of the days ofCreation (that, probably, on which the decree was made that there shouldbe Light) there leaped into being the great landowners of England. 

But Lord Ashbridge, though himself a peer, by no means accepted thepeerage en bloc as representing the English aristocracy; to be, inhis phrase, "one of us" implied that you belonged to certainwell-ascertained families where brewers and distinguished soldiershad no place, unless it was theirs already. He was ready to pay allreasonable homage to those who were distinguished by their abilities, their riches, their exalted positions in Church and State, but hishomage to such was transfused with a courteous condescension, and heonly treated as his equals and really revered those who belonged to thefamilies that were "one of us. "

His wife, of course, was "one of us, " since he would never havepermitted himself to be allied to a woman who was not, though for beautyand wisdom she might have been Aphrodite and Athene rolled compactlyinto one peerless identity. As a matter of fact, Lady Ashbridge hadnot the faintest resemblance to either of these effulgent goddesses. Inperson she resembled a camel, long and lean, with a drooping mouth andtired, patient eyes, while in mind she was stunned. No idea other thanan obvious one ever had birth behind her high, smooth forehead, and shehabitually brought conversation to a close by the dry enunciation ofsomething indubitably true, which had no direct relation to the pointunder discussion. But she had faint, ineradicable prejudices, andinstincts not quite dormant. There was a large quantity of mildaffection in her nature, the quality of which may be illustrated bythe fact that when her father died she cried a little every day afterbreakfast for about six weeks. Then she did not cry any more. It wasimpossible not to like what there was of her, but there was really verylittle to like, for she belonged heart and soul to the generation andthe breeding among which it is enough for a woman to be a lady, andvisit the keeper's wife when she has a baby. 

But though there was so little of her, the balance was made up forby the fact that there was so much of her husband. His large, ratherflamboyant person, his big white face and curling brown beard, his loudvoice and his falsetto laugh, his absolutely certain opinions, above allthe fervency of his consciousness of being Lord Ashbridge and all whichthat implied, completely filled any place he happened to be in, sothat a room empty except for him gave the impression of being almostuncomfortably crowded. This keen consciousness of his identity wasnaturally sufficient to make him very good humoured, since he washimself a fine example of the type that he admired most. Probably onlytwo persons in the world had the power of causing him annoyance, butboth of these, by an irony of fate that it seemed scarcely possible toconsider accidental, were closely connected with him, for one was hissister, the other his only son. 

The grounds of their potentiality in this respect can be easilystated. Barbara Comber, his sister (and so "one of us"), had married anextremely wealthy American, who, in Lord Ashbridge's view, could not beconsidered one of anybody at all; in other words, his imagination failedto picture a whole class of people who resembled Anthony Jerome. He hadhoped when his sister announced her intention of taking this deplorablestep that his future brother-in-law would at any rate prove to be asnob--he had a vague notion that all Americans were snobs--and that thusMr. Jerome would have the saving grace to admire and toady him. But Mr. Jerome showed no signs of doing anything of the sort; he treated himwith an austere and distant politeness that Lord Ashbridge couldnot construe as being founded on admiration and a sense of his owninferiority, for it was so clearly founded on dislike. That, however, did not annoy Lord Ashbridge, for it was easy to suppose that poor Mr. Jerome knew no better. But Barbara annoyed him, for not only had sheshown herself a renegade in marrying a man who was not "one of us, " butwith all the advantages she had enjoyed since birth of knowing what"we" were, she gloried in her new relations, saying, without any properreticence about the matter, that they were Real People, whose characterand wits vastly transcended anything that Combers had to show. 

Michael was an even more vexatious case, and in moments of depressionhis father thought that he would really turn in his grave at the dismalidea of Michael having stepped into his honourable shoes. Physically hewas utterly unlike a Comber, and his mind, his general attitudetowards life seemed to have diverged even farther from that healthy andunreflective pattern. Only this morning his father had received a letterfrom him that summed Michael up, that fulfilled all the doubts and fearsthat had hung about him; for after three years in the Guards he had, without consultation with anybody, resigned his commission on theinexplicable grounds that he wanted to do something with his life. Tobegin with that was rankly heretical; if you were a Comber there was noneed to do anything with your life; life did everything for you. . . . And what this un-Comberish young man wanted to do with his life was tobe a musician. That musicians, artists, actors, had a right to existLord Ashbridge did not question. They were no doubt (or might be)very excellent people in their way, and as a matter of fact he oftenrecognised their existence by going to the opera, to the private viewof the Academy, or to the play, and he took a very considerable pride ofproprietorship in his own admirable collection of family portraits. Butthen those were pictures of Combers; Reynolds and Romney and the rest ofthem had enjoyed the privilege of perpetuating on their canvases thesebig, fine men and charming women. But that a Comber--and that onepositively the next Lord Ashbridge--should intend to devote his energiesto an artistic calling, and allude to that scheme as doing somethingwith his life, was a thing as unthinkable as if the butler had developeda fixed idea that he was "one of us. "

The blow was a recent one; Michael's letter had only reached his fatherthis morning, and at the present moment Lord Ashbridge was attemptingover a cup of tea on the long south terrace overlooking the estuary toconvey--not very successfully--to his wife something of his feelingson the subject. She, according to her custom, was drinking a little hotwater herself, and providing her Chinese pug with a mixture of creamand crumbled rusks. Though the dog was of undoubtedly high lineage, LordAshbridge rather detested her. 

"A musical career!" he exclaimed, referring to Michael's letter. "Whatsort of a career for a Comber is a musical career? I shall tell Michaelpretty roundly when he arrives this evening what I think of it all. Weshall have Francis next saying that he wants to resign, too, and becomea dentist. "

Lady Ashbridge considered this for a moment in her stunned mind. 

"Dear me, Robert, I hope not, " she said. "I do not think it the leastlikely that Francis would do anything of the kind. Look, Petsy isbetter; she has drunk her cream and rusks quite up. I think it was onlythe heat. "

He gave a little good-humoured giggle of falsetto laughter. 

"I wish, Marion, " he said, "that you could manage to take your mind offyour dog for a moment and attend to me. And I must really ask you not togive your Petsy any more cream, or she will certainly be sick. "

Lady Ashbridge gave a little sigh. 

"All gone, Petsy, " she said. 

"I am glad it has all gone, " said he, "and we will hope it won't return. But about Michael now!"

Lady Ashbridge pulled herself together. 

"Yes, poor Michael!" she said. "He is coming to-night, is he not? Butjust now you were speaking of Francis, and the fear of his wanting to bea dentist!"

"Well, I am now speaking of Michael's wanting to be a musician. Ofcourse that is utterly out of the question. If, as he says, he has sentin his resignation, he will just have to beg them to cancel it. Michaelseems not to have the slightest idea of the duties which his birth andposition entail on him. Unfitted for the life he now leads . . . Wasteof time. . . . Instead he proposes to go to Baireuth in August, and thento settle down in London to study!"

Lady Ashbridge recollected the almanac. 

"That will be in September, then, " she said. "I do not think I was everin London in September. I did not know that anybody was. "

"The point, my dear, is not how or where you have been accustomed tospend your Septembers, " said her husband. "What we are talking aboutis--"

"Yes, dear, I know quite well what we are talking about, " said she. "Weare talking about Michael not studying music all September. "

Lord Ashbridge got up and began walking across the terrace opposite thetea-table with his elbows stuck out and his feet lifted rather high. 

"Michael doesn't seem to realise that he is not Tom or Dick or Harry, "said he. "Music, indeed! I'm musical myself; all we Combers are musical. But Michael is my only son, and it really distresses me to see howlittle sense he has of his responsibilities. Amusements are all verywell; it is not that I want to cut him off his amusements, but when itcomes to a career--"

Lady Ashbridge was surreptitiously engaged in pouring out a little morecream for Petsy, and her husband, turning rather sooner than she hadexpected, caught her in the act. 

"Do not give Petsy any more cream, " he said, with some asperity; "Iabsolutely forbid it. "

Lady Ashbridge quite composedly replaced the cream-jug. 

"Poor Petsy!" she observed. 

"I ask you to attend to me, Marion, " he said. 

"But I am attending to you very well, Robert, " said she, "and Iunderstand you perfectly. You do not want Michael to be a musician inSeptember and wear long hair and perhaps play at concerts. I am sureI quite agree with you, for such a thing would be as unheard of in myfamily as in yours. But how do you propose to stop it?"

"I shall use my authority, " he said, stepping a little higher. 

"Yes, dear, I am sure you will. But what will happen if Michael doesn'tpay any attention to your authority? You will be worse off than ever. Poor Michael is very obedient when he is told to do anything he intendsto do, but when he doesn't agree it is difficult to do anything withhim. And, you see, he is quite independent of you with my mother havingleft him so much money. Poor mamma!"

Lord Ashbridge felt strongly about this. 

"It was a most extraordinary disposition of her property for your motherto make, " he observed. "It has given Michael an independence which Imuch deplore. And she did it in direct opposition to my wishes. "

This touched on one of the questions about which Lady Ashbridge had herconvictions. She had a mild but unalterable opinion that when anybodydied, all that they had previously done became absolutely flawless andlaudable. 

"Mamma did as she thought right with her property, " she said, "and itis not for us to question it. She was conscientiousness itself. You willhave to excuse my listening to any criticism you may feel inclined tomake about her, Robert. "

"Certainly, my dear. I only want you to listen to me about Michael. Youagree with me on the impossibility of his adopting a musical career. Icannot, at present, think so ill of Michael as to suppose that he willdefy our joint authority. "

"Michael has a great will of his own, " she remarked. "He gets that fromyou, Robert, though he gets his money from his grandmother. "

The futility of further discussion with his wife began to dawn on LordAshbridge, as it dawned on everybody who had the privilege of conversingwith her. Her mind was a blind alley that led nowhere; it was clear thatshe had no idea to contribute to the subject except slightly pessimisticforebodings with which, unfortunately, he found himself secretlydisposed to agree. He had always felt that Michael was an uncomfortablesort of boy; in other words, that he had the inconvenient habit ofthinking things out for himself, instead of blindly accepting theconclusions of other people. 

Much as Lord Ashbridge valued the sturdy independence of character whichhe himself enjoyed displaying, he appreciated it rather less highly whenit was manifested by people who were not sensible enough to agreewith him. He looked forward to Michael's arrival that evening with thefeeling that there was a rebellious standard hoisted against the calmblue of the evening sky, and remembering the advent of his sister hewondered whether she would not join the insurgent. Barbara Jerome, ashas been remarked, often annoyed her brother; she also genially laughedat him; but Lord Ashbridge, partly from affection, partly from aloyal family sense of clanship, always expected his sister to spenda fortnight with him in August, and would have been much hurt had sherefused to do so. Her husband, however, so far from spending a fortnightwith his brother-in-law, never spent a minute in his presence if itcould possibly be avoided, an arrangement which everybody concernedconsidered to be wise, and in the interests of cordiality. 

"And Barbara comes this evening as well as Michael, does she not?" hesaid. "I hope she will not take Michael's part in his absurd scheme. "

"I have given Barbara the blue room, " said Lady Ashbridge, after alittle thought. "I am afraid she may bring her great dog with her. Ihope he will not quarrel with Petsy. Petsy does not like other dogs. "

The day had been very hot, and Lord Ashbridge, not having taken anyexercise, went off to have a round of golf with the professional of thelinks that lay not half a mile from the house. He considered exercisean essential part of the true Englishman's daily curriculum, and asnecessary a contribution to the traditional mode of life which made themall what they were--or should be--as a bath in the morning or attendanceat church on Sunday. He did not care so much about playing golf witha casual friend, because the casual friend, as a rule, casually beathim--thus putting him in an un-English position--and preferred a gamewith this first-class professional whose duty it was--in completeviolation of his capacities--to play just badly enough to be beatentowards the end of the round after an exciting match. It required agood deal of cleverness and self-control to accomplish this, for LordAshbridge was a notably puerile performer, but he generally managed itwith tact and success, by dint of missing absurdly easy putts, and (herehis skill came in) by pulling and slicing his ball into far-distantbunkers. Throughout the game it was his business to keep up a runningfire of admiring ejaculations such as "Well driven, my lord, " or "Afine putt, my lord. Ah! dear me, I wish I could putt like that, " thoughoccasionally his chorus of praise betrayed him into error, and fromhabit he found himself saying: "Good shot, my lord, " when my lord hadjust made an egregious mess of things. But on the whole he devised sopleasantly sycophantic an atmosphere as to procure a substantial tip forhimself, and to make Lord Ashbridge conscious of being a very superiorperformer. Whether at the bottom of his heart he knew he could not playat all, he probably did not inquire; the result of his matches and hisopponent's skilfully-showered praise was sufficient for him. So now heleft the discouraging companionship of his wife and Petsy and walkedswingingly across the garden and the park to the links, there to seekin Macpherson's applause the self-confidence that would enable him toencounter his republican sister and his musical son with an unyieldingfront. 

His spirits mounted rapidly as he went. It pleased him to go jauntilyacross the lawn and reflect that all this smooth turf was his, to lookat the wealth of well-tended flowers in his garden and know that allthis polychromatic loveliness was bred in Lord Ashbridge's borders (andwas graciously thrown open to the gaze of the admiring public on Sundayafternoon, when they were begged to keep off the grass), and that LordAshbridge was himself. He liked reminding himself that the towering elmsdrew their leafy verdure from Lord Ashbridge's soil; that the rows ofhen-coops in the park, populous and cheeping with infant pheasants, belonged to the same fortunate gentleman who in November would sounerringly shoot them down as they rocketted swiftly over the highestof his tree-tops; that to him also appertained the long-fronted Jacobeanhouse which stood so commandingly upon the hill-top, and glowed withall the mellowness of its three-hundred-years-old bricks. And hissatisfaction was not wholly fatuous nor entirely personal; all thesespacious dignities were insignia (temporarily conferred on him, likesome order, and permanently conferred on his family) of the splendidpolitical constitution under which England had made herself mistressof an empire and the seas that guarded it. Probably he would have beenproud of belonging to that even if he had not been "one of us"; as itwas, the high position which he occupied in it caused that pride to beslightly mixed with the pride that was concerned with the notion of theEmpire belonging to him and his peers. 

But though he was the most profound of Tories, he would truthfully haveprofessed (as indeed he practised in the management of his estates) themost Liberal opinions as to schemes for the amelioration of the lowerclasses. Only, just as the music he was good enough to listen to had tobe played for him, so the tenants and farmers had to be his dependents. He looked after them very well indeed, conceiving this to be theprime duty of a great landlord, but his interest in them was reallyproprietary. It was of his bounty, and of his complete knowledge ofwhat his duties as "one of us" were, that he did so, and any legislationwhich compelled him to part with one pennyworth of his property for thesake of others less fortunate he resisted to the best of his ability asa theft of what was his. The country, in fact, if it went to the dogs(and certain recent legislation distinctly seemed to point kennelwards), would go to the dogs because ignorant politicians, who were mostemphatically not "of us, " forced him and others like him to recognisethe rights of dependents instead of trusting to their instinctivefitness to dispense benefits not as rights but as acts of grace. IfEngland trusted to her aristocracy (to put the matter in a nutshell) allwould be well with her in the future even as it had been in the past, but any attempt to curtail their splendours must inevitably detractfrom the prestige and magnificence of the Empire. . . . And he respondedsuitably to the obsequious salute of the professional, and rememberedthat the entire golf links were his property, and that the Club paid amerely nominal rental to him, just the tribute money of a penny whichwas due to Caesar. 

For the next hour or two after her husband had left her, Lady Ashbridgeoccupied herself in the thoroughly lady-like pursuit of doing nothingwhatever; she just existed in her comfortable chair, since Barbaramight come any moment, and she would have to entertain her, which shefrequently did unawares. But as Barbara continued not to come, she tookup her perennial piece of needlework, feeling rather busy and pressed, and had hardly done so when her sister-in-law arrived. 

She was preceded by an enormous stag-hound, who, having been shut up inher motor all the way from London, bounded delightedly, with the senseof young limbs released, on to the terrace, and made wild leaps ina circle round the horrified Petsy, who had just received a secondsaucerful of cream. Once he dashed in close, and with a single lick ofhis tongue swept the saucer dry of nutriment, and with hoarse barkingsproceeded again to dance corybantically about, while Lady Ashbridgewith faint cries of dismay waved her embroidery at him. Then, seeinghis mistress coming out of the French window from the drawing-room, hebounded calf-like towards her, and Petsy, nearly sick with cream andhorror, was gathered to Lady Ashbridge's bosom. 

"My dear Barbara, " she said, "how upsetting your dog is! Poor Petsy'sheart is beating terribly; she does not like dogs. But I am very pleasedto see you, and I have given you the blue room. "

It was clearly suitable that Barbara Jerome should have a large dog, for both in mind and body she was on the large scale herself. She had apleasant, high-coloured face, was very tall, enormously stout, and movedwith great briskness and vigour. She had something to say on any subjectthat came on the board; and, what was less usual in these days ofuniversal knowledge, there was invariably some point in what she said. She had, in the ordinary sense of the word, no manners at all, but essentially made up for this lack by her sincere and humourouskindliness. She saw with acute vividness the ludicrous side ofeverybody, herself included, and to her mind the arch-humourist ofall was her brother, whom she was quite unable to take seriously. Shedressed as if she had looted a milliner's shop and had put on in a greathurry anything that came to hand. She towered over her sister-in-law asshe kissed her, and Petsy, safe in her citadel, barked shrilly. 

"My dear, which is the blue room?" she said. "I hope it is big enoughfor Og and me. Yes, that is Og, which is short for dog. He takes twomutton-chops for dinner, and a little something during the night if hefeels disposed, because he is still growing. Tony drove down with me, and is in the car now. He would not come in for fear of seeing Robert, so I ventured to tell them to take him a cup of tea there, which he willdrink with the blinds down, and then drive back to town again. He hasbeen made American ambassador, by the way, and will go in to dinnerbefore Robert. My dear, I can think of few things which Robert is lessfitted to bear than that. However, we all have our crosses, even thoseof us who have our coronets also. "

Lady Ashbridge's hospitable instincts asserted themselves. "But yourhusband must come in, " she said. "I will go and tell him. And Robert hasgone to play golf. "

Barbara laughed. 

"I am quite sure Tony won't come in, " she said. "I promised him heshouldn't, and he only drove down with me on the express stipulationthat no risks were to be run about his seeing Robert. We must take nochances, so let him have his tea quietly in the motor and then driveaway again. And who else is there? Anybody? Michael?"

"Michael comes this evening. "

"I am glad; I am particularly fond of Michael. Also he will play to usafter dinner, and though I don't know one note from another, it willrelieve me of sitting in a stately circle watching Robert cheat atpatience. I always find the evenings here rather trying; they remind meof being in church. I feel as if I were part of a corporate body, whichleads to misplaced decorum. Ah! there is the sound of Tony's retreatingmotor; his strategic movement has come off. And now give me some news, if you can get in a word. Dear me, there is Robert coming back acrossthe lawn. What a mercy that Tony did not leave the motor. Robert alwayswalks as if he was dancing a minuet. Look, there is Og imitating him! Oris he stalking him, thinking he is an enemy. Og, come here!"

She whistled shrilly on her fingers, and rose to greet her brother, whomOg was still menacing, as he advanced towards her with staccato steps. Barbara, however, got between Og and his prey, and threw her parasol athim. 

"My dear, how are you?" she said. "And how did the golf go? And did youbeat the professional?"

He suspected flippancy here, and became markedly dignified. 

"An excellent match, " he said, "and Macpherson tells me I played a verysound game. I am delighted to see you, Barbara. And did Michael comedown with you?"

"No. I drove from town. It saves time, but not expense, with your awfultrains. "

"And you are well, and Mr. Jerome?" he asked. He always called hisbrother-in-law Mr. Jerome, to indicate the gulf between them. Barbaragave a little spurt of laughter. 

"Yes, his excellency is quite well, " she said. "You must call himexcellency now, my dear. "

"Indeed! That is a great step. "

"Considering that Tony began as an office-boy. How richly rewarding youare, my dear. And shan't I make an odd ambassadress! I haven't been to aCourt since the dark ages, when I went to those beloved States. We willpractise after dinner, dear, and you and Marion shall be the King andQueen, and I will try to walk backwards without tumbling on my head. Youwill like being the King, Robert. And then we will be ourselves again, all except Og, who shall be Tony and shall go out of the room beforeyou. "

He gave his treble little giggle, for on the whole it answered betternot to be dignified with Barbara, whenever he could remember not tobe; and Lady Ashbridge, still nursing Petsy, threw a bombshell of theobvious to explode the conversation. 

"Og has two mutton-chops for his dinner, " she said, "and he is growingstill. Fancy!"

Lord Ashbridge took a refreshing glance at the broad stretch of countrythat all belonged to him. 

"I am rather glad to have this opportunity of talking to you, my dearBarbara, " he said, "before Michael comes. "

"His train gets in half an hour before dinner" said Lady Ashbridge. "Hehas to change at Stoneborough. "

"Quite so. I heard from Michael this morning, saying that he hasresigned his commission in the Guards, and is going to take up musicseriously. "

Barbara gave a delighted exclamation. 

"But how perfectly splendid!" she said. "Fancy a Comber doing anythingoriginal! Michael and I are the only Combers who ever have, sinceCombers 'arose from out the azure main' in the year one. I married anAmerican; that's something, though it's not up to Michael!"

"That is not quite my view of it, " said he. "As for its being original, it would be original enough if Marion eloped with a Patagonian. "

Lady Ashbridge let fall her embroidery at this monstrous suggestion. 

"You are talking very wildly, Robert, " she said, in a pained voice. 

"My dear, get on with your sacred carpet, " said he. "I am talking toBarbara. I have already ascertained your--your lack of views on thesubject. I was saying, Barbara, that mere originality is not a merit. "

"No, you never said that, " remarked Lady Ashbridge. 

"I should have if you had allowed me to. And as for your saying that hehas done it, Barbara, that is very wide of the mark, and I intend shallcontinue to be so. "

"Dear great Bashaw, that is just what you said to me when I told youI was going to marry his Excellency. But I did. And I think it is aglorious move on Michael's part. It requires brain to find out what youlike, and character to go and do it. Combers haven't got brains asa rule, you see. If they ever had any, they have degenerated intoconservative instincts. "

He again refreshed himself with the landscape. The roofs of Ashbridgewere visible in the clear sunset. . . . Ashbridge paid its rents withremarkable regularity. 

"That may or may not be so, " he said, forgetting for a moment the dangerof being dignified. "But Combers have position. "

Barbara controlled herself admirably. A slight tremor shook her, whichhe did not notice. 

"Yes, dear, " she said. "I allow that Combers have had for manygenerations a sort of acquisitive cunning, for all we possess hascome to us by exceedingly prudent marriages. They have also--I am anexception here--the gift of not saying very much, which certainly has animpressive effect, even when it arises from not having very much to say. They are sticky; they attract wealth, and they have the force called visinertiae, which means that they invest their money prudently. You shouldhear Tony--well, perhaps you had better not hear Tony. But now hereis Michael showing that he has got tastes. Can you wonder that I'mdelighted? And not only has he got tastes, but he has the strength ofcharacter to back them. Michael, in the Guards too! It was a perfectfarce, and he's had the sense to see it. He hated his duties, and hehated his diversions. Now Francis--"

"I am afraid Michael has always been a little jealous of Francis, "remarked his father. 

This roused Barbara; she spoke quite seriously:

"If you really think that, my dear, " she said, "you have the distinctionof being the worst possible judge of character that the world has everknown. Michael might be jealous of anybody else, for the poor boy feelshis physical awkwardness most sensitively, but Francis is just the oneperson he really worships. He would do anything in the world for him. "

The discussion with Barbara was being even more fruitless than that withhis wife, and Lord Ashbridge rose. 

"All I can do, then, is to ask you not to back Michael up, " he said. 

"My dear, he won't need backing up. He's a match for you by himself. Butif Michael, after thoroughly worsting you, asks me my opinion, I shallcertainly give it him. But he won't ask my opinion first. He will strewyour limbs, Robert, over this delightful terrace. "

"Michael's train is late, " said Lady Ashbridge, hearing the stable clockstrike. "He should have been here before this. "

Barbara had still a word to say, and disregarded this quencher. 

"But don't think, Robert, " she said, "that because Michael resists yourwishes and authority, he will be enjoying himself. He will hate doingit, but that will not stop him. "

Lord Ashbridge was not a bully; he had merely a profound sense of hisown importance. 

"We will see about resistance, " he said. 

Barbara was not so successful on this occasion, and exploded loudly:

"You will, dear, indeed, " she said. 

Michael meantime had been travelling down from London without perturbinghimself over the scene with his father which he knew lay before him. This was quite characteristic of him; he had a singular command over hisimagination when he had made up his mind to anything, and never indulgedin the gratuitous pain of anticipation. Today he had an additionalbulwark against such self-inflicted worries, for he had spent his lasttwo hours in town at the vocal recital of a singer who a month beforehad stirred the critics into rhapsody over her gift of lyric song. Up till now he had had no opportunity of hearing her; and, with thepanegyrics that had been showered on her in his mind, he had gone withthe expectation of disappointment. But now, an hour afterwards, thewheels of the train sang her songs, and in the inward ear he couldrecapture, with the vividness of an hallucination, the timbre ofthat wonderful voice and also the sweet harmonies of the pianist whoaccompanied her. 

The hall had been packed from end to end, and he had barely got to hisseat, the only one vacant in the whole room, when Miss Sylvia Falbeappeared, followed at once by her accompanist, whose name occurrednowhere on the programme. Two neighbours, however, who chatted shrillyduring the applause that greeted them, informed him that this wasHermann, "dear Hermann; there is no one like him!" But it occurred toMichael that the singer was like him, though she was fair and he dark. But his perception of either of them visually was but vague; he had cometo hear and not to see. Neither she nor Hermann had any music with them, and Hermann just glanced at the programme, which he put down on the topof the piano, which, again unusually, was open. Then without pause theybegan the set of German songs--Brahms, Schubert, Schumann--with whichthe recital opened. And for one moment, before he lost himself in theecstasy of hearing, Michael found himself registering the fact thatSylvia Falbe had one of the most charming faces he had ever seen. Thenext he was swallowed up in melody. 

She had the ease of the consummate artist, and each note, like the gatesof the New Jerusalem, was a pearl, round and smooth and luminous almost, so that it was as if many-coloured light came from her lips. Nor wasthat all; it seemed as if the accompaniment was made by the song itself, coming into life with the freshness of the dawn of its creation; it wasimpossible to believe that one mind directed the singer and another thepianist, and if the voice was an example of art in excelsis, not lessexalted was the perfection of the player. Not for a moment through thesong did he take his eyes off her; he looked at her with an intensity ofgaze that seemed to be reading the emotion with which the lovely melodyfilled her. For herself, she looked straight out over the hall, withgrey eyes half-closed, and mouth that in the pauses of her song waslarge and full-lipped, generously curving, and face that seemed lit withthe light of the morning she sang of. She was the song; Michael thoughtof her as just that, and the pianist who watched and understood her sounerringly was the song, too. They had for him no identity of their own;they were as remote from everyday life as the mind of Schumann whichthey made so vivid. It was then that they existed. 

The last song of the group she sang in English, for it was "Who isSylvia?" There was a buzz of smiles and whispers among the front row inthe pause before it, and regaining her own identity for a moment, shesmiled at a group of her friends among whom clearly it was a clichespecies of joke that she should ask who Sylvia was, and enumerate hermerits, when all the time she was Sylvia. Michael felt rather impatientat this; she was not anybody just now but a singer. And then came thedivine inevitable simplicity of perfect words and the melody preordainedfor them. The singer, as he knew, was German, but she had no trace offoreign accent. It seemed to him that this was just one miracle themore; she had become English because she was singing what Shakespearewrote. 

The next group, consisting of modern French songs, appeared to Michaelutterly unworthy of the singer and the echoing piano. If you had it inyou to give reality to great and simple things, it was surely a wasteto concern yourself with these little morbid, melancholy manikins, thesemarionettes. But his emotions being unoccupied he attended more to themanner of the performance, and in especial to the marvellous technique, not so much of the singer, but of the pianist who caused the rain tofall and the waters reflect the toneless grey skies. He had never, evenwhen listening to the great masters, heard so flawless a comprehensionas this anonymous player, incidentally known as Hermann, exhibited. Asfar as mere manipulation went, it was, as might perhaps be expected, entirely effortless, but effortless no less was the understanding of themusic. It happened. . . . It was like that. 

All of this so filled Michael's mind as he travelled down that eveningto Ashbridge, that he scarcely remembered the errand on which he went, and when it occurred to him it instantly sank out of sight again, lostin the recollection of the music which he had heard to-day and whichbelonged to the art that claimed the allegiance of his soul. The rattleof the wheels was alchemised into song, and as with half-closed eyes helistened to it, there swam across it now the full face of the singer, now the profile of the pianist, that had stood out white and intentagainst the dark panelling behind his head. He had gleaned one fact atthe box-office as he hurried out to catch his train: this Hermann wasthe singer's brother, a teacher of the piano in London, and apparentlyhighly thought of. 

CHAPTER III

Michael's train, as his mother had so infallibly pronounced, was late, and he had arrived only just in time to hurry to his room and dressquickly, in order not to add to his crimes the additional one ofunpunctuality, for unpunctuality, so Lord Ashbridge held, was thepoliteness not only of kings, but of all who had any pretence to decentbreeding. His father gave him a carefully-iced welcome, his motherthe tip of her long, camel-like lips, and they waited solemnly for theappearance of Aunt Barbara, who, it would seem, had forfeited her claimsto family by her marriage. A man-servant and a half looked after eachof them at dinner, and the twelve Lord Ashbridges in uniform looked downfrom their illuminated frames on their degenerate descendant. 

The only bright spot in this portentous banquet was Aunt Barbara, whohad chosen that evening, with what intention may possibly be guessed, toput on an immense diamond tiara and a breastplate of rubies, while Og, after one futile attempt to play with the footmen, yielded himself up tothe chilling atmosphere of good breeding, and ate his mutton-chopswith great composure. But Aunt Barbara, fortified by her gems, ate anexcellent dinner, and talked all the time with occasional bursts ofunexplained laughter. 

Afterwards, when Michael was left alone with his father, he found thathis best efforts at conversation elicited only monosyllabic replies, andat last, in the despairing desire to bring things to a head, he askedhim if he had received his letter. An affirmative monosyllable, followedby the hissing of Lord Ashbridge's cigarette end as he dropped it intohis coffee cup, answered him, and he perceived that the approachingstorm was to be rendered duly impressive by the thundery stillness thatpreceded it. Then his father rose, and as he passed Michael, who heldthe door open for him, said:

"If you can spare the time, Michael, I would like to have a talk withyou when your mother and aunt have gone to bed. "

That was not very long delayed; Michael imagined that Aunt Barbara musthave had a hint, for before half-past ten she announced with a skilfullysuppressed laugh that she was about to retire, and kissed Michaelaffectionately. Both her laugh and her salute were encouraging; he feltthat he was being backed up. Then a procession of footmen came into theroom bearing lemonade and soda water and whiskey and a plate of plainbiscuits, and the moment after he was alone with his father. 

Lord Ashbridge rose and walked, very tall and majestic, to thefireplace, where he stood for a moment with his back to his son. Then heturned round. 

"Now about this nonsense of your resigning your commission, Michael, "he said. "I don't propose to argue about it, and I am just going to tellyou. If, as you have informed me, you have actually sent it in, you willwrite to-morrow with due apologies and ask that it may be withdrawn. Iwill see your letter before you send it. "

Michael had intended to be as quiet and respectful as possible, consistent with firmness, but a sentence here gave him a spasm of anger. 

"I don't know what you mean, sir, " he said, "by saying 'if I have sentit in. ' You have received my letter in which I tell you that I have doneso. "

Already, even at the first words, there was bad blood between them. Michael's face had clouded with that gloom which his father wouldcertainly call sulky, and for himself he resented the tone of Michael'sreply. To make matters worse he gave his little falsetto cackle, whichno doubt was intended to convey the impression of confident good humour. But there was, it must be confessed, very little good humour aboutit, though he still felt no serious doubt about the result of thisinterview. 

"I'm afraid, perhaps, then, that I did not take your letter quiteseriously, my dear Michael, " he said, in the bantering tone that frozeMichael's cordiality completely up. "I glanced through it; I saw a lotof nonsense--or so it struck me--about your resigning your commissionand studying music; I think you mentioned Baireuth, and settling down inLondon afterwards. "

"Yes. I said all that, " said Michael. "But you make a mistake if you donot see that it was written seriously. "

His father glanced across at him, where he sat with his heavy, plainface, his long arms and short legs, and the sight merely irritatedhim. With his passion for convention (and one of the most importantconventions was that Combers should be fine, strapping, normal people)he hated the thought that it was his son who presented that appearance. And his son's mind seemed to him at this moment as ungainly as hisperson. Again, very unwisely, he laughed, still thinking to carry thisoff by the high hand. 

"Yes, but I can't take that rubbish seriously, " he said. "I am askingyour permission now to inquire, without any nonsense, into what youmean. "

Michael frowned. He felt the insincerity of his father's laugh, andrebelled against the unfairness of it. The question, he knew well, wassarcastically asked, the flavour of irony in the "permission to inquire"was not there by accident. To speak like that implied contempt of hisopposition; he felt that he was being treated like a child over somenursery rebellion, in which, subsequently, there is no real possibilityof disobedience. He felt his anger rising in spite of himself. 

"If you refer to it as rubbish, sir, there is the end of the matter. "

"Ah! I thought we should soon agree, " said Lord Ashbridge, chuckling. 

"You mistake me, " said Michael. "There is the end of the matter, becauseI won't discuss it any more, if you treat me like this. I will say goodnight, if you intend to persist in the idea that you can just brush myresolves away like that. "

This clearly took his father aback; it was a perfectly dignified andproper attitude to take in the face of ridicule, and Lord Ashbridge, though somewhat an adept at the art of self-deception--as, for instance, when he habitually beat the golf professional--could not disguise fromhimself that his policy had been to laugh and blow away Michael's absurdideas. But it was abundantly clear at this moment that this apparentlyeasy operation was out of his reach. 

He got up with more amenity in his manner than he had yet shown, and laid his hand on Michael's shoulder as he stood in front of him, evidently quite prepared to go away. 

"Come, my dear Michael. This won't do, " he said. "I thought it bestto treat your absurd schemes with a certain lightness, and I have onlysucceeded in irritating you. "

Michael was perfectly aware that he had scored. And as his object was toscore he made another criticism. 

"When you say 'absurd schemes, ' sir, " he said, with quiet respect, "areyou not still laughing at them?"

Lord Ashbridge again retreated strategically. 

"Very well; I withdraw absurd, " he said. "Now sit down again, and wewill talk. Tell me what is in your mind. "

Michael made a great effort with himself. He desired, in the secret, real Michael, to be reasonable and cordial, to behave filially, whileall the time his nerves were on edge with his father's ridicule, andwith his instinctive knowledge of his father's distaste for him. 

"Well, it's like this, father, " he said. "I'm doing no good as I am. Iwent into the Guards, as you know, because it was the right thing to do. A business man's son is put into business for the same reason. And I'mnot good at it. "

Michael paused a moment. 

"My heart isn't in it, " he said, "and I dislike it. It seems to meuseless. We're for show. And my heart is quite entirely in music. It'sthe thing I care for more than anything else. "

Again he paused; all that came so easily to his tongue when he wasspeaking to Francis was congealed now when he felt the contempt withwhich, though unexpressed, he knew he inspired his father. 

Lord Ashbridge waited with careful politeness, his eyes fixed on theceiling, his large person completely filling his chair, just as hisatmosphere filled the room. He said nothing at all until the silencerang in Michael's ears. 

"That is all I can tell you, " he said at length. 

Lord Ashbridge carefully conveyed the ash from his cigarette to thefireplace before he spoke. He felt that the time had come for his mostimpressive effort. 

"Very well, then, listen to me, " he said. "What you suffer from, Michael, is a mere want of self-confidence and from modesty. You don'tseem to grasp--I have often noticed this--who you are and what yourimportance is--an importance which everybody is willing to recognise ifyou will only assume it. You have the privileges of your position, whichyou don't sufficiently value, but you have, also, the responsibilitiesof it, which I am afraid you are inclined to shirk. You haven't got thelarge view; you haven't the sense of patriotism. There are a great manythings in my position--the position into which you will step--which Iwould much sooner be without. But we have received a tradition, and weare bound to hand it on intact. You may think that this has nothingto do with your being in the Guards, but it has. We"--and he seemed toswell a little--"we are bound in honour to take the lead in the serviceof our country, and we must do it whether we like it or not. We have totill, with our own efforts, 'our goodly heritage. ' You have to learn themeaning of such words as patriotism, and caste, and duty. "

Lord Ashbridge thought that he was really putting this very well indeed, and he had the sustaining consciousness of sincerity. He entirelybelieved what he said, and felt that it must carry conviction to anyonewho listened to it with anything like an open mind. The only thing thathe did not allow for was that he personally immensely enjoyed his socialand dominant position, thinking it indeed the only position which wasreally worth having. This naturally gave an aid to comprehension, andhe did not take into account that Michael was not so blessed as he, andindeed lacked this very superior individual enlightenment. But his ownwords kindled the flame of this illumination, and without noticing theblank stolidity of Michael's face he went on with gathering confidence:

"I am sure you are high-minded, my dear Michael, " he said. "And it is toyour high-mindedness that I--yes, I don't mind saying it--that I appeal. In a moment of unreflectiveness you have thrown overboard what I am sureis real to you, the sense, broadly speaking, that you are English and ofthe highest English class, and have intended to devote yourself to moreselfish and pleasure-loving aims, and to dwell in a tinkle of pleasantsounds that please your ear; and I'm sure I don't wonder, because, asyour mother and I both know, you play charmingly. But I feel confidentthat your better mind does not really confuse the mere diversions oflife with its serious issues. "

Michael suddenly rose to his feet. 

"Father, I'm afraid this is no use at all, " he said. "All that I feel, and all that I can't say, I know is unintelligible to you. You havecalled it rubbish once, and you think it is rubbish still. "

Lord Ashbridge's eloquence was suddenly arrested. He had been canteringgleefully along, and had the very distinct impression of having run upagainst a stone wall. He dismounted, hurt, but in no way broken. 

"I am anxious to understand you, Michael, " he said. 

"Yes, father, but you don't, " said he. "You have been explaining me allwrong. For instance, I don't regard music as a diversion. That is theonly explanation there is of me. "

"And as regards my wishes and my authority?" asked his father. 

Michael squared his shoulders and his mind. 

"I am exceedingly sorry to disappoint you in the matter of your wishes, "he said; "but in the matter of your authority I can't recognise it whenthe question of my whole life is at stake. I know that I am your son, and I want to be dutiful, but I have my own individuality as well. Thatonly recognises the authority of my own conscience. "

That seemed to Lord Ashbridge both tragic and ludicrous. Completelysubservient himself to the conventions which he so much enjoyed, it waslike the defiance of a child to say such things. He only just checkedhimself from laughing again. 

"I refuse to take that answer from you, " he said. 

"I have no other to give you, " said Michael. "But I should like to sayonce more that I am sorry to disobey your wishes. "

The repetition took away his desire to laugh. In fact, he could not havelaughed. 

"I don't want to threaten you, Michael, " he said. "But you may know thatI have a very free hand in the disposal of my property. "

"Is that a threat?" asked Michael. 

"It is a hint. "

"Then, father, I can only say that I should be perfectly satisfied withanything you may do, " said Michael. "I wish you could leave everythingyou have to Francis. I tell you in all sincerity that I wish he had beenmy elder brother. You would have been far better pleased with him. "

Lord Ashbridge's anger rose. He was naturally so self-complacent as tobe seldom disposed to anger, but its rarity was not due to kindliness ofnature. 

"I have before now noticed your jealousy of your cousin, " he observed. 

Michael's face went white. 

"That is infamous and untrue, father, " he said. 

Lord Ashbridge turned on him. 

"Apologise for that, " he said. 

Michael looked up at his high towering without a tremor. 

"I wait for the withdrawal of your accusation that I am jealous ofFrancis, " he replied. 

There was a dead silence. Lord Ashbridge stood there in swollen andspeechless indignation, and Michael faced him undismayed. . . . And thensuddenly to the boy there came an impulse of pure pity for his father'sdisappointment in having a son like himself. He saw with the candourwhich was so real a part of him how hopeless it must be, to a man of hisfather's mind, to have a millstone like himself unalterably bound roundhis neck, fit to choke and drown him. 

"Indeed, I am not jealous of Francis, father, " he said, "and I speakquite truthfully when I say how I sympathise with you in having a sonlike me. I don't want to vex you. I want to make the best of myself. "

Lord Ashbridge stood looking exactly like his statue in the market-placeat Ashbridge. 

"If that is the case, Michael, " he said, "it is within your power. Youwill write the letter I spoke about. "

Michael paused a moment as if waiting for more. It did not seem to himpossible that his appeal should bear no further fruit than that. But itwas soon clear that there was no more to come. 

"I will wish you good night, father, " he said. 

Sunday was a day on which Lord Ashbridge was almost more himself thanduring the week, so shining and public an example did he become ofthe British nobleman. Instead of having breakfast, according to themiddle-class custom, rather later than usual, that solid sausagy mealwas half an hour earlier, so that all the servants, except those whosepresence in the house was imperatively necessary for purposes of lunch, should go to church. Thus "Old George" and Lord Ashbridge's private boatwere exceedingly busy for the half-hour preceding church time, the lastboat-load holding the family, whose arrival was the signal for serviceto begin. Lady Ashbridge, however, always went on earlier, for shepresided at the organ with the long, camel-like back turned towards thecongregation, and started playing a slow, melancholy voluntary when theboy who blew the bellows said to her in an ecclesiastical whisper: "Hislordship has arrived, my lady. " Those of the household who could sing(singing being construed in the sense of making a loud and cheerfulnoise in the throat) clustered in the choir-pews near the organ, whilethe family sat in a large, square box, with a stove in the centre, amplysupplied with prayer-books of the time when even Protestants might prayfor Queen Caroline. Behind them, separated from the rest of the churchby an ornamental ironwork grille, was the Comber chapel, in whichantiquarians took nearly as much pleasure as Lord Ashbridge himself. Here reclined a glorious company of sixteenth century knights, withtheir honourable ladies at their sides, unyielding marble bolsters attheir heads, and grotesque dogs at their feet. Later, when their peeragewas conferred, they lost a little of their yeoman simplicity, and becameperuked and robed and breeched; one, indeed, in the age of George III. , who was blessed with poetical aspirations, appeared in bare feet and aRoman toga with a scroll of manuscript in his hand; while later again, mere tablets on the walls commemorated their almost uncanny virtues. 

And just on the other side of the grille, but a step away, sat thepresent-day representatives of the line, while Lady Ashbridge finishedthe last bars of her voluntary, Lord Ashbridge himself and his sister, large and smart and comely, and Michael beside them, short and heavy, with his soul full of the aspirations his father neither could nor caredto understand. According to his invariable custom, Lord Ashbridge readthe lessons in a loud, sonorous voice, his large, white hands graspingthe wing-feathers of the brass eagle, and a great carnation in hisbuttonhole; and when the time came for the offertory he put a sovereignin the open plate himself, and proceeded with his minuet-like step to goround the church and collect the gifts of the encouraged congregation. He followed all the prayers in his book, he made the responses in avoice nearly as loud as that in which he read the lessons; he sang thehymns with a curious buzzing sound, and never for a moment did he losesight of the fact that he was the head of the Comber family, doing hisduty as the custom of the Combers was, and setting an example of godlypiety. Afterwards, as usual, he would change his black coat, eat a goodlunch, stroll round the gardens (for he had nothing to say to golf onSunday), and in the evening the clergyman would dine with him, andwould be requested to say grace both before and after the meal. He knewexactly the proper mode of passing the Sunday for the landlord on hiscountry estate, and when Lord Ashbridge knew that a thing was proper hedid it with invariable precision. 

Michael, of course, was in disgrace; his father, pending some furthercourse of action, neither spoke to him nor looked at him; indeed, itseemed doubtful whether he would hand him the offertory plate, andit was perhaps a pity that he unbent even to this extent, for Michaelhappened to have none of the symbols of thankfulness about his person, and he saw a slight quiver pass through Aunt Barbara's hymn-book. Aftera rather portentous lunch, however, there came some relief, for hisfather did not ask his company on the usual Sunday afternoon stroll, andAunt Barbara never walked at all unless she was obliged. In consequence, when the thunderstorm had stepped airily away across the park, Michaeljoined her on the terrace, with the intention of talking the situationover with her. 

Aunt Barbara was perfectly willing to do this, and she opened thediscussion very pleasantly with peals of laughter. 

"My dear, I delight in you, " she said; "and altogether this is the mostentertaining day I have ever spent here. Combers are supposed to be veryserious, solid people, but for unconscious humour there isn't a familyin England or even in the States to compare with them. Our lunch justnow; if you could put it into a satirical comedy called The Aristocracyit would make the fortune of any theatre. "

A dawning smile began to break through Michael's tragedy face. 

"I suppose it was rather funny, " he said. "But really I'm wretched aboutit, Aunt Barbara. "

"My dear, what is there to be wretched about? You might have beenwretched if you had found you couldn't stand up to your father, but Igather, though I know nothing directly, that you did. At least, yourmother has said to me three times, twice on the way to church and oncecoming back: 'Michael has vexed his father very much. ' And the offertoryplate, my dear, and, as I was saying, lunch! I am in disgrace too, because I said perfectly plainly yesterday that I was on your side; andthere we were at lunch, with your father apparently unable to see eitheryou or me, and unconscious of our presence. Fancy pretending not to seeme! You can't help seeing me, a large, bright object like me! And whatwill happen next? That's what tickles me to death, as they say on myside of the Atlantic. Will he gradually begin to perceive us again, likeobjects looming through a fog, or shall we come into view suddenly, asif going round a corner? And you are just as funny, my dear, with yourlong face, and air of depressed determination. Why be heavy, Michael? Somany people are heavy, and none of them can tell you why. "

It was impossible not to feel the unfreezing effect of this. Michaelthawed to it, as he would have thawed to Francis. 

"Perhaps they can't help it, Aunt Barbara, " he said. "At least, I know Ican't. I really wish I could learn how to. I--I don't see the funny sideof things till it is pointed out. I thought lunch a sort of hell, youknow. Of course, it was funny, his appearing not to see either ofus. But it stands for more than that; it stands for his completemisunderstanding of me. "

Aunt Barbara had the sense to see that the real Michael was speaking. When people were being unreal, when they were pompous or adoptingattitudes, she could attend to nothing but their absurdity, whichengrossed her altogether. But she never laughed at real things; realthings were not funny, but were facts. 

"He quite misunderstands, " went on Michael, with the eagerness withwhich the shy welcome comprehension. "He thinks I can make my mindlike his if I choose; and if I don't choose, or rather can't choose, hethinks that his wishes, his authority, should be sufficient to makeme act as if it was. Well, I won't do that. He may go on, "--and thatpleasant smile lit up Michael's plain face--"he may go on being unawareof my presence as long as he pleases. I am very sorry it should be so, but I can't help it. And the worst of it is, that opposition of thatsort--his sort--makes me more determined than ever. "

Aunt Barbara nodded. 

"And your friends?" she asked. "What will they think?"

Michael looked at her quite simply and directly. 

"Friends?" he said. "I haven't got any. "

"Ah, my dear, that's nonsense!" she said. 

"I wish it was. Oh, Francis is a friend, I know. He thinks me an oddold thing, but he likes me. Other people don't. And I can't see why theyshould. I'm sure it's my fault. It's because I'm heavy. You said I was, yourself. "

"Then I was a great ass, " remarked Aunt Barbara. "You wouldn't be heavywith people who understood you. You aren't heavy with me, for instance;but, my dear, lead isn't in it when you are with your father. "

"But what am I to do, if I'm like that?" asked the boy. 

She held up her large, fat hand, and marked the points off on herfingers. 

"Three things, " she said. "Firstly, get away from people who don'tunderstand you, and whom, incidentally, you don't understand. Secondly, try to see how ridiculous you and everybody else always are; and, thirdly, which is much the most important, don't think about yourself. If I thought about myself I should consider how old and fat and uglyI am. I'm not ugly, really; you needn't be foolish and tell me so. Ishould spoil my life by trying to be young, and only eating devilledcodfish and drinking hot plum-juice, or whatever is the accepted remedyfor what we call obesity. We're all odd old things, as you say. We canonly get away from that depressing fact by doing something, and notthinking about ourselves. We can all try not to be egoists. Egoism isthe really heavy quality in the world. "

She paused a moment in this inspired discourse and whistled to Og, who had stretched his weary limbs across a bed of particularly finegeraniums. 

"There!" she said, pointing, "if your dog had done that, you would besubmerged in depression at the thought of how vexed your father wouldbe. That would be because you are thinking of the effect on yourself. Asit's my dog that has done it--dear me, they do look squashed now he hasgot up--you don't really mind about your father's vexation, because youwon't have to think about yourself. That is wise of you; if you were alittle wiser still, you would picture to yourself how ridiculous I shalllook apologising for Og. Kindly kick him, Michael; he will understand. Naughty! And as for your not having any friends, that would beexceedingly sad, if you had gone the right way to get them and failed. But you haven't. You haven't even gone among the people who could beyour friends. Your friends, broadly speaking, must like the same sort ofthings as you. There must be a common basis. You can't even argue withsomebody, or disagree with somebody unless you have a common ground tostart from. If I say that black is white, and you think it is blue, wecan't get on. It leads nowhere. And, finally--"

She turned round and faced him directly. 

"Finally, don't be so cross, my dear, " she said. 

"But am I?" asked he. 

"Yes. You don't know it, or else probably, since you are a very decentfellow, you wouldn't be. You expect not to be liked, and that is crossof you. A good-humoured person expects to be liked, and almost alwaysis. You expect not to be understood, and that's dreadfully cross. Youthink your father doesn't understand you; no more he does, but don't goon thinking about it. You think it is a great bore to be your father'sonly son, and wish Francis was instead. That's cross; you may think it'sfine, but it isn't, and it is also ungrateful. You can have great fun ifyou will only be good-tempered!"

"How did you know that--about Francis, I mean?" asked Michael. 

"Does it happen to be true? Of course it does. Every cross young manwishes he was somebody else. "

"No, not quite that, " began Michael. 

"Don't interrupt. It is sufficiently accurate. And you think aboutyour appearance, my dear. It will do quite well. You might have had twonoses, or only one eye, whereas you have two rather jolly ones. And dotry to see the joke in other people, Michael. You didn't see the jokein your interview last night with your father. It must have beenexcruciatingly funny. I don't say it wasn't sad and serious as well. Butit was funny too; there were points. "

Michael shook his head. 

"I didn't see them, " he said. 

"But I should have, and I should have been right. All dignity is funny, simply because it is sham. When dignity is real, you don't know it'sdignity. But your father knew he was being dignified, and you knew youwere being dignified. My dear, what a pair of you!"

Michael frowned. 

"But is nothing serious, then?" he asked. "Surely it was serious enoughlast night. There was I in rank rebellion to my father, and it vexed himhorribly; it did more, it grieved him. "

She laid her hand on Michael's knee. 

"As if I didn't know that!" she said. "We're all sorry for that, thoughI should have been much sorrier if you had given in and ceased to vexhim. But there it is! Accept that, and then, my dear, swiftly applyyourself to perceive the humour of it. And now, about your plans!"

"I shall go to Baireuth on Wednesday, and then on to Munich, " beganMichael. 

"That, of course. Perhaps you may find the humour of a Channel crossing. I look for it in vain. Yet I don't know. . . . The man who puts on ayachting-cap, and asks if there's a bit of a sea on. It proves to be thecase, and he is excessively unwell. I must look out for him next time Icross. And then?"

"Then I shall settle in town and study. Oh, here's my father cominghome. "

Lord Ashbridge approached down the terrace. He stopped for a moment atthe desecrated geranium bed, saw the two sitting together, and turned atright angles and went into the house. Almost immediately a footmancame out with a long dog-lead and advanced hesitatingly to Og. Og wasconvinced that he had come to play with him, and crouched and growledand retreated and advanced with engaging affability. Out of the windowsof the library looked Lord Ashbridge's baleful face. . . . AuntBarbara swayed out of her chair, and laid a trembling hand on Michael'sshoulder. 

"I shall go and apologise for Og, " she said. "I shall do it quitesincerely, my dear. But there are points. "

CHAPTER IV

Michael practised a certain mature and rather elderly precision in theordinary affairs of daily life. His habits were almost unduly tidy andpunctual; he answered letters by return of post, he never mislaid thingsnor tore up documents which he particularly desired should be preserved;he kept his gold in a purse and his change in a trousers-pocket, and inmatters of travelling he always arrived at stations with plenty of timeto spare, and had such creature comforts as he desired for his journeyin a neat Gladstone bag above his head. He never travelled first-class, for the very simple and adequate reason that, though very well off, he preferred to spend his money in ways that were more productive ofusefulness or pleasure; and thus, when he took his place in the cornerof a second-class compartment of the Dover-Ostend express on theWednesday morning following, he was the only occupant of it. 

Probably he had never felt so fully at liberty, nor enjoyed a keenerzest for life and the future. For the first time he had asserted his ownindisputable right to stand on his own feet, and though he was genuinelysorry for his father's chagrin at not being able to tuck him up inthe family coach, his own sense of independence could not but wave itsbanners. There had been a second interview, no less fruitless than thefirst, and Lord Ashbridge had told him that when next his presence wasdesired at home, he would be informed of the fact. His mother had criedin a mild, trickling fashion, but it was quite obvious that in herheart of hearts she was more concerned with a bilious attack of peculiarintensity that had assailed Petsy. She wished Michael would not be sodisobedient and vex his father, but she was quite sure that beforelong some formula, in diplomatic phrase, would be found on whichreconciliation could be based; whereas it was highly uncertain whetherany formula could be found that would produce the desired effect onPetsy, whose illness she attributed to the shock of Og's sudden anddisconcerting appearance on Saturday, when all Petsy's nervous forcewas required to digest the copious cream. Consequently, though she threwreproachful glances at Michael, those directed at Barbara, who was thecause of the acuter tragedy, were pointed with more penetrating blame. Indeed, it is questionable whether Lady Ashbridge would have cried atall over Michael's affairs had not Petsy's also been in so lamentableand critical a state. 

Just as the train began to move out of the station a young man rushedacross the platform, eluded the embrace of the guard who attempted tostop him with amazing agility, and jumped into Michael's compartment. He slammed the door after him, and leaned out, apparently looking forsomeone, whom he soon saw. 

"Just caught it, Sylvia, " he shouted. "Send on my luggage, will you?It's in the taxi still, I think, and I haven't paid the man. Good-bye, darling. "

He waved to her till the curving line took the platform out of sight, and then sat down with a laugh, and eyes of friendly interest forMichael. 

"Narrow squeak, wasn't it?" he said gleefully. "I thought the guard hadcollared me. And I should have missed Parsifal. "

Michael had recognised him at once as he rushed across the platform; hisshouting to Sylvia had but confirmed the recognition; and here on theday of his entering into his new kingdom of liberty was one of itscitizens almost thrown into his arms. But for the moment his oldinvincible habit of shyness and sensitiveness forbade any responsivelightness of welcome, and he was merely formal, merely courteous. 

"And all your luggage left behind, " he said. "Won't you be dreadfullyuncomfortable?"

"Uncomfortable? Why?" asked Falbe. "I shall buy a handkerchief and acollar every day, and a shirt and a pair of socks every other day tillit arrives. "

Michael felt a sudden, daring impulse. He remembered Aunt Barbara'ssalutary remarks about crossness being the equivalent of thinking aboutoneself. And the effort that it cost him may be taken as the measure ofhis solitary disposition. 

"But you needn't do that, " he said, "if--if you will be good enough toborrow of me till your things come. "

He blurted it out awkwardly, almost brusquely, and Falbe looked slightlyamused at this wholly surprising offer of hospitality. 

"But that's awfully good of you, " he said, laughing and saying nothingdirect about his acceptance. "It implies, too, that you are goingto Baireuth. We travel together, then, I hope, for it is dismal worktravelling alone, isn't it? My sister tells me that half my friends werepicked up in railway carriages. Been there before?"

Michael felt himself lured from the ordinary aloofness of attitude anddemeanour, which had been somewhat accustomed to view all strangers withsuspicion. And yet, though till this moment he had never spoken to him, he could hardly regard Falbe as a stranger, for he had heard him sayon the piano what his sister understood by the songs of Brahms andSchubert. He could not help glancing at Falbe's hands, as they busiedthemselves with the filling and lighting of a pipe, and felt that heknew something of those long, broad-tipped fingers, smooth and white andstrong. The man himself he found to be quite different to what he hadexpected; he had seen him before, eager and intent and anxious-faced, absorbed in the task of following another mind; now he looked muchyounger, much more boyish. 

"No, it's my first visit to Baireuth, " he said, "and I can't tell youhow excited I am about it. I've been looking forward to it so much thatI almost expect to be disappointed. "

Falbe blew out a cloud of smoke and laughter. 

"Oh, you're safe enough, " he said. "Baireuth never disappoints. It'sone of the facts--a reliable fact. And Munich? Do you go to Munichafterwards?"

"Yes. I hope so. "

Falbe clicked with his tongue

"Lucky fellow, " he said. "How I wish I was. But I've got to get backagain after my week. You'll spend the mornings in the galleries, and theafternoons and evenings at the opera. O Lord, Munich!"

He came across from the other side of the carriage and sat next Michael, putting his feet up on the seat opposite. 

"Talk of Munich, " he said. "I was born in Munich, and I happen to knowthat it's the heavenly Jerusalem, neither more nor less. "

"Well, the heavenly Jerusalem is practically next door to Baireuth, "said Michael. 

"I know; but it can't be managed. However, there's a week of unalloyedbliss between me now and the desolation of London in August. What isso maddening is to think of all the people who could go to Munich anddon't. "

Michael held debate within himself. He felt that he ought to tell hisnew acquaintance that he knew who he was, that, however trivial theirconversation might be, it somehow resembled eavesdropping to talk toa chance fellow-passenger as if he were a complete stranger. But itrequired again a certain effort to make the announcement. 

"I think I had better tell you, " he said at length, "that I know you, that I've listened to you at least, at your sister's recital a few daysago. "

Falbe turned to him with the friendliest pleasure. 

"Ah! were you there?" he asked. "I hope you listened to her, then, notto me. She sang well, didn't she?"

"But divinely. At the same time I did listen to you, especially in theFrench songs. There was less song, you know. "

Falbe laughed. 

"And more accompaniment!" he said. "Perhaps you play?"

Michael was seized with a fit of shyness at the idea of talking to Falbeabout himself. 

"Oh, I just strum, " he said. 

Throughout the journey their acquaintanceship ripened; and casually, in dropped remarks, the two began to learn something about each other. Falbe's command of English, as well as his sister's, which was socomplete that it was impossible to believe that a foreigner wasspeaking, was explained, for it came out that his mother wasEnglish, and that from infancy they had spoken German and Englishindiscriminately. His father, who had died some dozen years before, hadbeen a singer of some note in his native land, but was distinguishedmore for his teaching than his practice, and it was he who had taughthis daughter. Hermann Falbe himself had always intended to be a pianist, but the poverty in which they were left at his father's death hadobliged him to give lessons rather than devote himself to his owncareer; but now at the age of thirty he found himself within sight ofthe competence that would allow him to cut down his pupils, and begin tobe a pupil again himself. 

His sister, moreover, for whom he had slaved for years in order that shemight continue her own singing education unchecked, was now more thanable, especially after these last three months in London, where she hadsuddenly leaped into eminence, to support herself and contributed to theexpenses of their common home. But there was still, so Michael gathered, no great superabundance of money, and he guessed that Falbe's inabilityto go to Munich was due to the question of expense. 

All this came out by inference and allusion rather than by directinformation, while Michael, naturally reticent and feeling that hisown uneventful affairs could have no interest for anybody, wasless communicative. And, indeed, while shunning the appearanceof inquisitiveness, he was far too eager to get hold of his newacquaintance to think of volunteering much himself. Here to him was thiscitizen of the new country who all his life had lived in the palace ofart, and that in no dilettante fashion, but with set aim and seriouspurpose. And Falbe abounded in such topics; he knew the singers andthe musicians of the world, and, which was much more than that, he washimself of them; humble, no doubt, in circumstances and achievement asyet, but clearly to Michael of the blood royal of artistry. That wasthe essential thing about him as regards his relations with hisfellow-traveller, though, when next morning the spires of Cologne andthe swift river of his Fatherland came into sight, he burst out into asort of rhapsody of patriotism that mockingly covered a great sincerity. 

"Ah! beloved land!" he cried. "Soil of heaven and of divine harmony!Hail to thee! Hail to thee! Rhine, Rhine deep and true and steadfast. ". . . And he waved his hat and sang the greeting of Brunnhilde. Then heturned laughingly to Michael. 

"I am sufficiently English to know how ridiculous that must seem toyou, " he said, "for I love England also, and the passengers on the boatwould merely think me mad if I apostrophised the cliffs of Dover andthe mud of the English roads. But here I am a German again, and I wouldwillingly kiss the soil. You English--we English, I may say, for I am asmuch English as German--I believe have got the same feeling somewhere inour hearts, but we lock it up and hide it away. Pray God I shall neverhave to choose to which nation I belong, though for that matter there inno choice in it at all, for I am certainly a German subject. Guten Tag, Koln; let us instantly have our coffee. There is no coffee like Germancoffee, though the French coffee is undeniably pleasanter to the meresuperficial palate. But it doesn't touch the heart, as everything Germantouches my heart when I come back to the Fatherland. "

He chattered on in tremendous high spirits. 

"And to think that to-night we shall sleep in true German beds, " hesaid. "I allow that the duvet is not so convenient as blankets, and thatthere is a watershed always up the middle of your bed, so that duringthe night your person descends to one side while the duvet rollsdown the other; but it is German, which makes up for any triflinginconvenience. Baireuth, too; perhaps it will strike you as a dull andstinking little town, and so I dare say it is. But after lunch we shallgo up the hillside to where the theatre stands, at the edge of thepine-woods, and from the porch the trumpets will give out the motif ofthe Grail, and we shall pass out of the heat into the cool darkness ofthe theatre. Aren't you thrilled, Comber? Doesn't a holy awe pervadeyou! Are you worthy, do you think?"

All this youthful, unrestrained enthusiasm was a revelation to Michael. Intentionally absurd as Falbe's rhapsody on the Fatherland had been, Michael knew that it sprang from a solid sincerity which was not ashamedof expressing itself. Living, as he had always done, in the ratherformal and reticent atmosphere of his class and environment, he wouldhave thought this fervour of patriotism in an English mouth ridiculous, or, if persevered in, merely bad form. Yet when Falbe hailed the Rhineand the spires of Cologne, it was clear that there was no bad form aboutit at all. He felt like that; and, indeed, as Michael was beginning toperceive, he felt with a similar intensity on all subjects about whichhe felt at all. There was something of the same vivid quality about AuntBarbara, but Aunt Barbara's vividness was chiefly devoted to the huntof the absurdities of her friends, and it was always the concretelyridiculous that she pursued. But this handsome, vital young man, withhis eagerness and his welcome for the world, who had fallen withso delightful a cordiality into Michael's company, had already anattraction for him of a sort he had never felt before. 

Dimly, as the days went by, he began to conjecture that he who had neverhad a friend was being hailed and halloed to, was being ordered, ifnot by precept, at any rate by example, to come out of the shell of hisreserve, and let himself feel and let himself express. He could see howutterly different was Falbe's general conception and practice oflife from his own; to Michael it had always been a congregation ofstrangers--Francis excepted--who moved about, busy with each other andwith affairs that had no allure for him, and were, though not uncivil, wholly alien to him. He was willing to grant that this alienation, thisabsence of comradeship which he had missed all his life, was of his ownmaking, in so far as his shyness and sensitiveness were the cause of it;but in effect he had never yet had a friend, because he had never yettaken his shutters down, so to speak, or thrown his front door open. Hehad peeped out through chinks, and felt how lonely he was, but he hadnot given anyone a chance to get in. 

Falbe, on the other hand, lived at his window, ready to hail thepasser-by, even as he had hailed Michael, with cheerful words. Therehe lounged in his shirt-sleeves, you might say, with elbows on thewindow-sill; and not from politeness, but from good fellowship, from thefact that he liked people, was at home to everybody. He liked people;there was the key to it. And Michael, however much he might be capableof liking people, had up till now given them no sign of it. It reallywas not their fault if they had not guessed it. 

Two days passed, on the first of which Parsifal was given, and on thesecond Meistersinger. On the third there was no performance, and the twoyoung men had agreed to meet in the morning and drive out of the town toa neighbouring village among the hills, and spend the day there inthe woods. Michael had looked forward to this day with extraordinarypleasure, but there was mingled with it a sort of agony of apprehensionthat Falbe would find him a very boring companion. But the precepts ofAunt Barbara came to his mind, and he reflected that the certain andsure way of proving a bore was to be taken up with the idea that hemight be. And anyhow, Falbe had proposed the plan himself. 

They lunched in a little restaurant near a forest-enclosed lake, andsince the day was very hot, did no more than stroll up the hill for ahundred yards, where they would get some hint of breeze, and disposedthemselves at length on the carpet of pine-needles. Through the thickboughs overhead the sunlight reached them only in specks and flakes, thewind was but as a distant sea in the branches, and Falbe rolled overon to his face, and sniffed at the aromatic leaves with the gusto withwhich he enjoyed all that was to him enjoyable. 

"Ah; that's good, that's good!" he said. "How I love smells--clean, sharp smells like this. But they've got to be wild; you can't tame asmell and put it on your handkerchief; it takes the life out of it. Doyou like smells, Comber?"

"I--I really never thought about it, " said Michael. 

"Think now, then, and tell me, " said Falbe. "If you consider, you knowsuch a lot about me, and, as a matter of fact, I know nothing whateverabout you. I know you like music--I know you like blue trout, becauseyou ate so many of them at lunch to-day. But what else do I know aboutyou? I don't even know what you thought of Parsifal. No, perhaps I'mwrong there, because the fact that you've never mentioned it probablyshows that you couldn't. The symptom of not understanding anything aboutParsifal is to talk about it, and say what a tremendous impression ithas made on you. "

"Ah! you've guessed right there, " said Michael. "I couldn't talk aboutit; there's nothing to say about it, except that it is Parsifal. "

"That's true. It becomes part of you, and you can't talk of it any morethan you can talk about your elbows and your knees. It's one of thethings that makes you. . . . "

He turned over on to his back, and laid his hands palm uppermost overhis eyes. 

"That's part of the glory of it all, " he said; "that art and itsemotions become part of you like the food you eat and the wine youdrink. Art is always making us; it enters into our character anddestiny. As long as you go on growing you assimilate, and thank Godone's mind or soul, or whatever you like to call it, goes on growing fora long time. I suppose the moment comes to most people when they ceaseto grow, when they become fixed and hard; and that is what we mean bybeing old. But till then you weave your destiny, or, rather, people andbeauty weave it for you, as you'll see the Norns weaving, and yet younever know what you are making. You make what you are, and you neverare because you are always becoming. You must excuse me; but Germans arealways metaphysicians, and they can't help it. "

"Go on; be German, " said Michael. 

"Lieber Gott! As if I could be anything else, " said Falbe, laughing. "We are the only nation which makes a science of experimentalism; we tryeverything, just as a puppy tries everything. It tries mutton bones, andmatch-boxes, and soap and boots; it tries to find out what its tail isfor, and bites it till it hurts, on which it draws the conclusion thatit is not meant to eat. Like all metaphysicians, too, and dealers in theabstract, we are intensely practical. Our passion for experimentalismis dictated by the firm object of using the knowledge we acquire. Weare tremendously thorough; we waste nothing, not even time, whereasthe English have an absolute genius for wasting time. Look at all yourgames, your sports, your athletics--I am being quite German now, andforgetting my mother, bless her!--they are merely devices for gettingrid of the hours, and so not having to think. You hate thought asa nation, and we live for it. Music is thought; all art is thought;commercial prosperity is thought; soldiering is thought. "

"And we are a nation of idiots?" asked Michael. 

"No; I didn't say that. I should say you are a nation of sensualists. You value sensation above everything; you pursue the enjoyable. You area nation of children who are always having a perpetual holiday. You gostraying all over the world for fun, and annex it generally, so thatyou can have tiger-shooting in India, and lots of gold to pay for yourtiger-shooting in Africa, and fur from Canada for your coats. Butit's all a game; not one man in a thousand in England has any idea ofEmpire. "

"Oh, I think you are wrong there, " said Michael. "You believe that onlybecause we don't talk about it. It's--it's like what we agreed aboutParsifal. We don't talk about it because it is so much part of us. "

Falbe sat up. 

"I deny it; I deny it flatly, " he said. "I know where I get my power offoolish, unthinking enjoyment from, and it's from my English blood. Irejoice in my English blood, because you are the happiest people on theface of the earth. But you are happy because you don't think, whereasthe joy of being German is that you do think. England is lying in theshade, like us, with a cigarette and a drink--I wish I had one--and agolf ball or the world with which she has been playing her game. ButGermany is sitting up all night thinking, and every morning she gives anorder or two. "

Michael supplied the cigarette. 

"Do you mean she is thinking about England's golf ball?" asked Michael. 

"Why, of course she is! What else is there to think about?"

"Oh, it's impossible that there should be a European war, " said Michael, "for that is what it will mean!"

"And why is a European war impossible?" demanded Falbe, lighting hiscigarette. 

"It's simply unthinkable!"

"Because you don't think, " he interrupted. "I can tell you that thethought of war is never absent for a single day from the average Germanmind. We are all soldiers, you see. We start with that. You start bybeing golfers and cricketers. But 'der Tag' is never quite absentfrom the German mind. I don't say that all you golfers and cricketerswouldn't make good soldiers, but you've got to be made. You can't be agolfer one day and a soldier the next. "

Michael laughed. 

"As for that, " he said, "I made an uncommonly bad soldier. But I am aneven worse golfer. As for cricket--"

Falbe again interrupted. 

"Ah, then at last I know two things about you, " he said. "You were asoldier and you can't play golf. I have never known so little aboutanybody after three--four days. However, what is our proverb? 'Live andlearn. ' But it takes longer to learn than to live. Eh, what nonsense Italk. "

He spoke with a sudden irritation, and the laugh at the end of hisspeech was not one of amusement, but rather of mockery. To Michael thismood was quite inexplicable, but, characteristically, he looked about inhimself for the possible explanation of it. 

"But what's the matter?" he asked. "Have I annoyed you somehow? I'mawfully sorry. "

Falbe did not reply for a moment. 

"No, you've not annoyed me, " he said. "I've annoyed myself. But that'sthe worst of living on one's nerves, which is the penalty of Baireuth. There is no charge, so to speak, except for your ticket, but acollection is made, as happens at meetings, and you pay with yournerves. You must cancel my annoyance, please. If I showed it I did notmean to. "

Michael pondered over this. 

"But I can't leave it like that, " he said at length. "Was it about thepossibility of war, which I said was unthinkable?"

Falbe laughed and turned on his elbow towards Michael. 

"No, my dear chap, " he said. "You may believe it to be unthinkable, andI may believe it to be inevitable; but what does it matter what eitherof us believes? Che sara sara. It was quite another thing that caused meto annoy myself. It does not matter. "

Michael lay back on the soft slope. 

"Yet I insist on knowing, " he said. "That is, I mean, if it is notprivate. "

Falbe lay quietly with his long fingers in the sediment of pine-needles. 

"Well, then, as it is not private, and as you insist, " he said, "I willcertainly tell you. Does it not strike you that you are behaving like anabsolute stranger to me? We have talked of me and my home and myplans all the time since we met at Victoria Station, and you have keptcomplete silence about yourself. I know nothing of you, not who you are, or what you are, or what your flag is. You fly no flag, you proclaim noidentity. You may be a crossing-sweeper, or a grocer, or a marquis forall I know. Of course, that matters very little; but what does matter isthat never for a moment have you shown me not what you happen to be, but what you are. I've got the impression that you are something, thatthere's a real 'you' in your inside. But you don't let me see it. Yousend a polite servant to the door when I knock. Probably this soundsvery weird and un-English to you. But to my mind it is much more weirdto behave as you are behaving. Come out, can't you. Let's look at you. "

It was exactly that--that brusque, unsentimental appeal--that Michaelneeded. He saw himself at that moment, as Falbe saw him, a shelled andmuffled figure, intangible and withdrawn, but observing, as it were, through eye-holes, and giving nothing in exchange for what he saw. 

"I'm sorry, " he said. "It's quite true what you tell me. I'm like that. But it really has never struck me that anybody cared to know. "

Falbe ceased digging his excavation in the pine-needles and looked up onMichael. 

"Good Lord, man!" he said; "people care if you'll only allow them to. The indifference of other people is a false term for the secretivenessof oneself. How can they care, unless you let them know what there is tocare for?"

"But I'm completely uninteresting, " said Michael. 

"Yes; I'll judge of that, " said Falbe. 

Slowly, and with diffident pauses, Michael began to speak of himself, feeling at first as if he was undressing in public. But as he went onhe became conscious of the welcome that his story received, though thatwelcome only expressed itself in perfectly unemotional monosyllables. Hemight be undressing, but he was undressing in front of a fire. He knewthat he uncovered himself to no icy blast or contemptuous rain, as hehad felt when, so few days before, he had spoken of himself and whathe was to his father. There was here the common land of music to buildupon, whereas to Lord Ashbridge that same soil had been, so to speak, the territory of the enemy. And even more than that, there was theinstinct, the certain conviction that he was telling his tale tosympathetic ears, to which the mere fact that he was speaking of himselfpresupposed a friendly hearing. Falbe, he felt, wanted to know abouthim, regardless of the nature of his confessions. Had he said that hewas an undetected kleptomaniac, Falbe would have liked to know, havebeen pleased at any tidings, provided only they were authentic. Thisseemed to reveal itself to him even as he spoke; it had been therewaiting for him to claim it, lying there as in a poste restante, onlyready for its owner. 

At the end Falbe gave a long sigh. 

"And why the devil didn't you give me any hint of it before?" he asked. 

"I didn't think it mattered, " said Michael. 

"Well, then, you are amazingly wrong. Good Lord, it's about the mostinteresting thing I've ever heard. I didn't know anybody could escapefrom that awful sort of prison-house in which our--I'm English now--inwhich our upper class immures itself. Yet you've done it. I take it thatthe thing is done now?"

"I'm not going back into the prison-house again, if you mean that, " saidMichael. 

"And will your father cut you off?" asked he. 

"Oh, I haven't the least idea, " said Michael. 

"Aren't you going to inquire?"

Michael hesitated. 

"No, I'm sure I'm not, " he said. "I can't do that. It's his business. I couldn't ask about what he had done, or meant to do. It's a sortof pride, I suppose. He will do as he thinks proper, and when he hasthought, perhaps he will tell me what he intends. "

"But, then, how will you live?" asked Falbe. 

"Oh, I forgot to tell you that. I've got some money, quite a lot, Imean, from my grandmother. In some ways I rather wish I hadn't. It wouldhave been a proof of sincerity to have become poor. That wouldn't havemade the smallest difference to my resolution. "

Falbe laughed. 

"And so you are rich, and yet go second-class, " he said. "If I were richI would make myself exceedingly comfortable. I like things that aregood to eat and soft to touch. But I'm bound to say that I get onquite excellently without them. Being poor does not make the smallestdifference to one's happiness, but only to the number of one'spleasures. "

Michael paused a moment, and then found courage to say what for the lasttwo days he had been longing to give utterance to. 

"I know; but pleasures are very nice things, " he said. "And doesn't itseem obvious now that you are coming to Munich with me? It's a purelyselfish suggestion on my part. After being with you it will be verystupid to be alone there. But it would be so delightful if you wouldcome. "

Falbe looked at him a moment without speaking, but Michael saw the lightin his eyes. 

"And what if I have my pride too?" he said. "Then I shall apologise forhaving made the proposal, " said Michael simply. 

For just a second more Falbe hesitated. Then he held out his hand. 

"I thank you most awfully, " he said. "I accept with the greatestpleasure. "

Michael drew a long breath of relief. 

"I am glad, " he said. "So that's settled. It's really nice of you. "

The heat of the day was passing off, and over the sun-bleached plain thecoolness of evening was beginning to steal. Overhead the wind stirredmore resonantly in the pines, and in the bushes birds called to eachother. Presently after, they rose from where they had lain all theafternoon and strolled along the needled slope to where, through a vistain the trees, they looked down on the lake and the hamlet that clusterednear it. Down the road that wound through the trees towards it passedlabourers going homeward from their work, with cheerful guttural criesto each other and a herd of cows sauntered by with bells melodiouslychiming, taking leisurely mouthfuls from the herbage of the wayside. In the village, lying low in the clear dusk, scattered lights began toappear, the smoke of evening fires to ascend, and the aromatic odour ofthe burning wood strayed towards them up the wind. 

Falbe, whose hand lay in the crook of Michael's arm, pointed downwardsto the village that lay there sequestered and rural. 

"That's Germany, " he said; "it's that which lies at the back of everyGerman heart. There lie the springs of the Rhine. It's out of thatoriginally that there came all that Germany stands for, its music, itspoetry, its philosophy, its kultur. All flowed from these quiet uplands. It was here that the nation began to think and to dream. To dreamt! It'sout of dreams that all has sprung. "

He laughed. 

"And then next week when we go to Munich, you will find me saying thatthis, this Athens of a town, with its museums and its galleries and itsmusic, is Germany. I shall be right, too. Out of much dreaming comesthe need to make. It is when the artist's head and heart are full ofhis dreams that his hands itch for the palette or the piano. Nuremberg!Cannot we stop a few hours, at least, in Nuremberg, and see the meadowby the Pegnitz where the Meistersingers held their contest of song andthe wooden, gabled house where Albrecht Durer lived? That will teach youGermany, too. The bud of their dream was opening then; and what flower, even in the magnificence of its full-blowing, is so lovely? AlbrechtDurer, with his deep, patient eyes, and his patient hands with theirunerring stroke; or Bach, with the fugue flowing from his brain throughhis quick fingers, making stars--stars fixed forever in the heavenof harmony! Don't tell me that there is anything in the world morewonderful! We may have invented a few more instruments, we may haveexperimented with a few more combinations of notes, but in the B minorMass, or in the music of the Passion, all is said. And all that camefrom the woods and the country and the quiet life in little towns, whenthe artist did his work because he loved it, and cared not one jot aboutwhat anybody else thought about it. We are a nation of thinkers anddreamers. "

Michael hesitated a moment. 

"But you said not long ago that you were also the most practicalnation, " he said. "You are a nation of soldiers, also. "

"And who would not willingly give himself for such a Fatherland?" saidFalbe. "If need be, we will lay our lives down for that, and die morewillingly than we have lived. God grant that the need comes not. Butshould it come we are ready. We are bound to be ready; it would be acrime not to be ready--a crime against the Fatherland. We love peace, but the peace-lovers are just those who in war are most terrible. Forwho are the backbone of war when war comes? The women of the country, my friend, not the ministers, not the generals and the admirals. Idon't say they make war, but when war is made they are the spirit of it, because, more than men, they love their homes. There is not a womanin Germany who will not send forth brother and husband and father andchild, should the day come. But it will not come from our seeking. "

He turned to Michael, his face illuminated by the red glow of thesinking sun. 

"Germany will rise as one man if she's told to, " he said, "for that iswhat her unity and her discipline mean. She is patient and peaceful, butshe is obedient. "

He pointed northwards. 

"It is from there, from Prussia, from Berlin, " he said, "that the wordwill come, if they who rule and govern us, and in whose hands are allorganisation and equipment, tell us that our national existence compelsus to fight. They rule. The Prussians rule; there is no doubt of that. From Germany have come the arts, the sciences, the philosophies of theworld, and not from there. But they guard our national life. It is theywho watch by the Rhine for us, patient and awake. Should they beckon usone night, on some peaceful August night like this, when all seems sotranquil, so secure, we shall go. The silent beckoning finger will beobeyed from one end of the land to the other, from Poland on the east toFrance on the west. "

He turned away quickly. 

"It does not bear thinking of, " he said; "and yet there are many, oh, somany, who night and day concern themselves with nothing else. Let us beEnglish again, and not think of anything serious or unpleasant. Already, as you know, I am half English; there is something to build upon. Ah, and this is the sentimental hour, just when the sun begins to touch thehorizon line of the stale, weary old earth and turns it into rosy goldand heals its troubles and its weariness. Schon, Schon!"

He stood for a moment bareheaded to the breeze, and made a great floridsalutation to the sun, now only half-disk above the horizon. 

"There! I have said my evensong, " he remarked, "like a good German, whoalways and always is ridiculous to the whole world, except those who areGerman also. Oh, I can see how we look to the rest of the world so well. Beer mug in one hand, and mouth full of sausage and song, and with theother hand, perhaps, fingering a revolver. How unreal it must seem toyou, how affected, and yet how, in truth, you miss it all. Scratch aRussian, they say, and you find a Tartar; but scratch a German and youfind two things--a sentimentalist and a soldier. Lieber Gott! No, I willsay, Good God! I am English again, and if you scratch me you will find agolf ball. "

He took Michael's arm again. 

"Well, we've spent one day together, " he said, "and now we knowsomething of who we are. I put this day in the bank; it's mine or yoursor both of ours. I won't tell you how I've enjoyed it, or you will saythat I have enjoyed it because I have talked almost all the time. Butsince it's the sentimental hour I will tell you that you mistake. I haveenjoyed it because I believe I have found a friend. "

CHAPTER V

Hermann Falbe had just gone back to his lodgings at the end of theRichard Wagner Strasse late on the night of their last day at Baireuth, and Michael, who had leaned out of his window to remind him of the hourof their train's departure the next morning, turned back into the roomto begin his packing. That was not an affair that would take much time, but since, on this sweltering August night, it would certainly be aprocess that involved the production of much heat, he made ready for bedfirst, and went about his preparations in pyjamas. The work of droppingthings into a bag was soon over, and finding it impossible to entertainthe idea of sleep, he drew one of the stiff, plush-covered arm-chairs tothe window and slipped the rein from his thoughts, letting them gallopwhere they pleased. 

In all his life he had never experienced so much sheer emotion as thelast week had held for him. He had enjoyed his first taste of liberty;he had stripped himself naked to music; he had found a friend. Any oneof these would have been sufficient to saturate him, and they had all, in the decrees of Fate, come together. His life hitherto had been likesome dry sponge, dusty and crackling; now it was plunged in the watersof three seas, all incomparably sweet. 

He had gained his liberty, and in that process he had forgotten abouthimself, the self which up till now had been so intolerable a burden. Atschool, and even before, when first the age of self-consciousness dawnedupon him, he had seen himself as he believed others saw him--a queer, awkward, ill-made boy, slow at his work, shy with his fellows, incapableat games. Walled up in this fortress of himself, this gloomy andforbidding fastness, he had altogether failed to find the means ofaccess to others, both to the normal English boys among whom his pathlay, and also to his teachers, who, not unnaturally, found him sullenand unresponsive. There was no key among the rather limited bunches attheir command which unlocked him, nor at home had anything been foundwhich could fit his wards. It had been the business of school to turnout boys of certain received types. There was the clever boy, theathletic boy, the merely pleasant boy; these and the combinationsarrived at from these types were the output. There was no use forothers. 

Then had succeeded those three nightmare years in the Guards, where, with his more mature power of observation, he had become more activelyconscious of his inability to take his place on any of the recognisedplatforms. And all the time, like an owl on his solitary perch, he hadgazed out lonelily, while the other birds of day, too polite to mockhim, had merely passed him by. One such, it is true--his cousin--had satby him, and the poor owl's heart had gone out to him. But even Francis, so he saw now, had not understood. He had but accepted the fact of himwithout repugnance, had been fond of him as a queer sort of kind eldercousin. 

Then there was Aunt Barbara. Aunt Barbara, Michael allowed, hadunderstood a good deal; she had pointed out with her unerringlyhumourous finger the obstacles he had made for himself. 

But could Aunt Barbara understand the rapture of living which thisone week of liberty had given him? That Michael doubted. She had onlypointed out the disabilities he made for himself. She did not knowwhat he was capable of in the way of happiness. But he thought, thoughwithout self-consciousness, how delightful it would be to show himself, the new, unshelled self, to Aunt Barbara again. 

A laughing couple went tapping down the street below his window, boy andgirl, with arms and waists interlaced. They were laughing at nothing atall, except that they were boy and girl together and it was all gloriousfun. But the sight of them gave Michael a sudden spasm of envy. With allthis enlightenment that had come to him during this last week, there hadcome no gleam of what that simplest and commonest aspect of human naturemeant. He had never felt towards a girl what that round-faced Germanboy felt. He was not sure, but he thought he disliked girls; they meantnothing to him, anyhow, and the mere thought of his arm round a girl'swaist only suggested a very embarrassing attitude. He had nothing tosay to them, and the knowledge of his inability filled him withan uncomfortable sense of his want of normality, just as did theconsciousness of his long arms and stumpy legs. 

There was a night he remembered when Francis had insisted that he shouldgo with him to a discreet little supper party after an evening atthe music-hall. There were just four of them--he, Francis, and twocompanions--and he played the role of sour gooseberry to his cousin, who, with the utmost gaiety, had proved himself completely equal to theinauspicious occasion, and had drank indiscriminately out of both thegirls' glasses, and lit cigarettes for them; and, after seeing them bothhome, had looked in on Michael, and gone into fits of laughter at hisgeneral incompatibility. 

The steps and conversation passed round the corner, and Michael, stretching his bare toes on to the cool balcony, resumed hisresearches--those joyful, unegoistic researches into himself. Hisliberty was bound up with his music; the first gave the key to thesecond. Often as he had rested, so to speak, in oases of music inLondon, they were but a pause from the desert of his uncongenial lifeinto the desert again. But now the desert was vanished, and the oasisstretched illimitable to the horizon in front of him. That was where, for the future, his life was to be passed, not idly, sitting undertrees, but in the eager pursuit of its unnumbered paths. It was thataspect of it which, as he knew so well, his father, for instance, wouldnever be able to understand. To Lord Ashbridge's mind, music wasvaguely connected with white waistcoats and opera glasses and large pinkcarnations; he was congenitally incapable of viewing it in any otherlight than a diversion, something that took place between nine andeleven o'clock in the evening, and in smaller quantities at church onSunday morning. He would undoubtedly have said that Handel's Messiah wasthe noblest example of music in the world, because of its subject; musicdid not exist for him as a separate, definite and infinite factor oflife; and since it did not so exist for himself, he could not imagineit existing for anybody else. That Michael correctly knew to be hisfather's general demeanour towards life; he wanted everybody in theirrespective spheres to be like what he was in his. They must take theirpart, as he undoubtedly did, in the Creation-scheme when the Britisharistocracy came into being. 

A fresh factor had come into Michael's conception of music during theselast seven days. He had become aware that Germany was music. He hadnaturally known before that the vast proportion of music came fromGermany, that almost all of that which meant "music" to him was ofGerman origin; but that was a very different affair from the convictionnow borne in on his mind that there was not only no music apart fromGermany, but that there was no Germany apart from music. 

But every moment he spent in this wayside puddle of a town (for soBaireuth seemed to an unbiased view), he became more and more aware thatmusic beat in the German blood even as sport beat in the blood of hisown people. During this festival week Baireuth existed only because ofthat; at other times Baireuth was probably as non-existent as any dulland minor town in the English Midlands. But, owing to the fact of musicbeing for these weeks resident in Baireuth, the sordid little townletbecame the capital of the huge, patient Empire. It existed just nowsimply for that reason; to-night, with the curtain of the last act ofParsifal, it had ceased to exist again. It was not that a patrioticdesire to honour one of the national heroes in the home where he hadbeen established by the mad genius of a Bavarian king that moved them;it was because for the moment that Baireuth to Germans meant Germany. From Berlin, from Dresden, from Frankfurt, from Luxemburg, from ahundred towns those who were most typically German, whether high orlow, rich or poor, made their joyous pilgrimage. Joy and solemnity, exultation and the yearning that could never be satisfied drew themhere. And even as music was in Michael's heart, so Germany was therealso. They were the people who understood; they did not go to the operaas a be-diamonded interlude between a dinner and a dance; they cameto this dreadful little town, the discomforts of which, the utterprovinciality of which was transformed into the air of the heavenlyJerusalem, as Hermann Falbe had said, because their souls were fed herewith wine and manna. He would find the same thing at Munich, so Falbehad told him, the next week. 

The loves and the tragedies of the great titanic forces that sawthe making of the world; the dreams and the deeds of the masters ofNuremberg; above all, sacrifice and enlightenment and redemption of thesoul; how, except by music, could these be made manifest? It was thefirst and only and final alchemy that could by its magic transformationgive an answer to the tremendous riddles of consciousness; that couldlift you, though tearing and making mincemeat of you, to the serenityof the Pisgah-top, whence was seen the promised land. It, in itself, wasreality; and the door-keeper who admitted you into that enchantedrealm was the spirit of Germany. Not France, with its little, morbidshiverings, and its meat-market called love; not Italy, with itsmelodious declamations and tawdry tunes; not Russia even, with the windof its impenetrable winters, its sense of joys snatched from its eternalfrosts gave admittance there; but Germany, "deep, patient Germany, " thatsprang from upland hamlets, and flowed down with ever-broadening streaminto the illimitable ocean. 

Here, then, were two of the initiations that had come, with theswiftness of the spate in Alpine valleys at the melting of the snow, upon Michael; his own liberty, namely, and this new sense of music. Hehad groped, he felt now, like a blind man in that direction, guided onlyby his instinct, and on a sudden the scales had fallen from his eyes, and he knew that his instinct had guided him right. But not lessepoch-making had been the dawn of friendship. Throughout the week hisintimacy with Hermann Falbe had developed, shooting up like analoe flower, and rising into sunlight above the mists of his ownself-occupied shyness, which had so darkly beset him all life long. Hehad given the best that he knew of himself to his cousin, but allthe time there had never quite been absent from his mind his senseof inferiority, a sort of aching wonder why he could not be more likeFrancis, more careless, more capable of enjoyment, more of a normaltype. But with Falbe he was able for the first time to forget himselfaltogether; he had met a man who did not recall him to himself, buttook him clean out of that tedious dwelling which he knew so well and, indeed, disliked so much. He was rid for the first time of his morbidself-consciousness; his anchor had been taken up from its dragging inthe sand, and he rode free, buoyed on waters and taken by tides. Itdid not occur to him to wonder whether Falbe thought him uncouth andawkward; it did not occur to him to try to be pleasant, a job over whichpoor Michael had so often found himself dishearteningly incapable; helet himself be himself in the consciousness that this was sufficient. 

They had spent the morning together before this second performance ofParsifal that closed their series, in the woods above the theatre, andMichael, no longer blurting out his speeches, but speaking in the quiet, orderly manner in which he thought, discussed his plans. 

"I shall come back to London with you after Munich, " he said, "andsettle down to study. I do know a certain amount about harmony already;I have been mugging it up for the last three years. But I must dosomething as well as learn something, and, as I told you, I'm going totake up the piano seriously. "

Falbe was not attending particularly. 

"A fine instrument, the piano, " he remarked. "There is certainlysomething to be done with a piano, if you know how to do it. I can struma bit myself. Some keys are harder than others--the black notes. "

"Yes; what of the black notes?" asked Michael. 

"Oh! they're black. The rest are white. I beg your pardon!"

Michael laughed. 

"When you have finished drivelling, " he said, "you might let me know. "

"I have finished drivelling, Michael. I was thinking about somethingelse. "

"Not really?"

"Really. "

"Then it was impolite of you, but you haven't any manners. I was talkingabout my career. I want to do something, and these large hands arereally rather nimble. But I must be taught. The question is whether youwill teach me. "

Falbe hesitated. 

"I can't tell you, " he said, "till I have heard you play. It's likethis: I can't teach you to play unless you know how, and I can't tellif you know how until I have heard you. If you have got that particularsort of temperament that can put itself into the notes out of the endsof your fingers, I can teach you, and I will. But if you haven't, Ishall feel bound to advise you to try the Jew's harp, and see if you canget it out of your teeth. I'm not mocking you; I fancy you know that. But some people, however keenly and rightly they feel, cannot bringtheir feelings out through their fingers. Others can; it is a specialgift. If you haven't got it, I can't teach you anything, and there isno use in wasting your time and mine. You can teach yourself to befrightfully nimble with your fingers, and all the people who don'tknow will say: 'How divinely Lord Comber plays! That sweet thing; is itBrahms or Mendelssohn?' But I can't really help you towards that; youcan do that for yourself. But if you've got the other, I can and willteach you all that you really know already. "

"Go on!" said Michael. 

"That's just the devil with the piano, " said Falbe. "It's the easiestinstrument of all to make a show on, and it is the rarest sort of personwho can play on it. That's why, all those years, I have hated givinglessons. If one has to, as I have had to, one must take any awful misswith a pigtail, and make a sham pianist of her. One can always do that. But it would be waste of time for you and me; you wouldn't want to bemade a sham pianist, and simply I wouldn't make you one. "

Michael turned round. 

"Good Lord!" he said, "the suspense is worse than I can bear. Isn'tthere a piano in your room? Can't we go down there, and have it over?"

"Yes, if you wish. I can tell at once if you are capable of playing--atleast, whether I think you are capable of playing--whether I can teachyou. "

"But I haven't touched a piano for a week, " said Michael. 

"It doesn't matter whether you've touched a piano for a year. "

Michael had not been prevented by the economy that made him travelsecond-class from engaging a carriage by the day at Baireuth, sincethat clearly was worth while, and they found it waiting for them bythe theatre. There was still time to drive to Falbe's lodging and getthrough this crucial ordeal before the opera, and they went straightthere. A very venerable instrument, which Falbe had not yet opened, stood against the wall, and he struck a few notes on it. 

"Completely out of tune, " he said; "but that doesn't matter. Now then!"

"But what am I to play?" asked Michael. 

"Anything you like. "

He sat down at the far end of the room, put his long legs up on toanother chair and waited. Michael sent a despairing glance at thatgay face, suddenly grown grim, and took his seat. He felt a paralysingconviction that Falbe's judgment, whatever that might turn out to be, would be right, and the knowledge turned his fingers stiff. From the fewnotes that Falbe had struck he guessed on what sort of instrument hisordeal was to take place, and yet he knew that Falbe himself would havebeen able to convey to him the sense that he could play, though thepiano was all out of tune, and there might be dumb, disconcerting notesin it. There was justice in Falbe's dictum about the temperament thatlay behind the player, which would assert itself through any faultinessof instrument, and through, so he suspected, any faultiness ofexecution. 

He struck a chord, and heard it jangle dissonantly. 

"Oh, it's not fair, " he said. 

"Get on!" said Falbe. 

In spite of Germany there occurred to Michael a Chopin prelude, at whichhe had worked a little during the last two months in London. The noteshe knew perfectly; he had believed also that he had found a certainconception of it as a whole, so that he could make something coherentout of it, not merely adding bar to correct bar. And he began the softrepetition of chord-quavers with which it opened. 

Then after stumbling wretchedly through two lines of it, he suddenlyforgot himself and Falbe, and the squealing unresponsive notes. He heardthem no more, absorbed in the knowledge of what he meant by them, of themood which they produced in him. His great, ungainly hands had all thegentleness and self-control that strength gives, and the finger-fillingchords were as light and as fine as the settling of some poised bird ona bough. In the last few lines of the prelude a deep bass note had to bestruck at the beginning of each bar; this Michael found was completelydumb, but so clear and vivid was the effect of it in his mind that hescarcely noticed that it returned no answer to his finger. . . . At theend he sat without moving, his hands dropped on to his knees. 

Falbe got up and, coming over to the piano, struck the bass notehimself. 

"Yes, I knew it was dumb, " he said, "but you made me think it wasn't. . . . You got quite a good tone out of it. "

He paused a moment, again striking the dumb note, as if to make surethat it was soundless. 

"Yes; I'll teach you, " he said. "All the technique you have got, youknow, is wrong from beginning to end, and you mustn't mind unlearningall that. But you've got the thing that matters. "

All this stewed and seethed in Michael's mind as he sat that night bythe window looking out on to the silent and empty street. His thoughtsflowed without check or guide from his will, wandering wherever theircourse happened to take them, now lingering, like the water of a riverin some deep, still pool, when he thought of the friendship thathad come into his life, now excitedly plunging down the foam ofswift-flowing rapids in the exhilaration of his newly-found liberty, now proceeding with steady current at the thought of the weeks ofunremitting industry at a beloved task that lay in front of him. Hecould form no definite image out of these which should represent hisordinary day; it was all lost in a bright haze through which its shapewas but faintly discernible; but life lay in front of him with promise, a thing to be embraced and greeted with welcome and eager hands, insteadof being a mere marsh through which he had to plod with labouring steps, a business to be gone about without joy and without conviction in itsbeing worth while. 

He wondered for a moment, as he rose to go to bed, what his feelingswould have been if, at the end of his performance on the sore-throatedand voiceless piano, Falbe had said: "I'm sorry, but I can't do anythingwith you. " As he knew, Falbe intended for the future only to take a fewpupils, and chiefly devote himself to his own practice with a view toemerging as a concert-giver the next winter; and as Michael had satdown, he remembered telling himself that there was really not theslightest chance of his friend accepting him as a pupil. He did notintend that this rejection should make the smallest difference to hisaim, but he knew that he would start his work under the tremendoushandicap of Falbe not believing that he had it in him to play, and underthe disappointment of not enjoying the added intimacy which work withand for Falbe would give him. Then he had engaged in this tussle withrefractory notes till he quite lost himself in what he was playing, and thought no more either of Falbe or the piano, but only of what themelody meant to him. But at the end, when he came to himself again, andsat with dropped hands waiting for Falbe's verdict, he remembered howhis heart seemed to hang poised until it came. He had rehearsed againto himself his fixed determination that he would play and could play, whatever his friend might think about it; but there was no doubt that hewaited with a greater suspense than he had ever known in his life beforefor that verdict to be made known to him. 

Next day came their journey to Munich, and the installation in thebest hotel in Europe. Here Michael was host, and the economy which hepractised when he had only himself to provide for, and which made himgo second-class when travelling, was, as usual, completely abandoned nowthat the pleasure of hospitality was his. He engaged at once the bestdouble suite of rooms that the hotel contained, two bedrooms withbathrooms, and an admirable sitting-room, looking spaciously out onto the square, and with brusque decision silenced Falbe's attemptedremonstrance. "Don't interfere with my show, please, " he had said, andproceeded to inquire about a piano to be sent in for the week. Then heturned to his friend again. "Oh, we are going to enjoy ourselves, " hesaid, with an irresistible sincerity. 

Tristan und Isolde was given on the third day of their stay there, andFalbe, reading the morning German paper, found news. 

"The Kaiser has arrived, " he said. "There's a truce in the armymanoeuvres for a couple of days, and he has come to be present atTristan this evening. He's travelled three hundred miles to get here, and will go back to-morrow. The Reise-Kaiser, you know. "

Michael looked up with some slight anxiety. 

"Ought I to write my name or anything?" he asked. "He has stayed severaltimes with my father. "

"Has he? But I don't suppose it matters. The visit is awidely-advertised incognito. That's his way. God be with theAll-highest, " he added. 

"Well, I shan't" said Michael. "But it would shock my father dreadfullyif he knew. The Kaiser looks on him as the type and model of the Englishnobleman. "

Michael crunched one of the inimitable breakfast rusks in his teeth. 

"Lord, what a day we had when he was at Ashbridge last year, " he said. "We began at eight with a review of the Suffolk Yeomanry; then we had apheasant shoot from eleven till three; then the Emperor had out a steamlaunch and careered up and down the river till six, asking a thousandquestions about the tides and the currents and the navigable channels. Then he lectured us on the family portraits till dinner; after dinnerthere was a concert, at which he conducted the 'Song to Aegir, ' and thenthere was a torch-light fandango by the tenants on the lawn. He was onhis holiday, you must remember. "

"I heard the 'Song to Aegir' once, " remarked Falbe, with a perfectlylevel intonation. 

"I was--er--luckier, " said Michael politely, "because on that occasion Iheard it twice. It was encored. "

"And what did it sound like the second time?" asked Falbe. 

"Much as before, " said Michael. 

The advent of the Emperor had put the whole town in a ferment. Thoughthe visit was quite incognito, an enormous military staff which hadbeen poured into the town might have led the thoughtful to suspect theKaiser's presence, even if it had not been announced in the largest typein the papers, and marchings and counter-marchings of troops and suddenbursts of national airs proclaimed the august presence. He held aninformal review of certain Bavarian troops not out for manoeuvres in themorning, visited the sculpture gallery and pinacothek in the afternoon, and when Hermann and Michael went up to the theatre they found rowsof soldiers drawn up, and inside unusual decorations over a section ofstalls which had been removed and was converted into an enormous box. This was in the centre of the first tier, nearly at right angles towhere they sat, in the front row of the same tier; and when, withmilitary punctuality, the procession of uniforms, headed by the Emperor, filed in, the whole of the crowded house stood up and broke into a roarof recognition and loyalty. 

For a minute, or perhaps more, the Emperor stood facing the house withhis hand raised in salute, a figure the uprightness of which made himlook tall. His brilliant uniform was ablaze with decorations; he seemedevery inch a soldier and a leader of men. For that minute he stoodlooking neither to the right nor left, stern and almost frowning, withno shadow of a smile playing on the tightly-drawn lips, above which hismoustache was brushed upwards in two stiff protuberances towards hiseyes. He was there just then not to see, but to be seen, his incognitowas momentarily in abeyance, and he stood forth the supreme head of hispeople, the All-highest War Lord, who had come that day from thefield, to which he would return across half Germany tomorrow. It was animpressive and dignified moment, and Michael heard Falbe say to himself:"Kaiserlich! Kaiserlich!"

Then it was over. The Emperor sat down, beckoned to two of his officers, who had stood in a group far at the back of the box, to join him, andwith one on each side he looked about the house and chatted to them. Hehad taken out his opera-glass, which he adjusted, using his right handonly, and looked this way and that, as if, incognito again, he waslooking for friends in the house. Once Michael thought that he lookedrather long and fixedly in his direction, and then, putting down hisglass, he said something to one of the officers, this time clearlypointing towards Michael. Then he gave some signal, just raising hishand towards the orchestra, and immediately the lights were put down, the whole house plunged in darkness, except where the lamps in the sunkorchestra faintly illuminated the base of the curtain, and the firstlonging, unsatisfied notes of the prelude began. 

The next hour passed for Michael in one unbroken mood of absorption. Thesupreme moment of knowing the music intimately and of never having seenthe opera before was his, and all that he had dreamed of or imaginedas to the possibilities of music was flooded and drowned in the thingitself. You could not say that it was more gigantic than The Ring, morehuman than the Meistersingers, more emotional than Parsifal, but itwas utterly and wholly different to anything else he had ever seen orconjectured. Falbe, he himself, the thronged and silent theatre, theEmperor, Munich, Germany, were all blotted out of his consciousness. He just watched, as if discarnate, the unrolling of the decrees of Fatewhich were to bring so simple and overpowering a tragedy on the two whodrained the love-potion together. And at the end he fell back in hisseat, feeling thrilled and tired, exhilarated and exhausted. 

"Oh, Hermann, " he said, "what years I've wasted!"

Falbe laughed. 

"You've wasted more than you know yet, " he said. "Hallo!"

A very resplendent officer had come clanking down the gangway next them. He put his heels together and bowed. 

"Lord Comber, I think?" he said in excellent English. 

Michael roused himself. 

"Yes?" he said. 

"His Imperial Majesty has done me the honour to desire you to come andspeak to him, " he said. 

"Now?" said Michael. 

"If you will be so good, " and he stood aside for Michael to pass up thestairs in front of him. 

In the wide corridor behind he joined him again. 

"Allow me to introduce myself as Count von Bergmann, " he said, "andone of His Majesty's aides-de-camp. The Kaiser always speaks withgreat pleasure of the visits he has paid to your father, and he saw youimmediately he came into the theatre. If you will permit me, I wouldadvise you to bow, but not very low, respecting His Majesty's incognito, to seat yourself as soon as he desires it, and to remain till he givesyou some speech of dismissal. Forgive me for going in front of you here. I have to introduce you to His Majesty's presence. "

Michael followed him down the steps to the front of the box. 

"Lord Comber, All-highest, " he said, and instantly stood back. 

The Emperor rose and held out his hand, and Michael, bowing over it ashe took it, felt himself seized in the famous grip of steel, of whichits owner as well as its recipient was so conscious. 

"I am much pleased to see you, Lord Comber, " said he. "I could notresist the pleasure of a little chat with you about our beloved England. And your excellent father, how is he?"

He indicated a chair to Michael, who, as advised, instantly took it, though the Emperor remained a moment longer standing. 

"I left him in very good health, Your Majesty, " said Michael. 

"Ah! I am glad to hear it. I desire you to convey to him my friendliestgreetings, and to your mother also. I well remember my last visit tohis house above the tidal estuary at Ashbridge, and I hope it may not bevery long before I have the opportunity to be in England again. "

He spoke in a voice that seemed rather hoarse and tired, but his mannerexpressed the most courteous cordiality. His face, which had been asstill as a statue's when he showed himself to the house, was now neverin repose for a moment. He kept turning his head, which he carried veryupright, this way and that as he spoke; now he would catch sight ofsomeone in the audience to whom he directed his glance, now he wouldpeer over the edge of the low balustrade, now look at the group ofofficers who stood apart at the back of the box. 

His whole demeanour suggested a nervous, highly-strung condition; therestlessness of it was that of a man overstrained, who had lost thecapability of being tranquil. Now he frowned, now he smiled, but neverfor a moment was he quiet. Then he launched a perfect hailstorm ofquestions at Michael, to the answers to which (there was scarcely timefor more than a monosyllable in reply) he listened with an eager anda suspicious attention. They were concerned at first with all sorts ofsubjects: inquired if Michael had been at Baireuth, what he was going todo after the Munich festival was over, if he had English friendshere. He inquired Falbe's name, looked at him for a moment through hisglasses, and desired to know more about him. Then, learning he was ateacher of the piano in England, and had a sister who sang, he expressedgreat satisfaction. 

"I like to see my subjects, when there is no need for their services athome, " he said, "learning about other lands, and bringing also to otherlands the culture of the Fatherland, even as it always gives me pleasureto see the English here, strengthening by the study of the arts thebonds that bind our two great nations together. You English mustlearn to understand us and our great mission, just as we must learn tounderstand you. "

Then the questions became more specialised, and concerned the stateof things in England. He laughed over the disturbances created by theSuffragettes, was eager to hear what politicians thought about the stateof things in Ireland, made specific inquiries about the TerritorialForce, asked about the Navy, the state of the drama in London, the coalstrike which was threatened in Yorkshire. Then suddenly he put a seriesof personal questions. 

"And you, you are in the Guards, I think?" he said. 

"No, sir; I have just resigned my commission, " said Michael. 

"Why? Why is that? Have many of your officers been resigning?"

"I am studying music, Your Majesty, " said Michael. 

"I am glad to see you came to Germany to do it. Berlin? You ought tospend a couple of months in Berlin. Perhaps you are thinking of doingso. "

He turned round quickly to one of his staff who had approached him. 

"Well, what is it?" he said. 

Count von Bergmann bowed low. 

"The Herr-Director, " he said, "humbly craves to know whether it is YourMajesty's pleasure that the opera shall proceed. "

The Kaiser laughed. 

"There, Lord Comber, " he said, "you see how I am ordered about. Theywish to cut short my conversation with you. Yes, Bergmann, we will goon. You will remain with me, Lord Comber, for this act. "

Immediately after the lights were lowered again, the curtain rose, anda most distracting hour began for Michael. His neighbour was never stillfor a single moment. Now he would shift in his chair, now with his handhe would beat time on the red velvet balustrade in front of him, and astream of whispered appreciation and criticism flowed from him. 

"They are taking the opening scene a little too slow, " he said. "I shallcall the director's attention to that. But that crescendo is well done;yes, that is most effective. The shawl--observe the beautiful linesinto which the shawl falls as she waves it. That is wonderful--a veryimpressive entry. Ah, but they should not cross the stage yet; it ismore effective if they remain longer there. Brangane sings finely; shewarns them that the doom is near. "

He gave a little giggle, which reminded Michael of his father. 

"Brangane is playing gooseberry, as you say in England, " he said. "A biggooseberry, is she not? Ah, bravo! bravo! Wunderschon! Yes, enter KingMark from his hunting. Very fine. Say I was particularly pleased withthe entry of King Mark, Bergmann. A wonderful act! Wagner never touchedgreater heights. "

At the end the Emperor rose and again held out his hand. 

"I am pleased to have seen you, Lord Comber, " he said. "Do not forgetmy message to your father; and take my advice and come to Berlin in thewinter. We are always pleased to see the English in Germany. "

As Michael left the box he ran into the Herr-Director, who had beensummoned to get a few hints. 

He went back to join Falbe in a state of republican irritation, whichthe honour that had been done him did not at all assuage. There was anhour's interval before the third act, and the two drove back to theirhotel to dine there. But Michael found his friend wholly unsympatheticwith his chagrin. To him, it was quite clear, the disappointment of nothaving been able to attend very closely to the second act of Tristan wasnegligible compared to the cause that had occasioned it. It was possiblefor the ordinary mortal to see Tristan over and over again, but toconverse with the Kaiser was a thing outside the range of the averageman. And again in this interval, as during the act itself, Michaelwas bombarded with questions. What did the Kaiser say? Did he rememberAshbridge? Did Michael twice receive the iron grip? Did the All-highestsay anything about the manoeuvres? Did he look tired, or was it only thelight above his head that made him appear so haggard? Even his opinionabout the opera was of interest. Did he express approval?

This was too much for Michael. 

"My dear Hermann, " he said, "we alluded very cautiously to the 'Song toAegir' this morning, and delicately remarked that you had heard it onceand I twice. How can you care what his opinion of this opera is?"

Falbe shook his handsome head, and gesticulated with his fine hands. 

"You don't understand, " he said. "You have just been talking to himhimself. I long to hear his every word and intonation. There is thepersonality, which to us means so much, in which is summed up allGermany. It is as if I had spoken to Rule Britannia herself. Would younot be interested? There is no one in the world who is to his countrywhat the Kaiser is to us. When you told me he had stayed at Ashbridge Iwas thrilled, but I was ashamed lest you should think me snobbish, whichindeed I am not. But now I am past being ashamed. "

He poured out a glass of wine and drank it with a "Hoch!"

"In his hand lies peace and war, " he said. "It is as he pleases. TheEmperor and his Chancellor can make Germany do exactly what they choose, and if the Chancellor does not agree with the Emperor, the Emperor canappoint one who does. That is what it comes to; that is why he is asvast as Germany itself. The Reichstag but advises where he is concerned. Have you no imagination, Michael? Europe lies in the hand that shookyours. "

Michael laughed. 

"I suppose I must have no imagination, " he said. "I don't picture iteven now when you point it out. "

Falbe pointed an impressive forefinger. 

"But for him, " he said, "England and Germany would have been at eachother's throats over the business at Agadir. He held the warhounds inleash--he, their master, who made them. "

"Oh, he made them, anyhow, " said Michael. 

"Naturally. It is his business to be ready for any attack on the part ofthose who are jealous at our power. The whole Fatherland is a swordin his hand, which he sheathes. It would long ago have leaped from thescabbard but for him. "

"Against whom?" asked Michael. "Who is the enemy?"

Falbe hesitated. 

"There is no enemy at present, " he said, "but the enemy potentially isany who tries to thwart our peaceful expansion. "

Suddenly the whole subject tasted bitter to Michael. He recalled, instinctively, the Emperor's great curiosity to be informed on Englishtopics by the ordinary Englishman with whom he had acquaintance. 

"Oh, let's drop it, " he said. "I really didn't come to Munich to talkpolitics, of which I know nothing whatever. "

Falbe nodded. 

"That is what I have said to you before, " he remarked. "You are the mosthappy-go-lucky of the nations. Did he speak of England?"

"Yes, of his beloved England, " said Michael. "He was extremely cordialabout our relations. "

"Good. I like that, " said Falbe briskly. 

"And he recommended me to spend two months in Berlin in the winter, "added Michael, sliding off on to other topics. 

Falbe smiled. 

"I like that less, " he said, "since that will mean you will not be inLondon. "

"But I didn't commit myself, " said Michael, smiling back; "though I cansay 'beloved Germany' with equal sincerity. "

Falbe got up. 

"I would wish that--that you were Kaiser of England, " he said. 

"God forbid!" said Michael. "I should not have time to play the piano. "

During the next day or two Michael often found himself chipping atthe bed-rock, so to speak, of this conversation, and Falbe's revealedattitude towards his country and, in particular, towards its supremehead. It seemed to him a wonderful and an enviable thing that anyonecould be so thoroughly English as Falbe certainly was in his ordinary, everyday life, and that yet, at the back of this there should lieso profound a patriotism towards another country, and so profound areverence to its ruler. In his general outlook on life, his friendappeared to be entirely of one blood with himself, yet now on two orthree occasions a chance spark had lit up this Teutonic beacon. ToMichael this mixture of nationalities seemed to be a wonderful gift;it implied a widening of one's sympathies and outlook, a largercomprehension of life than was possible to any of undiluted blood. 

For himself, like most young Englishmen of his day, he was not consciousof any tremendous sense of patriotism like this. Somewhere, deep downin him, he supposed there might be a source, a well of English waters, which some explosion in his nature might cause to flood him entirely, but such an idea was purely hypothetical; he did not, in fact, lookforward to such a bouleversement as being a possible contingency. Butwith Falbe it was different; quite a small cause, like the sight ofthe Rhine at Cologne, or a Bavarian village at sunset, or the fact of afriend having talked with the Emperor, was sufficient to make hisinnate patriotism find outlet in impassioned speech. He wondered vaguelywhether Falbe's explanation of this--namely, that nationally the Englishwere prosperous, comfortable and insouciant--was perhaps sound. Itseemed that the notion was not wholly foundationless. 

CHAPTER VI

Michael had been practising all the morning of a dark November day, hadeaten a couple of sandwiches standing in front of his fire, and observedwith some secret satisfaction that the fog which had lifted for anhour had come down on the town again in earnest, and that it was onlyreasonable to dismiss the possibility of going out, and spend theafternoon as he had spent the morning. But he permitted himself a fewminutes' relaxation as he smoked his cigarette, and sat down by thewindow, looking out, in Lucretian mood, on to the very dispiritingconditions that prevailed in the street. 

Though it was still only between one and two in the afternoon, thedensest gloom prevailed, so that it was impossible to see the outlineseven of the houses across the street, and the only evidence that hewas not in some desert spot lay in the fact of a few twinkling lights, looking incredibly remote, from the windows opposite and the gas-lampsbelow. Traffic seemed to be at a standstill; the accustomed roar fromPiccadilly was dumb, and he looked out on to a silent and vapour-swathedworld. This isolation from all his fellows and from the chances of beingdisturbed, it may be added, gave him a sense of extreme satisfaction. Hewanted his piano, but no intrusive presence. He liked the sensation ofbeing shut up in his own industrious citadel, secure from interruption. 

During the last two months and a half since his return from Munich hehad experienced greater happiness, had burned with a stronger zest forlife than during the whole of his previous existence. Not only had hebeen working at that which he believed he was fitted for, and which gavehim the stimulus which, one way or another, is essential to all goodwork, but he had been thrown among people who were similarly employed, with whom he had this great common ground of kinship in ambition andaim. No more were the days too long from being but half-filled with workwith which he had no sympathy, and diversions that gave him no pleasure;none held sufficient hours for all that he wanted to put into it. And inthis busy atmosphere, where his own studies took so much of his timeand energy, and where everybody else was in some way similarly employed, that dismal self-consciousness which so drearily looked on himselfshuffling along through fruitless, uncongenial days was cracking off himas the chestnut husk cracks when the kernel within swells and ripens. 

Apart from his work, the centre of his life was certainly the householdof the Falbes, where the brother and sister lived with their mother. Sheturned out to be in a rather remote manner "one of us, " and had abouther, very faint and dim, like an antique lavender bag, the odour ofAshbridge. She lived like the lilies of the field, without toiling orspinning, either literally or with the more figurative work of the mind;indeed, she can scarcely be said to have had any mind at all, for, aswith drugs, she had sapped it away by a practically unremitting perusalof all the fiction that makes the average reader wonder why it waswritten. In fact, she supplied the answer to that perplexing question, since it was clearly written for her. She was not in the least excitedby these tales, any more than the human race are excited by the oxygenin the air, but she could not live without them. She subscribed to threelending libraries, which, by this time had probably learned her tastes, for if she ever by ill-chance embarked on a volume which ever so faintlyadumbrated the realities of life, she instantly returned it, as shefound it painful; and, naturally, she did not wish to be pained. Thisdid not, however, prevent her reading those that dealt with amiableyoung men who fell in love with amiable young women, and were forthe moment sundered by red-haired adventuresses or black-hairedmoneylenders, for those she found not painful but powerful, and couldoften remember where she had got to in them, which otherwise was notusually the case. She wore a good deal of lace, spoke in a tired voice, and must certainly have been of the type called "sweetly pretty" somequarter of a century ago. She drank hot water with her meals, andcontinually reminded Michael of his own mother. 

Sylvia and Hermann certainly did all that could be done for her; inother words, they invariably saw that her water was hot, and her stockof novels replenished. But when that was accomplished, there reallyappeared to be little more that could be done for her. Her presence in aroom counted for about as much as a rather powerful shadow on the wall, unexplained by any solid object which could have made it appear there. But most of the day she spent in her own room, which was furnishedexactly in accordance with her twilight existence. There was awriting-table there, which she never used, several low arm-chairs (oneof which she was always using), by each of which was a small table, onto which she could put the book that she was at the moment engaged on. Lace hangings, of the sort that prevent anybody either seeing in or out, obscured the windows; and for decoration there were china figures on thechimney-piece, plush-rimmed plates on the walls, and a couple of easels, draped with chiffon, on which stood enlarged photographs of her husbandand her children. 

There was, it may be added, nothing in the least pathetic about her, for, as far as could be ascertained, she had everything she wanted. Infact, from the standpoint of commonsense, hers was the most successfulexistence; for, knowing what she liked, she passed her entire lifein its accomplishment. The only thing that caused her emotion was theenergy and vitality of her two children, and even then that emotion wasbut a mild surprise when she recollected how tremendous a worker andboisterous a gourmand of life was her late husband, on the anniversaryof whose death she always sat all day without reading any novels at all, but devoted what was left of her mind to the contemplation of nothingat all. She had married him because, for some inscrutable reason, heinsisted on it; and she had been resigned to his death, as to everythingelse that had ever happened to her. 

All her life, in fact, she had been of that unchangeable, drab qualityin emotional affairs which is characteristic of advanced middle-age, when there are no great joys or sorrows to look back on, and noexpectation for the future. She had always had something of theindestructible quality of frail things like thistledown or cottonwool;violence and explosion that would blow strong and distinct organismsto atoms only puffed her a yard or two away where she alighted againwithout shock, instead of injuring or annihilating her. . . . Yet, inthe inexplicable ways of love, Sylvia and her brother not only did whatcould be done for her, but regarded her with the tenderest affection. What that love lived on, what was its daily food would be hard to guess, were it not that love lives on itself. 

The rest of the house, apart from the vacuum of Mrs. Falbe's rooms, conducted itself, so it seemed to Michael, at the highest possiblepressure. Sylvia and her brother were both far too busy to be restless, and if, on the one hand, Mrs. Falbe's remote, impenetrable life wasinexplicable, not less inexplicable was the rage for living thatpossessed the other two. From morning till night, and on Sundays fromnight till morning, life proceeded at top speed. 

As regards household arrangements, which were all in Sylvia's hands, there were three fixed points in the day. That is to say, that therewas lunch for Mrs. Falbe and anybody else who happened to be there athalf-past one; tea in Mrs. Falbe's well-liked sitting-room at five, and dinner at eight. These meals--Mrs. Falbe always breakfasted in herbedroom--were served with quiet decorum. Apart from them, anybody whorequired anything consulted the cook personally. Hermann, for instance, would have spent the morning at his piano in the vast studio at the backof their house in Maidstone Crescent, and not arrived at the fact thatit was lunch time till perhaps three in the afternoon. Unless then hesettled to do without lunch altogether, he must forage for himself; orSylvia, having to sing at a concert at eight, would return famished andexultant about ten; she would then proceed to provide herself, unlessshe supped elsewhere, with a plate of eggs and bacon, or anythingelse that was easily accessible. It was not from preference that thesehaphazard methods were adopted; but since they only kept two servants, it was clear that a couple of women, however willing, could not possiblycope with so irregular a commissariat in addition to the series of fixedhours and the rest of the household work. As it was, two splendidlyefficient persons, one German, the other English, had filled theposts of parlourmaid and cook for the last eight years, and regardedthemselves, and were regarded, as members of the family. Lucas, the parlourmaid, indeed, from the intense interest she took in theconversation at table, could not always resist joining in it, and wasapt to correct Hermann or his sister if she detected an inaccuracy intheir statements. "No, Miss Sylvia, " she would say, "it was on Thursday, not Wednesday, " and then recollecting herself, would add, "Beg yourpardon, miss. "

In this milieu, as new to Michael as some suddenly discovered country, he found himself at once plunged and treated with instant friendlyintimacy. Hermann, so he supposed, must have given him a good character, for he was made welcome before he could have had time to make anyimpression for himself, as Hermann's friend. On the first occasion ofhis visiting the house, for the purpose of his music lesson, he hadstopped to lunch afterwards, where he met Sylvia, and was in thepresence of (you could hardly call it more than that) their mother. 

Mrs. Falbe had faded away in some mist-like fashion soon after, but itwas evident that he was intended to do no such thing, and they had goneinto the studio, already comrades, and Michael had chiefly listenedwhile the other two had violent and friendly discussions on everysubject under the sun. Then Hermann happened to sit down at the piano, and played a Chopin etude pianissimo prestissimo with finger-tips thatjust made the notes to sound and no more, and Sylvia told him that hewas getting it better; and then Sylvia sang "Who is Sylvia?" and Hermanntold her that she shouldn't have eaten so much lunch, or shouldn't havesung; and then, by transitions that Michael could not recollect, theyplayed the Hailstone Chorus out of Israel in Egypt (or, at any rate, reproduced the spirit of it), and both sang at the top of their voices. Then, as usually happened in the afternoon, two or three friends droppedin, and though these were all intimate with their hosts, Michael had noimpression of being out in the cold or among strangers. And when he lefthe felt as if he had been stretching out chilly hands to the fire, andthat the fire was always burning there, ready for him to heat himselfat, with its welcoming flames and core of sincere warmth, whenever hefelt so disposed. 

At first he had let himself do this much less often than he would haveliked, for the shyness of years, his over-sensitive modesty at his ownwant of charm and lightness, was a self-erected barrier in his way. Hewas, in spite of his intimacy with Hermann, desperately afraid of beingtiresome, of checking by his presence, as he had so often felt himselfdo before, the ease and high spirits of others. But by degrees thisbroke down; he realised that he was now among those with whom he hadthat kinship of the mind and of tastes which makes the foundation onwhich friendship, and whatever friendship may ripen into, is securelybuilt. Never did the simplicity and sincerity of their welcome fail;the cordiality which greeted him was always his; he felt that it wasintended that he should be at home there just as much as he cared to be. 

The six working days of the week, however, were as a rule too full bothfor the Falbes and for Michael to do more than have, apart from themusic lessons, flying glimpses of each other; for the day was taken upwith work, concerts and opera occurred often in the evening, and theshuttles of London took their threads in divergent directions. But onSunday the house at Maidstone Crescent ceased, as Hermann said, to be ajunction, and became a temporary terminus. 

"We burst from our chrysalis, in fact, " he said. "If you find itclearer to understand this way, we burst from our chrysalis and becomea caterpillar. Do chrysalides become caterpillars! We do, anyhow. Ifyou come about eight you will find food; if you come later you will alsofind food of a sketchier kind. People have a habit of dropping in onSunday evening. There's music if anyone feels inclined to make any, andif they don't they are made to. Some people come early, others late, and they stop to breakfast if they wish. It's a gaudeamus, you know, ajolly, a jamboree. One has to relax sometimes. "

Michael felt all his old unfitness for dreadful crowds return to him. 

"Oh, I'm so bad at that sort of thing, " he said. "I am a frightfulkill-joy, Hermann. "

Hermann sat down on the treble part of his piano. 

"That's the most conceited thing I've heard you say yet, " he remarked. "Nobody will pay any attention to you; you won't kill anybody's joy. Also it's rather rude of you. "

"I didn't mean to be rude, " said Michael. 

"Then we must suppose you were rude by accident. That is the worst sortof rudeness. "

"I'm sorry; I'll come, " said Michael. 

"That's right. You might even find yourself enjoying it by accident, youknow. If you don't, you can go away. There's music; Sylvia sings quiteseriously sometimes, and other people sing or bring violins, and thosewho don't like it, talk--and then we get less serious. Have a try, Michael. See if you can't be less serious, too. "

Michael slipped despairingly from his seat. 

"If only I knew how!" he said. "I believe my nurse never taught me toplay, only to remember that I was a little gentleman. All the same, whenI am with you, or with my cousin Francis, I can manage it to a certainextent. "

Falbe looked at him encouragingly. 

"Oh, you're getting on, " he said. "You take yourself more for grantedthan you used to. I remember you when you used to be polite on purpose. It's doing things on purpose that makes one serious. If you ever playthe fool on purpose, you instantly cease playing the fool. "

"Is that it?" said Michael. 

"Yes, of course. So come on Sunday, and forget all about it, exceptcoming. And now, do you mind going away? I want to put in a couple ofhours before lunch. You know what to practise till Tuesday, don't you?"

That was the first Sunday evening that Michael had spent with hisfriends; after that, up till this present date in November, he had notmissed a single one of those gatherings. They consisted almost entirelyof men, and of the men there were many types, and many ages. Actors andartists, musicians and authors were indiscriminately mingled; it was thestrangest conglomeration of diverse interests. But one interest, so itseemed to Michael, bound them all together; they were all doing in theirdifferent lives the things they most delighted in doing. There was thekey that unlocked all the locks--namely, the enjoyment that inspiredtheir work. The freemasonry of art and the freemasonry of the eager mindthat looks out without verdict, but with only expectation and delight inexperiment, passed like an open secret among them, secret because nonespoke of it, open because it was so transparently obvious. And sincethis was so, every member of that heterogeneous community had a respectfor his companions; the fact that they were there together showed thatthey had all passed this initiation, and knew what for them life meant. 

Very soon after dinner all sitting accommodation, other than the floor, was occupied; but then the floor held the later comers, and thesmoke from many cigarettes and the babble of many voices made aconstantly-ascending incense before the altar dedicated to the gods thatinspire all enjoyable endeavour. Then Sylvia sang, and both those whocared to hear exquisite singing and those who did not were alike silent, for this was a prayer to the gods they all worshipped; and Falbe played, and there was a quartet of strings. 

After that less serious affairs held the rooms; an eminent actor waspleased to parody another eminent actor who was also present. This ledto a scene in which each caricatured the other, and a French poet didgymnastic feats on the floor and upset a tray of soda-water, and aGerman conductor fluffed out his hair and died like Marguerite. And whenin the earlier hours of the morning part of the guests had gone away, and part were broiling ham in the kitchen, Sylvia sang again, quiteseriously, and Michael, in Hermann's absence, volunteered to play heraccompaniment for her. She stood behind him, and by a finger on hisshoulder directed him in the way she would have him go. Michael foundhimself suddenly and inexplicably understanding this; her finger, by itspressure or its light tapping, seemed to him to speak in a language thathe found himself familiar with, and he slowed down stroking the notes, or quickened with staccato touch, as she wordlessly directed him. 

Out of all these things, which were but trivialities, pleasant, unthinking hours for all else concerned, several points stood out forMichael, points new and illuminating. The first was the simplicity of itall, the spontaneousness with which pleasure was born if only you tookoff your clothes, so to speak, and left them on the bank while youjumped in. All his life he had buttoned his jacket and crammed his haton to his head. The second was the sense, indefinable but certain, thatHermann and Sylvia between them were the high priests of this memorableorgie. 

He himself had met, at dreadful, solemn evenings when Lady Ashbridge andhis father stood at the head of the stairs, the two eminent actors whohad romped to-night, and found them exceedingly stately personages, justas no doubt they had found him an icy and awkward young man. But they, like him, had taken their note on those different occasions from theirenvironment. Perhaps if his father and mother came here . . . ButMichael's imagination quailed before such a supposition. 

The third point, which gradually through these weeks began to haunt himmore and more, was the personality of Sylvia. He had never come acrossa girl who in the least resembled her, probably because he had notattempted even to find in a girl, or to display in himself, the signals, winked across from one to the other, of human companionship. Alwayshe had found a difficulty in talking to a girl, because he had, in hisself-consciousness, thought about what he should say. There had been thecabalistic question of sex ever in front of him, a thing that troubledand deterred him. But Sylvia, with her hand on his shoulder, absorbed inher singing, and directing him only as she would have pressed the pedalof the piano if she had been playing to herself, was no more agitatingthan if she had been a man; she was just singing, just using him to helpher singing. And even while Michael registered to himself this charmingannihilation of sex, which allowed her to be to him no more than herbrother was--less, in fact, but on the same plane--she had come tothe end of her song, patted him on the back, as she would have pattedanybody else, with a word of thanks, and, for him, suddenly leaped intosignificance. It was not only a singer who had sung, but an individualone called Sylvia Falbe. She took her place, at present a mostinconspicuous one, on the back-cloth before which Michael's life wasacted, towards which, when no action, so to speak, was taking place, his eyes naturally turned themselves. His father and mother were there, Francis also and Aunt Barbara, and of course, larger than the rest, Hermann. Now Sylvia was discernible, and, as the days went by andtheir meetings multiplied, she became bigger, walked into a nearerperspective. It did not occur to Michael, rightly, to imagine himself atall in love with her, for he was not. Only she had asserted herself onhis consciousness. 

Not yet had she begun to trouble him, and there was no sign, eitherexternal or intimate, in his mind that he was sickening with thesplendid malady. Indeed, the significance she held for him was ratherthat, though she was a girl, she presented none of the embarrassmentswhich that sex had always held for him. She grew in comradeship; hefound himself as much at ease with her as with her brother, and hercharm was just that which had so quickly and strongly attracted Michaelto Hermann. She was vivid in the same way as he was; she had the samewarm, welcoming kindliness--the same complete absence of pose. You knewwhere you were with her, and hitherto, when Michael was with one of theyoung ladies brought down to Ashbridge to be looked at, he only wishedthat wherever he was he was somewhere else. But with Sylvia he had noneof this self-consciousness; she was bonne camarade for him in exactlythe same way as she was bonne camarade to the rest of the multitudewhich thronged the Sunday evenings, perfectly at ease with them, as theywith her, in relationship entirely unsentimental. 

But through these weeks, up to this foggy November afternoon, Michael'smost conscious preoccupation was his music. Falbe's principles inteaching were entirely heretical according to the traditional school;he gave Michael no scale to play, no dismal finger-exercise to fill thehours. 

"What is the good of them?" he asked. "They can only give you nimblenessand strength. Well, you shall acquire your nimbleness and strength byplaying what is worth playing. Take good music, take Chopin or Bach orBeethoven, and practise one particular etude or fugue or sonata; you maychoose anything you like, and learn your nimbleness and strength thatway. Read, too; read for a couple of hours every day. The writtenlanguage of music must become so familiar to you that it is to youprecisely what a book or a newspaper is, so that whether you read italoud--which is playing--or sit in your arm-chair with your feet on thefender, reading it not aloud on the piano, but to yourself, it conveysits definite meaning to you. At your lessons you will have to read aloudto me. But when you are reading to yourself, never pass over a bar thatyou don't understand. It has got to sound in your head, just as thewords you read in a printed book really sound in your head if you readcarefully and listen for them. You know exactly what they would be likeif you said them aloud. Can you read, by the way? Have a try. "

Falbe got down a volume of Bach and opened it at random. 

"There, " he said, "begin at the top of the page. "

"But I can't, " said Michael. "I shall have to spell it out. "

"That's just what you mustn't do. Go ahead, and don't pause till you getto the bottom of the page. Count; start each bar when it comes to itsturn, and play as many notes as you can in it. "

This was a dismal experience. Michael hitherto had gone on thepainstaking and thorough plan of spelling out his notes with laboriouscare. Now Falbe's inexorable voice counted for him, until it was lost ininextinguishable laughter. 

"Go on, go on!" he shouted. "I thought it was Bach, and it is clearlyStrauss's Don Quixote. "

Michael, flushed and determined, with grave, set mouth, ploughed his waythrough amazing dissonances, and at the end joined Falbe's laughter. 

"Oh dear, " he said. "Very funny. But don't laugh so at me, Hermann. "

Falbe dried his eyes. 

"And what was it?" he said. "I declare it was the fourth fugue. Anentirely different conception of it! A thoroughly original view! Now, what you've got to do, is to repeat that--not the same murder I mean, but other murders--for a couple of hours a day. . . . By degrees--youwon't believe it--you will find you are not murdering any longer, butonly mortally wounding. After six months I dare say you won't even behurting your victims. All the same, you can begin with less muscularones. "

In this way Michael's musical horizons were infinitely extended. Notonly did this system of Falbe's of flying at new music, and goingrecklessly and regardlessly on, give quickness to his brain and finger, make his wits alert to pick up the new language he was learning, butit gloriously extended his vision and his range of country. He ranjoyfully, though with a thousand falls and tumbles, through these newand wonderful vistas; he worshipped at the grave, Gothic sanctuaries ofBeethoven, he roamed through the enchanted garden of Chopin, he felt theicy and eternal frosts of Russia, and saw in the northern sky the greatauroras spread themselves in spear and sword of fire; he listened to thewisdom of Brahms, and passed through the noble and smiling countryof Bach. All this, so to speak, was holiday travel, and between hisjourneys he applied himself with the same eager industry to the learningof his art, so that he might reproduce for himself and others truepictures of the scenes through which he scampered. Here Falbe was not soeasily moved to laughter; he was as severe with Michael as he was withhimself, when it was the question of learning some piece with a viewto really playing it. There was no light-hearted hurrying on throughblurred runs and false notes, slurred phrases and incomplete chords. Among these pieces which had to be properly learned was the 17th Preludeof Chopin, on hearing which at Baireuth on the tuneless and catarrhedpiano Falbe had agreed to take Michael as a pupil. But when it wasplayed again on Falbe's great Steinway, as a professed performance, avery different standard was required. 

Falbe stopped him at the end of the first two lines. 

"This won't do, Michael, " he said. "You played it before for me to seewhether you could play. You can. But it won't do to sketch it. Everynote has got to be there; Chopin didn't write them by accident. He knewquite well what he was about. Begin again, please. "

This time Michael got not quite so far, when he was stopped again. Hewas playing without notes, and Falbe got up from his chair where he hadthe book open, and put it on the piano. 

"Do you find difficulty in memorising?" he asked. 

This was discouraging; Michael believed that he remembered easily; healso believed that he had long known this by heart. 

"No; I thought I knew it, " he said. 

"Try again. "

This time Falbe stood by him, and suddenly put his finger down into themiddle of Michael's hands, striking a note. 

"You left out that F sharp, " he said. "Go on. . . . Now you are leavingout that E natural. Try to get it better by Thursday, and remember this, that playing, and all that differentiates playing from strumming, onlybegins when you can play all the notes that are put down for you toplay without fail. You're beginning at the wrong end; you have admirablefeeling about that prelude, but you needn't think about feeling tillyou've got all the notes at your fingers' ends. Then and not till then, you may begin to remember that you want to be a pianist. Now, what's thenext thing?"

Michael felt somewhat squashed and discouraged. He had thought he hadreally worked successfully at the thing he knew so well by sight. Hisheavy eyebrows drew together. 

"You told me to harmonise that Christmas carol, " he remarked, rathershortly. 

Falbe put his hand on his shoulder. 

"Look here, Michael, " he said, "you're vexed with me. Now, there'snothing to be vexed at. You know quite well you were leaving out lots ofnotes from those jolly fat chords, and that you weren't playing cleanly. Now I'm taking you seriously, and I won't have from you anything butthe best you can do. You're not doing your best when you don't even playwhat is written. You can't begin to work at this till you do that. "

Michael had a moment's severe tussle with his temper. He felt vexed anddisappointed that Hermann should have sent him back like a schoolboywith his exercise torn over. Not immediately did he confess to himselfthat he was completely in the wrong. 

"I'm doing the best I can, " he said. "It's rather discouraging. "

He moved his big shoulders slightly, as if to indicate that Hermann'shand was not wanted there. Hermann kept it there. 

"It might be discouraging, " he said, "if you were doing your best. "

Michael's ill-temper oozed from him. 

"I'm wrong, " he said, turning round with the smile that made his uglyface so pleasant. "And I'm sorry both that I have been slack and thatI've been sulky. Will that do?"

Falbe laughed. 

"Very well indeed, " he said. "Now for 'Good King Wenceslas. ' Wasn'tit--"

"Yes; I got awfully interested over it, Hermann. I thought I would tryand work it up into a few variations. "

"Let's hear, " said Falbe. 

This was a vastly different affair. Michael had shown both ingenuity anda great sense of harmonic beauty in the arrangement of the very simplelittle tune that Falbe had made him exercise his ear over, and thehalf-dozen variations that followed showed a wonderfully maturehandling. The air which he dealt with haunted them as a sort of unseenpresence. It moved in a tiny gavotte, or looked on at a minuet measure;it wailed, yet without being positively heard, in a little dirge ofitself; it broadened into a march, it shouted in a bravura of rapidoctaves, and finally asserted itself, heard once more, over a greatscale base of bells. 

Falbe, as was his habit when interested, sat absolutely still, butreceptive and alert, instead of jerking and fidgeting as he had doneover Michael's fiasco in the Chopin prelude, and at the end he jumped upwith a certain excitement. 

"Do you know what you've done?" he said. "You've done something that'sreally good. Faults? Yes, millions; but there's a first-rate imaginationat the bottom of it. How did it happen?"

Michael flushed with pleasure. 

"Oh, they sang themselves, " he said, "and I learned them. But will itreally do? Is there anything in it?"

"Yes, old boy, there's King Wenceslas in it, and you've dressed him upwell. Play that last one again. "

The last one was taxing to the fingers, but Michael's big hands bangedout the octave scale in the bass with wonderful ease, and Falbe gave agreat guffaw of pleasure at the rollicking conclusion. 

"Write them all down, " he said, "and try if you can hear it singing halfa dozen more. If you can, write them down also, and give me leave toplay the lot at my concert in January. "

Michael gasped. 

"You don't mean that?" he said. 

"Certainly I do. It's a fine bit of stuff. "

It was with these variations, now on the point of completion thatMichael meant to spend his solitary and rapturous evening. The spiritsof the air--whatever those melodious sprites may be--had for the lastmonth made themselves very audible to him, and the half-dozen furthervariations that Hermann had demanded had rung all day in his head. Now, as they neared completion, he found that they ceased their singing;their work of dictation was done; he had to this extent expressedhimself, and they haunted him no longer. At present he had but jotteddown the skeleton of bars that could be filled in afterwards, and itgave him enormous pleasure to see the roles reversed and himself out ofhis own brain, setting Falbe his task. 

But he felt much more than this. He had done something. Michael, thedumb, awkward Michael, was somehow revealed on those eight pages ofmusic. All his twenty-five years he had stood wistfully inarticulate, unable, so it had seemed to him, to show himself, to let himself out. And not till now, when he had found this means of access, did he knowhow passionately he had desired it, nor how immensely, in the processof so doing, his desire had grown. He must find out more ways, otherchannels of projecting himself. The need for that, as of a diverthrowing himself into the empty air and the laughing waters below him, suddenly took hold of him. 

He took a clean sheet of music paper, into which he placed his pages, and with a pleasurable sense of pomp wrote in the centre of it:

 VARIATIONS ON AN AIR. 

 By

 Michael Comber. 

He paused a moment, then took up his pen again. 

"Dedicated to Sylvia Falbe, " he wrote at the top. 

CHAPTER VII

Michael had been so engrossingly employed since his return to London inthe autumn that the existence of other ties and other people apart fromthose immediately connected with his work had worn a very shadow-likeaspect. He had, it is true, written with some regularity to his mother, finding, somewhat to his dismay, how very slight the common groundbetween them was for purposes of correspondence. He could outline thefacts that he had been to several concerts, that he had seen much ofhis music-master, that he had been diligent at his work, but he realisedthat there was nothing in detail about those things that could possiblyinterest her, and that nothing except them really interested him. Sheon her side had little to say except to record the welfare of Petsy, toremark on the beauty of October, and tell him how many shooting partiesthey had had. 

His correspondence with his father had been less frequent, andabsolutely one-sided, since Lord Ashbridge took no notice at all of hisletters. Michael regretted this, as showing that he was still outcast, but it cannot be said to have come between him and the sunshine, for hehad begun to manufacture the sunshine within, that internal happinesswhich his environment and way of life produced, which seemed to beindependent of all that was not directly connected with it. But a letterwhich he received next morning from his mother stated, in addition tothe fact that Petsy had another of her tiresome bilious attacks (poorlamb), that his father and she thought it right that he should come downto Ashbridge for Christmas. It conveyed the sense that at this joyfulseason a truce, probably limited in duration, and, even while it lasted, of the nature of a strongly-armed neutrality, was proclaimed, but theprospect was not wholly encouraging, for Lady Ashbridge added thatshe hoped Michael would not "go on" vexing his father. What preciselyMichael was expected to do in order to fulfil that wish was not furtherstated, but he wrote dutifully enough to say that he would come down atChristmas. 

But the letter rekindled his dormant sense of there being other peoplein the world beside his immediate circle; also, indefinably, it gavehim the sense that his mother wanted him. That should be so then, andsequentially he remembered with a pang of self-reproach that he had notas much as indicated his presence in London to Aunt Barbara, or set eyeson her since their meeting in August. He knew she was in London, sincehe had seen her name in some paragraph in the papers not long before, and instantly wrote to ask her to dine with him at a near date. Heranswer was characteristic. 

"Of course I'll dine with you, my dear, " she wrote; "it will bedelightful. And what has happened to you? Your letter actually conveyeda sense of cordiality. You never used to be cordial. And I wish to meetsome of your nice friends. Ask one or two, please--a prima donna of somekind and a pianist, I think. I want them weird and original--the primadonna with short hair, and the pianist with long. In Tony's new stationin life I never see anybody except the sort of people whom your fatherlikes. Are you forgiven yet, by the way?"

Michael found himself on the grin at the thought of Aunt Barbarasuddenly encountering the two magnificent Falbes (prima donna andpianist exactly as she had desired) as representing the weird sort ofpeople whom she pictured his living among, and the result quite cameup to his expectations. As usual, Aunt Barbara was late, and came intalking rapidly about the various causes that had detained her, whichher fruitful imagination had suggested to her as she dressed. In order, perhaps, to suit herself to the circle in which she would pass theevening, she had put on (or, rather, it looked as if her maid had thrownat her) a very awful sort of tea-gown, brown and prickly-looking, andadapted to Bohemian circles. She, with the same lively imagination, hadpictured Michael in a velveteen coat and soft shirt, the pianist as verysmall, with spectacles and long hair, and the prima donna a full-blownkind of barmaid with Roman pearls. . . . 

"Yes, my dear, I know I am late, " she began before she was inside thedoor, "but Og had so much to say, and there was a block at Hyde ParkCorner. My dear Michael, how smart you look!"

She came round the corner of the screen and the Falbes burst upon her, Hermann and Sylvia standing by the fire. For the short, spectacledpianist there was this very tall, English-looking young man, upright andsoldierly, with his handsome, boyish face and well-fitting clothes. Thatwas bad enough, but infinitely worse was she who was to have been thefull-blown barmaid. Instead was this magnificent girl, nearly as tall asher brother, with her small oval face crowning the column of her neck, her eyes merry, her mouth laughing at some brotherly retort that Hermannhad just made. Aunt Barbara took her in with one second's survey--herface, her neck, her beautiful dress, her whole air of ease andgood-breeding, and gave a despairing glance at her own prickly tea-gown. For the moment, amiably accustomed as she was to laugh at herself, shedid not find it humourous. 

"Miss Sylvia Falbe, Aunt Barbara, " said Michael with a little tremorin his voice; "and Mr. Hermann Falbe, Lady Barbara Jerome, " he added, rather as if he expected nobody to believe it. 

Aunt Barbara made the best of it: shook hands in her jolly manner, andburst into laughter. 

"Michael, I could slay you, " she said; "but before I do that I must tellyour friends all about it. This horrible nephew of mine, Miss Falbe, promised me two weird musicians, and I expected--I really can't tell youwhat I expected--but there were to be spectacles and velveteen coats andthe general air of an afternoon concert at Clapham Junction. But it isnice to be made such a fool of. I feel precisely like an elderly andsour governess who has been ordered to come down to dinner so thatthere shan't be thirteen. Give me your arm, Mr. Falbe, and take me into dinner at once, where I may drown my embarrassment in soup. Or doesMichael go in first? Go on, wretch!"

Presently they were seated at dinner, and Aunt Barbara could not helpenlarging a little on her own discomfiture. 

"It is all your fault, Michael, " she said. "You have been in London allthese weeks without letting me know anything about you or your friends, or what you were doing; so naturally I supposed you were leading someobscure kind of existence. Instead of which I find this sort of thing. My dear, what good soup! I shall see if I can't induce your cook toleave you. But bachelors always have the best of everything. Now tellme about your visit to Germany. Which was the point where weparted--Baireuth, wasn't it? I would not go to Baireuth with anybody!"

"I went with Mr. Falbe, " said Michael. 

"Ah, Mr. Falbe has not asked me yet. I may have to revise what I say, "said Aunt Barbara daringly. 

"I didn't ask Michael, " said Hermann. "I got into his carriage as thetrain was moving; and my luggage was left behind. "

"I was left behind, " said Sylvia, "which was worse. But I sent Hermann'sluggage. "

"So expeditiously that it arrived the day before we left for Munich, "remarked Hermann. 

"And that's all the gratitude I get. But in the interval you lived uponLord Comber. "

"I do still in the money I earn by giving him music lessons. Mike, haveyou finished the Variations yet?"

"Variations--what are Variations?" asked Aunt Barbara. 

"Yes, two days ago. Variations are all the things you think about on thepiano, Aunt Barbara, when you are playing a tune made by somebody else. "

"Should I like them? Will Mr. Falbe play them to me?" asked she. 

"I daresay he will if he can. But I thought you loathed music. "

"It certainly depends on who makes it, " said Aunt Barbara. "I don't likeordinary music, because the person who made it doesn't matter to me. But if, so to speak, it sounds like somebody I know, it is a differentmatter. "

Michael turned to Sylvia. 

"I want to ask your leave for something I have already done, " he said. 

"And if I don't give it you?"

"Then I shan't tell you what it is. "

Sylvia looked at him with her candid friendly eyes. Her brother alwaystold her that she never looked at anybody except her friends; if she wasengaged in conversation with a man she did not like, she looked at hisshirt-stud or at a point slightly above his head. 

"Then, of course, I give in, " she said. "I must give you leave ifotherwise I shan't know what you have done. But it's a mean trick. Tellme at once. "

"I've dedicated the Variations to you, " he said. 

Sylvia flushed with pleasure. 

"Oh, but that's absolutely darling of you, " she said. "Have you, really?Do you mean it?"

"If you'll allow me. "

"Allow you? Hermann, the Variations are mine. Isn't it too lovely?"

It was at this moment that Aunt Barbara happened to glance at Michael, and it suddenly struck her that it was a perfectly new Michael whom shelooked at. She knew and was secretly amused at the fiasco that alwaysattended the introduction of amiable young ladies to Ashbridge, and hadwarned her sister-in-law that Michael, when he chose the girl he wanted, would certainly do it on his own initiative. Now she felt sure thatMichael, though he might not be aware of it himself, was, even if he hadnot chosen, beginning to choose. There was that in his eyes whichnone of the importations to Ashbridge had ever seen there, that eagerdeferential attention, which shows that a young man is interestedbecause it is a girl he is talking to. That, she knew, had never beencharacteristic of Michael; indeed, it would not have been far from thetruth to say that the fact that he was talking to a girl was sufficientto make his countenance wear an expression of polite boredom. Then for awhile, as dinner progressed, she doubted the validity of her conclusion, for the Michael who was entertaining her to-night was wholly differentfrom the Michael she had known and liked and pitied. She felt that shedid not know this new one yet, but she was certain that she liked him, and equally sure that she did not pity him at all. He had found hisplace, he had found his work; he evidently fitted into his life, which, after all, is the surest ground of happiness, and it might be that itwas only general joy, so to speak, that kindled that pleasant fire inhis face. And then once more she went back to her first conclusion, fortalking to Michael herself she saw, as a woman so infallibly sees, thathe gave her but the most superficial attention--sufficient, indeed, toallow him to answer intelligently and laugh at the proper places, buthis mind was not in the least occupied with her. If Sylvia moved hisglance flickered across in her direction: it was she who gave him hisalertness. Aunt Barbara felt that she could have told him truthfullythat he was in love with her, and she rather thought that it would benews to him; probably he did not know it yet himself. And she wonderedwhat his father would say when he knew it. 

"And then Munich, " she said, violently recalling Michael's attentiontowards her. "Munich I could have borne better than Baireuth, and whenMr. Falbe asks me there I shall probably go. Your Uncle Tony was inGermany then, by the way; he went over at the invitation of the Emperorto the manoeuvres. "

"Did he? The Emperor came to Munich for a day during them. He was at theopera, " said Michael. 

"You didn't speak to him, I suppose?" she asked. 

"Yes; he sent for me, and talked a lot. In fact, he talked too much, because I didn't hear a note of the second act. "

Aunt Barbara became infinitely more interested. 

"Tell me all about it, Michael, " she said. "What did he talk about?"

"Everything, as far as I can remember, England, Ashbridge, armies, navies, music. Hermann says he cast pearls before swine--"

"And his tone, his attitude?" she asked. 

"Towards us?--towards England? Immensely friendly, and most inquisitive. I was never asked so many questions in so short a time. "

Aunt Barbara suddenly turned to Falbe. 

"And you?" she asked. "Were you with Michael?"

"No, Lady Barbara. I had no pearls. "

"And are you naturalised English?" she asked. 

"No; I am German. "

She slid swiftly off the topic. 

"Do you wonder I ask, with your talking English so perfectly?" she said. "You should hear me talking French when we are entertaining Ambassadorsand that sort of persons. I talk it so fast that nobody can understand aword I say. That is a defensive measure, you must observe, because evenif I talked it quite slowly they would understand just as little. Butthey think it is the pace that stupefies them, and they leave me in acurious, dazed condition. And now Miss Falbe and I are going to leaveyou two. Be rather a long time, dear Michael, so that Mr. Falbe can tellyou what he thinks of me, and his sister shall tell me what she thinksof you. Afterwards you and I will tell each other, if it is not toofearful. "

This did not express quite accurately Lady Barbara's intentions, for shechiefly wanted to find out what she thought of Sylvia. 

"And you are great friends, you three?" she said as they settledthemselves for the prolonged absence of the two men. 

Sylvia smiled; she smiled, Aunt Barbara noticed, almost entirely withher eyes, using her mouth only when it came to laughing; but her eyessmiled quite charmingly. 

"That's always rather a rash thing to pronounce on, " she said. "I cantell you for certain that Hermann and I are both very fond of him, butit is presumptuous for us to say that he is equally devoted to us. "

"My dear, there is no call for modesty about it, " said Barbara. "Betweenyou--for I imagine it is you who have done it--between you you have madea perfectly different creature of the boy. You've made him flower. "

Sylvia became quite grave. 

"Oh, I do hope he likes us, " she said. "He is so likable himself. "

Barbara nodded

"And you've had the good sense to find that out, " she said. "It'sastonishing how few people knew it. But then, as I said, Michael hadn'tflowered. No one understood him, or was interested. Then he suddenlymade up his mind last summer what he wanted to do and be, andimmediately did and was it. "

"I think he told Hermann, " said she. "His father didn't approve, didhe?"

"Approve? My dear, if you knew my brother you would know that the onlythings he approves of are those which Michael isn't. "

Sylvia spread her fine hands out to the blaze, warming them and shadingher face. 

"Michael always seems to us--" she began. "Ah, I called him Michael bymistake. "

"Then do it on purpose next time, " remarked Barbara. "What does Michaelseem?"

"Ah, but don't let him know I called him Michael, " said Sylvia in somehorror. "There is nothing so awful as to speak of people formally totheir faces, and intimately behind their backs. But Hermann is alwaystalking of him as Michael. "

"And Michael always seems--"

"Oh, yes; he always seems to me to have been part of us, of Hermann andme, for years. He's THERE, if you know what I mean, and so few peopleare there. They walk about your life, and go in and out, so to speak, but Michael stops. I suppose it's because he is so natural. "

Aunt Barbara had been a diplomatist long before her husband, and fearfulof appearing inquisitive about Sylvia's impression of Michael, which shereally wanted to inquire into, instantly changed the subject. 

"Ah, everybody who has got definite things to do is natural, " she said. "It is only the idle people who have leisure to look at themselves inthe glass and pose. And I feel sure that you have definite things to doand plenty of them, my dear. What are they?"

"Oh, I sing a little, " said Sylvia. 

"That is the first unnatural thing you have said. I somehow feel thatyou sing a great deal. "

Aunt Barbara suddenly got up. 

"My dear, you are not THE Miss Falbe, are you, who drove London crazywith delight last summer. Don't tell me you are THE Miss Falbe?"

Sylvia laughed. 

"Do you know, I'm afraid I must be, " she said. "Isn't it dreadful tohave to say that after your description?"

Aunt Barbara sat down again, in a sort of calm despair. 

"If there are any more shocks coming for me to-night, " she said, "Ithink I had better go home. I have encountered a perfectly new nephewMichael. I have dressed myself like a suburban housekeeper to meet aPoiret, so don't deny it, and having humourously told Michael I wishedto see a prima donna and a pianist, he takes me at my word and producesTHE Miss Falbe. I'm glad I knew that in time; I should infallibly haveasked you to sing, and if you had done so--you are probably good-naturedenough to have done even that--I should have given the drawing-roomgasp at the end, and told your brother that I thought you sang veryprettily. "

Sylvia laughed. 

"But really it wasn't my fault, Lady Barbara, " she said. "When we met Icouldn't have said, 'Beware! I am THE Miss Falbe. '"

"No, my dear; but I think you ought, somehow, to have conveyed theimpression that you were a tremendous swell. You didn't. I have beenthinking of you as a charming girl, and nothing more. "

"But that's quite good enough for me, " said Sylvia. 

The two young men joined them after this, and Hermann speedily becameengrossed in reading the finished Variations. Some of these pleased himmightily; one he altogether demurred to. 

"It's just a crib, Mike, " he said. "The critics would say I hadforgotten it, and put in instead what I could remember of a variationout of the Handel theme. That next one's, oh, great fun. But I wishyou would remember that we all haven't got great orang-outang paws likeyou. "

Aunt Barbara stopped in the middle of her sentence; she knew Michael'sold sensitiveness about these physical disabilities, and she had amoment's cold horror at the thought of Falbe having said so miserablytactless a thing to him. But the horror was of infinitesimal duration, for she heard Michael's laugh as they leaned over the top of the pianotogether. 

"I wish you had, Hermann, " he said. "I know you'll bungle those tenths. "

Falbe moved to the piano-seat. 

"Oh, let's have a shot at it, " he said. "If Lady Barbara won't mind, play that one through to me first, Mike. "

"Oh, presently, Hermann, " he said. "It makes such an infernal row thatyou can't hear anything else afterwards. Do sing, Miss Sylvia; my auntwon't really mind--will you, Aunt Barbara?"

"Michael, I have just learned that this is THE Miss Falbe, " she said. "Iam suffering from shock. Do let me suffer from coals of fire, too. "

Michael gently edged Hermann away from the music-stool. Much as heenjoyed his master's accompaniment he was perfectly sure that hepreferred, if possible, to play for Sylvia himself than have thepleasure of listening to anybody else. 

"And may I play for you, Miss Sylvia?" he asked. 

"Yes, will you? Thanks, Lord Comber. "

Hermann moved away. 

"And so Mr. Hermann sits down by Lady Barbara while Lord Comber playsfor Miss Sylvia, " he observed, with emphasis on the titles. 

A sudden amazing boldness seized Michael. 

"Sylvia, then, " he said. 

"All right, Michael, " answered the girl, laughing. 

She came and stood on the left of the piano, slightly behind him. 

"And what are we going to have?" asked Michael. 

"It must be something we both know, for I've brought no music, " saidshe. 

Michael began playing the introduction to the Hugo Wolff song whichhe had accompanied for her one Sunday night at their house. He knew itperfectly by heart, but stumbled a little over the difficult syncopatedtime. This was not done without purpose, for the next moment he felt herhand on his shoulder marking it for him. 

"Yes, that's right, " she said. "Now you've got it. " And Michael smiledsweetly at his own amazing ingenuity. 

Hermann put down the Variations, which he still had in his hand, whenSylvia's voice began. Unaccustomed as she was to her accompanist, histrained ear told him that she was singing perfectly at ease, and wascompletely at home with her player. Occasionally she gave Michael somelittle indication, as she had done before, but for the most part herfingers rested immobile on his shoulder, and he seemed to understandher perfectly. Somehow this was a surprise to him; he had not known thatMichael possessed that sort of second-sight that unerringly feels andtranslates into the keys the singer's mood. For himself he always had toattend most closely when he was playing for his sister, but familiar ashe was with her singing, he felt that Michael divined her certainly aswell as himself, and he listened to the piano more than to the voice. 

"You extraordinary creature, " he said when the song was over. "Where didyou learn to accompany?"

Suddenly Michael felt an access of shyness, as if he had been surprisedwhen he thought himself private. 

"Oh, I've played it before for Miss--I mean for Sylvia, " he said. 

Then he turned to the girl. 

"Thanks, awfully, " he said. "And I'm greedy. May we have one more?"

He slid into the opening bars of "Who is Sylvia?" That song, sincehe had heard her sing it at her recital in the summer, had grown insignificance to him, even as she had. It had seemed part of her then, but then she was a stranger. To-night it was even more intimately partof her, and she was a friend. 

Hermann strolled across to the fireplace at the end of this, and lit acigarette. 

"My sister's a blatant egoist, Lady Barbara, " he said. "She lovessinging about herself. And she lays it on pretty thick, too, doesn'tshe? Now, Sylvia, if you've finished--quite finished, I mean--do comeand sit down and let me try these Variations--"

"Shall we surrender, Michael?" asked the girl. "Or shall we stick to thepiano, now we've got it? If Hermann once sits down, you know, we shan'tget him away for the rest of the evening. I can't sing any more, but wemight play a duet to keep him out. "

Hermann rushed to the piano, took his sister by the shoulders, andpushed her into a chair. 

"You sit there, " he said, "and listen to something not about yourself. Michael, if you don't come away from that piano, I shall take Sylviahome at once. Now you may all talk as much as you like; you won'tinterrupt me one atom--but you'll have to talk loud in certain parts. "

Then a feat of marvellous execution began. Michael had taken an evilpleasure in giving his master, for whom he slaved with so unwearied adiligence, something that should tax his powers, and he gave a greatcrash of laughter when for a moment Hermann was brought to a completestandstill in an octave passage of triplets against quavers, and theperformer exultantly joined in it, as he pushed his hair back from hisforehead, and made a second attempt. 

"It isn't decent to ask a fellow to read that, " he shouted. "It's acrime; it's a scandal. "

"My dear, nobody asked you to read it, " said Sylvia. 

"Silence, you chit! Mike, come here a minute. Sit down one second andplay that. Promise to get up again, though, immediately. Just thesethree bars--yes, I see. An orang-outang apparently can do it, so whynot I? Am I not much better than they? Go away, please; or, rather, stopthere and turn over. Why couldn't you have finished the page with thelast act, and started this one fresh, instead of making this Godforsakenarrangement? Now!"

A very simple little minuet measure followed this outrageous passage, and Hermann's exquisite lightness of touch made it sound strangelyremote, as if from a mile away, or a hundred years ago, some gracefulecho was evoked again. Then the little dirge wept for the memoriesof something that had never happened, and leaving out the number hedisapproved of, as reminiscent of the Handel theme, Hermann gatheredhimself up again for the assertion of the original tune, with its barsof scale octaves. The contagious jollity of it all seized the others, and Sylvia, with full voice, and Aunt Barbara, in a strange hooting, sang to it. 

Then Hermann banged out the last chord, and jumped up from his seat, rolling up the music. 

"I go straight home, " he said, "and have a peaceful hour with it. Michael, old boy, how did you do it? You've been studying seriously fora few months only, and so this must all have been in you before. Andyou've come to the age you are without letting any of it out. I supposethat's why it has come with a rush. You knew it all along, while youwere wasting your time over drilling your toy soldiers. Come on, Sylvia, or I shall go without you. Good night, Lady Barbara. Half-past tento-morrow, Michael. "

Protest was clearly useless; and, having seen the two off, Michael cameupstairs again to Aunt Barbara, who had no intention of going away justyet. 

"And so these are the people you have been living with, " she said. "Nowonder you had not time to come and see me. Do they always go that sortof pace--it is quicker than when I talk French. "

Michael sank into a chair. 

"Oh, yes, that's Hermann all over, " he said. "But--but just think whatit means to me! He's going to play my tunes at his concert. MichaelComber, Op. 1. O Lord! O Lord!"

"And you just met him in the train?" said Aunt Barbara. 

"Yes; second class, Victoria Station, with Sylvia on the platform. Ididn't much notice Sylvia then. "

This and the inference that naturally followed was as much as could beexpected, and Aunt Barbara did not appear to wait for anything more onthe subject of Sylvia. She had seen sufficient of the situation toknow where Michael was most certainly bound for. Yet the very fact ofSylvia's outspoken friendliness with him made her wonder a little as towhat his reception would be. She would hardly have said so plainly thatshe and her brother were devoted to him if she had been devoted to himwith that secret tenderness which, in its essentials, is reticent aboutitself. Her half-hour's conversation with the girl had given her acertain insight into her; still more had her attitude when she stood byMichael as he played for her, and put her hand on his shoulder preciselyas she would have done if it had been another girl who was seated at thepiano. Without doubt Michael had a real existence for her, but therewas no sign whatever that she hailed it, as a girl so unmistakably does, when she sees it as part of herself. 

"More about them, " she said. "What are they? Who are they?"

He outlined for her, giving the half-English, half-German parentage, theshadow-like mother, the Bavarian father, Sylvia's sudden and comet-likerising in the musical heaven, while her brother, seven years her senior, had spent his time in earning in order to give her the chance which shehad so brilliantly taken. Now it was to be his turn, the shackles of hisdrudgery no longer impeded him, and he, so Michael radiantly prophesied, was to have his rocket-like leap to the zenith, also. 

"And he's German?" she asked. 

"Yes. Wasn't he rude about my being a toy soldier? But that's thenatural German point of view, I suppose. "

Michael strolled to the fireplace. 

"Hermann's so funny, " he said. "For days and weeks together you wouldthink he was entirely English, and then a word slips from him like that, which shows he is entirely German. He was like that in Munich, when theEmperor appeared and sent for me. "

Aunt Barbara drew her chair a little nearer the fire, and sat up. 

"I want to hear about that, " she said. 

"But I've told you; he was tremendously friendly in a national manner. "

"And that seemed to you real?" she asked. 

Michael considered. 

"I don't know that it did, " he said. "It all seemed to me ratherfeverish, I think. "

"And he asked quantities of questions, I think you said. "

"Hundreds. He was just like what he was when he came to Ashbridge. Hereviewed the Yeomanry, and shot pheasants, and spent the afternoon in asteam launch, apparently studying the deep-water channel of the river, where it goes underneath my father's place; and then in the eveningthere was a concert. "

Aunt Barbara did not heed the concert. 

"Do you mean the channel up from Harwich, " she asked, "of which theAdmiralty have the secret chart?"

"I fancy they have, " said Michael. "And then after the concert there wasthe torchlight procession, with the bonfire on the top of the hill. "

"I wasn't there. What else?"

"I think that's all, " said Michael. "But what are you driving at, AuntBarbara?"

She was silent a moment. 

"I'm driving at this, " she said. "The Germans are accumulating a vastquantity of knowledge about England. Tony, for instance, has a Germanvalet, and when he went down to Portsmouth the other day to see theAmerican ship that was there, he took him with him. And the man took acamera and was found photographing where no photography is allowed. Didyou see anything of a camera when the Emperor came to Ashbridge?"

Michael thought. 

"Yes; one of his staff was clicking away all day, " he said. "He sent alot of them to my mother. "

"And, we may presume, kept some copies himself, " remarked Aunt Barbaradrily. "Really, for childish simplicity the English are the biggestfools in creation. "

"But do you mean--"

"I mean that the Germans are a very knowledge-seeking people, and thatwe gratify their desires in a very simple fashion. Do you think they areso friendly, Michael? Do you know, for instance, what is a very commontoast in German regimental messes? They do not drink it when there areforeigners there, but one night during the manoeuvres an officer ina mess where Tony was dining got slightly 'on, ' as you may say, andsuddenly drank to 'Der Tag. '"

"That means 'The Day, '" said Michael confidently. 

"It does; and what day? The day when Germany thinks that all is ripefor a war with us. 'Der Tag' will dawn suddenly from a quiet, peacefulnight, when they think we are all asleep, and when they have got all theinformation they think is accessible. War, my dear. "

Michael had never in his life seen his aunt so serious, and he wasamazed at her gravity. 

"There are hundreds and hundreds of their spies all over England, " shesaid, "and hundreds of their agents all over America. Deep, patientGermany, as Carlyle said. She's as patient as God and as deep as thesea. They are working, working, while our toy soldiers play golf. Iagree with that adorable pianist; and, what's more, I believe they thinkthat 'Der Tag' is near to dawn. Tony says that their manoeuvres thisyear were like nothing that has ever been seen before. Germany is afighting machine without parallel in the history of the world. "

She got up and stood with Michael near the fireplace. 

"And they think their opportunity is at hand, " she said, "though notfor a moment do they relax their preparations. We are their real enemy, don't you see? They can fight France with one hand and Russia with theother; and in a few months' time now they expect we shall be in thethroes of an internal revolution over this Irish business. They may beright, but there is just the possibility that they may be astoundinglywrong. The fact of the great foreign peril--this nightmare, thisArmageddon of European war--may be exactly that which will pull ustogether. But their diplomatists, anyhow, are studying the Irishquestion very closely, and German gold, without any doubt at all, ishelping the Home Rule party. As a nation we are fast asleep. I wonderwhat we shall be like when we wake. Shall we find ourselves alreadyfettered when we wake, or will there be one moment, just one moment, inwhich we can spring up? At any rate, hitherto, the English have alwaysbeen at their best, not their worst, in desperate positions. They hateexciting themselves, and refuse to do it until the crisis is actually onthem. But then they become disconcertingly serious and cool-headed. "

"And you think the Emperor--" began Michael. 

"I think the Emperor is the hardest worker in all Germany, " saidBarbara. "I believe he is trying (and admirably succeeding) to make ustrust his professions of friendship. He has a great eye for detail, too;it seemed to him worth while to assure you even, my dear Michael, of hisregard and affection for England. He was always impressing on Tony thesame thing, though to him, of course, he said that if there was anycountry nearer to his heart than England it was America. Stuff andnonsense, my dear!"

All this, though struck in a more serious key than was usual with AuntBarbara, was quite characteristic of her. She had the quality of mindwhich when occupied with one idea is occupied with it to the exclusionof all others; she worked at full power over anything she took up. Butnow she dismissed it altogether. 

"You see what a diplomatist I have become, " she said. "It is afascinating business: one lives in an atmosphere that is charged withsecret affairs, and it infects one like the influenza. You catch itsomehow, and have a feverish cold of your own. And I am quite useful tohim. You see, I am such a chatterbox that people think I let out thingsby accident, which I never do. I let out what I want to let out onpurpose, and they think they are pumping me. I had a long conversationthe other day with one of the German Embassy, all about Irish affairs. They are hugely interested about Irish affairs, and I just make a noteof that; but they can make as many notes as they please about whatI say, and no one will be any the wiser. In fact, they will be thefoolisher. And now I suppose I had better take myself away. "

"Don't do anything of the kind, " said Michael. 

"But I must. And if when you are down at Ashbridge at Christmas youfind strangers hanging about the deep-water reach, you might just let meknow. It's no use telling your father, because he will certainly thinkthey have come to get a glimpse of him as he plays golf. But I expectyou'll be too busy thinking about that new friend of yours, and perhapshis sister. What did she tell me we had got to do? 'To her garlands letus bring, ' was it not? You and I will both send wreaths, Michael, thoughnot for her funeral. Now don't be a hermit any more, but come and seeme. You shall take your garland girl into dinner, if she will come, too; and her brother shall certainly sit next me. I am so glad you havebecome yourself at last. Go on being yourself more and more, my dear: itsuits you. "

CHAPTER VIII

Some fortnight later, and not long before Michael was leaving town forhis Christmas visit to Ashbridge, Sylvia and her brother were lingeringin the big studio from which the last of their Sunday evening guests hadjust departed. The usual joyous chaos consequent on those entertainmentsreigned: the top of the piano was covered with the plates and glasses ofthose who had made an alfresco supper (or breakfast) of fried bacon andbeer before leaving; a circle of cushions were ranged on the floor roundthe fire, for it was a bitterly cold night, and since, for some reason, a series of charades had been spontaneously generated, there was lyingabout an astonishing collection of pillow-cases, rugs, and table-cloths, and such articles of domestic and household use as could be convertedinto clothes for this purpose. But the event of the evening hadundoubtedly been Hermann's performance of the "Wenceslas Variations";these he had now learned, and, as he had promised Michael, was goingto play them at his concert in the Steinway Hall in January. To-nighta good many musician friends had attended the Sunday evening gathering, and there had been no two opinions about the success of them. 

"I was talking to Arthur Lagden about them, " said Falbe, naming aprominent critic of the day, "and he would hardly believe that they werean Opus I. , or that Michael had not been studying music technically foryears instead of six months. But that's the odd thing about Mike; he'sso mature. "

It was not unusual for the brother and sister to sit up like this, tillany hour, after their guests had gone; and Sylvia collected a bundleof cushions and lay full length on the floor, with her feet towards thefire. For both of them the week was too busy on six days for them toindulge that companionship, sometimes full of talk, sometimes consistingof those dropped words and long silences, on which intimacy lives;and they both enjoyed, above all hours in the week, this time that laybetween the friendly riot of Sunday evening and the starting of workagain on Monday. There was between them that bond which can scarcelyexist between husband and wife, since it almost necessarily implies theclose consanguinity of brother and sister, and postulates a certain sortof essential community of nature, founded not on tastes, nor even onaffection, but on the fact that the same blood beats in the two. Herean intense affection, too strong to be ever demonstrative, fortifiedit, and both brother and sister talked to each other, as if they werespeaking to some physically independent piece of themselves. 

Sylvia had nothing apparently to add on the subject of Michael'smaturity. Instead she just raised her head, which was not quite highenough. 

"Stuff another cushion under my head, Hermann, " she said. "Thanks; nowI'm completely comfortable, you will be relieved to hear. "

Hermann gazed at the fire in silence. 

"That's a weight off my mind, " he said. "About Michael now. He's beensuppressed all his life, you know, and instead of being dwarfed he hasjust gone on growing inside. Good Lord! I wish somebody would suppressme for a year or two. What a lot there would be when I took the cork outagain. We dissipate too much, Sylvia, both you and I. "

She gave a little grunt, which, from his knowledge of her inarticulateexpressions, he took to mean dissent. 

"I suppose you mean we don't, " he remarked. 

"Yes. How much one dissipates is determined for one just as is the shapeof your nose or the colour of your eyes. By the way, I fell madly inlove with that cousin of Michael's who came with him to-night. He'sthe most attractive creature I ever saw in my life. Of course, he's toobeautiful: no boy ought to be as beautiful as that. "

"You flirted with him, " remarked Hermann. "Mike will probably murder himon the way home. "

Sylvia moved her feet a little farther from the blaze. 

"Funny?" she asked. 

Instantly Falbe knew that her mind was occupied with exactly the samequestion as his. 

"No, not funny at all, " he said. "Quite serious. Do you want to talkabout it or not?"

She gave a little groan. 

"No, I don't want to, but I've got to, " she said. "Aunt Barbara--webecame Sylvia and Aunt Barbara an hour or two ago, and she's adear--Aunt Barbara has been talking to me about it already. "

"And what did Aunt Barbara say?"

"Just what you are going to, " said Sylvia; "namely, that I had bettermake up my mind what I mean to say when Michael says what he means tosay. "

She shifted round so as to face her brother as he stood in front of thefire, and pulled his trouser-leg more neatly over the top of his shoe. 

"But what's to happen if I can't make up my mind?" she said. "I needn'ttell you how much I like Michael; I believe I like him as much as Ipossibly can. But I don't know if that is enough. Hermann, is it enough?You ought to know. There's no use in you unless you know about me. "

She put out her arm, and clasped his two legs in the crook of herelbow. That expressed their attitude, what they were to each other, asabsolutely as any physical demonstration allowed. Had there not been thedifference of sex which severed them she could never have got the senseof support that this physical contact gave her; had there not been hersisterhood to chaperon her, so to speak, she could never have been soat ease with a man. The two were lover-like, without the physicalapexes and limitations that physical love must always bring with it. The complement of sex that brought them so close annihilated the veryexistence of sex. They loved as only brother and sister can love, without trouble. 

The closer contact of his fire-warmed trousers to the calf of his legmade Hermann step out of her encircling arm without any question ofhurting her feelings. 

"I won't be burned, " he said. "Sorry, but I won't be burned. It seemsto me, Sylvia, that you ought to like Michael a little more and a littleless. "

"It's no use saying what I ought to do, " she said. "The idea of what I'ought' doesn't come in. I like him just as much as I like him, neithermore nor less. "

He clawed some more cushions together, and sat down on the floor byher. She raised herself a little and rested her body against his foldedknees. 

"What's the trouble, Sylvia?" he said. 

"Just what I've been trying to tell you. "

"Be more concrete, then. You're definite enough when you sing. "

She sighed and gave a little melancholy laugh. 

"That's just it, " she said. "People like you and me, and Michael, too, for that matter, are most entirely ourselves when we are at our music. When Michael plays for me I can sing my soul at him. While he and I arein music, if you understand--and of course you do--we belong to eachother. Do you know, Hermann, he finds me when I'm singing, without theslightest effort, and even you, as you have so often told me, haveto search and be on the lookout. And then the song is over, and, assomebody says, 'When the feast is finished and the lamps expire, 'then--well, the lamps expire, and he isn't me any longer, but Michael, with the--the ugly face, and--oh, isn't it horrible of me--the long armsand the little stumpy legs--if only he was rather different in thingsthat don't matter, that CAN'T matter! But--but, Hermann, if only Michaelwas rather like you, and you like Michael, I should love you exactly asmuch as ever, and I should love Michael, too. "

She was leaning forward, and with both hands was very carefully tyingand untying one of Hermann's shoelaces. 

"Oh, thank goodness there is somebody in the world to whom I can sayjust whatever I feel, and know he understands, " she said. "And I knowthis, too--and follow me here, Hermann--I know that all that doesn'treally matter; I am sure it doesn't. I like Michael far too well to letit matter. But there are other things which I don't see my way through, and they are much more real--"

She was silent again, so long that Hermann reached out for a cigarette, lit it, and threw away the match before she spoke. 

"There is Michael's position, " she said. "When Michael asks me if Iwill have him, as we both know he is going to do, I shall have to makeconditions. I won't give up my career. I must go on working--in otherwords, singing--whether I marry him or not. I don't call it singing, inmy sense of the word, to sing 'The Banks of Allan Water' to Michaeland his father and mother at Ashbridge, any more than it is being apolitician to read the morning papers and argue about the Irish questionwith you. To have a career in politics means that you must be a memberof Parliament--I daresay the House of Lords would do--and make speechesand stand the racket. In the same way, to be a singer doesn't mean tosing after dinner or to go squawking anyhow in a workhouse, but it meansto get up on a platform before critical people, and if you don't do yourvery best be damned by them. If I marry Michael I must go on singingas a professional singer, and not become an amateur--the ViscountessComber, who sings so charmingly. I refuse to sing charmingly; I willeither sing properly or not at all. And I couldn't not sing. I shallhave to continue being Miss Falbe, so to speak. "

"You say you insist on it, " said Hermann; "but whether you did or not, there is nothing more certain than that Michael would. "

"I am sure he would. But by so doing he would certainly quarrelirrevocably with his people. Even Aunt Barbara, who, after all, is veryliberally minded, sees that. They can none of them, not even she, whoare born to a certain tradition imagine that there are other traditionsquite as stiff-necked. Michael, it is true, was born to one tradition, but he has got the other, as he has shown very clearly by refusing todisobey it. He will certainly, as you say, insist on my endorsing theresolution he has made for himself. What it comes to is this, that Ican't marry him without his father's complete consent to all that I havetold you. I can't have my career disregarded, covered up with awkwardsilences, alluded to as a painful subject; and, as I say, even AuntBarbara seemed to take it for granted that if I became Lady Comber Ishould cease to be Miss Falbe. Well, there she's wrong, my dear; I shallcontinue to be Miss Falbe whether I'm Lady Comber, or Lady Ashbridge, or the Duchess of anything you please. And--here the difficulty reallycomes in--they must all see how right I am. Difficulty, did I say? It'smore like an impossibility. "

Hermann threw the end of his cigarette into the ashes of the dying fire. 

"It's clear, then, " he said, "you have made up your mind not to marryhim. "

She shook her head. 

"Oh, Hermann, you fail me, " she said. "If I had made up my mind not to Ishouldn't have kept you up an hour talking about it. "

He stretched his hands out towards the embers already coated with greyash. 

"Then it's like that with you, " he said, pointing. "If there is the firein you, it is covered up with ashes. "

She did not reply for a moment. 

"I think you've hit it there, " she said. "I believe there is the fire;when, as I said, he plays for me I know there is. But the ashes? Whatare they? And who shall disperse them for me?"

She stood up swiftly, drawing herself to her full height and stretchingher arms out. 

"There's something bigger than we know coming, " she said. "Whether it'sstorm or sunshine I have no idea. But there will be something that shallutterly sever Michael and me or utterly unite us. "

"Do you care which it is?" he asked. 

"Yes, I care, " said she. 

He held out his hands to her, and she pulled him up to his feet. 

"What are you going to say, then, when he asks you?" he said. 

"Tell him he must wait. "

He went round the room putting out the electric lamps and opening thebig skylight in the roof. There was a curtain in front of this, which hepulled aside, and from the frosty cloudless heavens the starshine of athousand constellations filtered down. 

"That's a lot to ask of any man, " he said. "If you care, you care. "

"And if you were a girl you would know exactly what I mean, " she said. "They may know they care, but, unless they are marrying for perfectlydifferent reasons, they have to feel to the end of their fingers thatthey care before they can say 'Yes. '"

He opened the door for her to pass out, and they walked up the passagetogether arm-in-arm. 

"Well, perhaps Michael won't ask you, " he said, "in which case allbother will be saved, and we shall have sat up talking till--Sylvia, didyou know it is nearly three--sat up talking for nothing!"

Sylvia considered this. 

"Fiddlesticks!" she said. 

And Hermann was inclined to agree with her. 

This view of the case found confirmation next day, for Michael, afterhis music lesson, lingered so firmly and determinedly when the threechatted together over the fire that in the end Hermann found nothingto do but to leave them together. Sylvia had given him no sign as towhether she wished him to absent himself or not, and he concluded, since she did not put an end to things by going away herself, that sheintended Michael to have his say. 

The latter rose as the door closed behind Hermann, and came and stoodin front of her. And at the moment Sylvia could notice nothing of himexcept his heaviness, his plainness, all the things that she had toldherself before did not really matter. Now her sensation contradictedthat; she was conscious that the ash somehow had vastly accumulatedover her fire, that all her affection and regard for him were suddenlyeclipsed. This was a complete surprise to her; for the moment she foundMichael's presence and his proximity to her simply distasteful. 

"I thought Hermann was never going, " he said. 

For a second or two she did not reply; it was clearly no use to continuethe ordinary banter of conversation, to suggest that as the room wasHermann's he might conceivably be conceded the right to stop there if hechose. There was no transition possible between the affairs of every dayand the affair for which Michael had stopped to speak. She gave up allattempt to make one; instead, she just helped him. 

"What is it, Michael?" she asked. 

Then to her, at any rate, Michael's face completely changed. Thereburned in it all of a sudden the full glow of that of which she had onlyseen glimpses. 

"You know, " he said. 

His shyness, his awkwardness, had all vanished; the time had come forhim to offer to her all that he had to offer, and he did it with thecharm of perfect manliness and simplicity. 

"Whether you can accept me or not, " he said, "I have just to tell youthat I am entirely yours. Is there any chance for me, Sylvia?"

He stood quite still, making no movement towards her. She, on her side, found all her distaste of him suddenly vanished in the mere solemnity ofthe occasion. His very quietness told her better than any protestationscould have done of the quality of what he offered, and that qualityvastly transcended all that she had known or guessed of him. 

"I don't know, Michael, " she said at length. 

She came a step forward, and without any sense of embarrassmentfound that she, without conscious intention, had put her hands on hisshoulders. The moment that was done she was conscious of the impulsethat made her do it. It expressed what she felt. 

"Yes, I feel like that to you, " she said. "You're a dear. I expect youknow how fond I am of you, and if you don't I assure you of it now. ButI have got to give you more than that. "

Michael looked up at her. 

"Yes, Sylvia, " he said, "much more than that. "

A few minutes ago only she had not liked him at all; now she liked himimmensely. 

"But how, Michael?" she asked. "How can I find it?"

"Oh, it's I who have got to find it for you, " he said. "That is to say, if you want it to be found. Do you?"

She looked at him gravely, without the tremor of a smile in her eyes. 

"What does that mean exactly?" she said. 

"It is very simple. Do you want to love me?"

She did not move her hands; they still rested on his shoulders likethings at ease, like things at home. 

"Yes, I suppose I want to, " she said. 

"And is that the most you can do for me at present?" he asked. 

That reached her again; all the time the plain words, the plain face, the quiet of him stabbed her with daggers of which he had no idea. She was dismayed at the recollection of her talk with her brother theevening before, of the ease and certitude with which she had laid downher conditions, of not giving up her career, of remaining the famousMiss Falbe, of refusing to take a dishonoured place in the sacredcircle of the Combers. Now, when she was face to face with his love, soineloquently expressed, so radically a part of him, she knew that therewas nothing in the world, external to him and her, that could enter intotheir reckonings; but into their reckonings there had not entered theone thing essential. She gave him sympathy, liking, friendliness, butshe did not want him with her blood. And though it was not humanlypossible that she could want him with more than that, it was notpossible that she could take him with less. 

"Yes, that is the most I can do for you at present, " she said. 

Still quite quietly he moved away from her, so that he stood free of herhands. 

"I have been constantly here all these last months, " he said. "Now thatyou know what I have told you, do you want not to see me?"

That stabbed her again. 

"Have I implied that?" she asked. 

"Not directly. But I can easily understand its being a bore to you. Idon't want to bore you. That would be a very stupid way of trying tomake you care for me. As I said, that is my job. I haven't accomplishedit as yet. But I mean to. I only ask you for a hint. "

She understood her own feeling better than he. She understood at leastthat she was dealing with things that were necessarily incalculable. 

"I can't give you a hint, " she said. "I can't make any plans about it. If you were a woman perhaps you would understand. Love is, or it isn't. That is all I know about it. "

But Michael persisted. 

"I only know what you have taught me, " he said. "But you must knowthat. "

In a flash she became aware that it would be impossible for her tobehave to Michael as she had behaved to him for several months past. She could not any longer put a hand on his shoulder, beat time with herfingers on his arm, knowing that the physical contact meant nothing toher, and all--all to him. The rejection of him as a lover rendered thesisterly attitude impossible. And not only must she revise her conduct, but she must revise the mental attitude of which it was the physicalcounterpart. Up till this moment she had looked at the situation fromher own side only, had felt that no plans could be made, that thenatural thing was to go on as before, with the intimacy that she likedand the familiarity that was the obvious expression of it. But now shebegan to see the question from his side; she could not go on doingthat which meant nothing particular to her, if that insouciance meantsomething so very particular to him. She realised that if she had lovedhim the touch of his hand, the proximity of his face would have hadsignificance for her, a significance that would have been intolerableunless there was something mutual and secret between them. It had seemedso easy, in anticipation, to tell him that he must wait, so simplefor him just--well, just to wait until she could make up her mind. Shebelieved, as she had told her brother, that she cared for Michael, oras she had told him that she wanted to--the two were to the girl'smind identical, though expressed to each in the only terms that werepossible--but until she came face to face with the picture of thefuture, that to her wore the same outline and colour as the past, shehad not known the impossibility of such a presentment. The desire of thelover on Michael's part rendered unthinkable the sisterly attitude onhers. That her instinct told her, but her reason revolted against it. 

"Can't we go on as we were, Michael?" she said. 

He looked at her incredulously. 

"Oh, no, of course not that, " he said. 

She moved a step towards him. 

"I can't think of you in any other way, " she said, as if making anappeal. 

He stood absolutely unresponsive. Something within him longed that sheshould advance a step more, that he should again have the touch of herhands on his shoulders, but another instinct stronger than that made himrevoke his desire, and if she had moved again he would certainly havefallen back before her. 

"It may seem ridiculous to you, " he said, "since you do not care. But Ican't do that. Does that seem absurd to you I? I am afraid it does; butthat is because you don't understand. By all means let us be what theycall excellent friends. But there are certain little things which seemnothing to you, and they mean so much to me. I can't explain; it's justthe brotherly relation which I can't stand. It's no use suggesting thatwe should be as we were before--"

She understood well enough for his purposes. 

"I see, " she said. 

Michael paused for a moment. 

"I think I'll be going now, " he said. "I am off to Ashbridge in twodays. Give Hermann my love, and a jolly Christmas to you both. I'll letyou know when I am back in town. "

She had no reply to this; she saw its justice, and acquiesced. 

"Good-bye, then, " said Michael. 

He walked home from Chelsea in that utterly blank and unfeelingconsciousness which almost invariably is the sequel of any event thatbrings with it a change of attitude towards life generally. Not for amoment did he tell himself that he had been awakened from a dream, orabandon his conviction that his dream was to be made real. The rare, quiet determination that had made him give up his stereotyped mode oflife in the summer and take to music was still completely his, and, ifanything, it had been reinforced by Sylvia's emphatic statement that"she wanted to care. " Only her imagining that their old relations couldgo on showed him how far she was from knowing what "to care" meant. Atfirst without knowing it, but with a gradually increasing keenness ofconsciousness, he had become aware that this sisterly attitude of herstowards him had meant so infinitely much, because he had taken it to bethe prelude to something more. Now he saw that it was, so to speak, apiece complete in itself. It bore no relation to what he had imaginedit would lead into. No curtain went up when the prelude was over; thecurtain remained inexorably hanging there, not acknowledging the preludeat all. Not for a moment did he accuse her of encouraging him to havethought so; she had but given him a frankness of comradeship that meantto her exactly what it expressed. But he had thought otherwise; he hadimagined that it would grow towards a culmination. All that (and herewas the change that made his mind blank and unfeeling) had to be cutaway, and with it all the budding branches that his imagination hadpictured as springing from it. He could not be comrade to her as he wasto her brother--the inexorable demands of sex forbade it. 

He went briskly enough through the clean, dry streets. The frost of lastnight had held throughout the morning, and the sunlight sparkled witha rare and seasonable brightness of a traditional Christmas weather. Hecatombs of turkeys hung in the poulterers' windows, among sprigs ofholly, and shops were bright with children's toys. The briskness ofthe day had flushed the colour into the faces of the passengers in thestreet, and the festive air of the imminent holiday was abroad. All thisMichael noticed with a sense of detachment; what had happened had causeda veil to fall between himself and external things; it was as if he wassealed into some glass cage, and had no contact with what passed roundhim. This lasted throughout his walk, and when he let himself into hisflat it was with the same sense of alienation that he found his cousinFrancis gracefully reclining on the sofa that he had pulled up in frontof the fire. 

Francis was inclined to be querulous. 

"I was just wondering whether I should give you up, " he said. "The hourthat you named for lunch was half-past one. And I have almost forgottenwhat your clock sounded like when it struck two. "

This also seemed to matter very little. 

"Did I ask you to lunch?" he said. "I really quite forgot; I can't evenremember doing it now. "

"But there will be lunch?" asked Francis rather anxiously. 

"Of course. It'll be ready in ten minutes. "

Michael came and stood in front of the fire, and looked with a suddenspasm of envy on the handsome boy who lay there. If he himself had beenanything like that

--"I was distinctly chippy this morning, " remarked Francis, "and so Ididn't so much mind waiting for lunch. I attribute it to too much beerand bacon last night at your friend's house. I enjoyed it--I mean theevening, and for that matter the bacon--at the time. It really wasextremely pleasant. "

He yawned largely and openly. 

"I had no idea you could frolic like that, Mike, " he said. "It was quitea new light on your character. How did you learn to do it? It's quite anew accomplishment. "

Here again the veil was drawn. Was it last night only that Falbehad played the Variations, and that they had acted charades? Francisproceeded in bland unconsciousness. 

"I didn't know Germans could be so jolly, " he continued. "As a ruleI don't like Germans. When they try to be jolly they generally onlysucceed in being top-heavy. But, of course, your friend is half-English. Can't he play, too? And to think of your having written those rippingtunes. His sister, too--no wonder we haven't seen much of you, Mike, ifthat's where you've been spending your time. She's rather like the newgirl at the Gaiety, but handsomer. I like big girls, don't you? Oh, Iforgot, you don't like girls much, anyhow. But are you learning yourmistake, Mike? You looked last night as if you were getting moresensible. "

Michael moved away impatiently. 

"Oh, shut it, Francis, " he observed. 

Francis raised himself on his elbow. 

"Why, what's up?" he asked. "Won't she turn a favourable eye?"

Michael wheeled round savagely. 

"Please remember you are talking about a lady, and not a Gaiety lady, "he remarked. 

This brought Francis to his feet. 

"Sorry, " he said. "I was only indulging in badinage until lunch wasready. "

Michael could not make up his mind to tell his cousin what had happened;but he was aware of having spoken more strongly than the situation, asFrancis knew of it, justified. 

"Let's have lunch, then, " he said. "We shall be better after lunch, asone's nurse used to say. And are you coming to Ashbridge, Francis?"

"Yes; I've been talking to Aunt Bar about it this morning. We're bothcoming; the family is going to rally round you, Mike, and defend youfrom Uncle Robert. There's sure to be some duck shooting, too, isn'tthere?"

This was a considerable relief to Michael. 

"Oh, that's ripping, " he said. "You and Aunt Barbara always make me feelthat there's a good deal of amusement to be extracted from the world. "

"To be sure there is. Isn't that what the world is for? Lunch andamusement, and dinner and amusement. Aunt Bar told me she dined with youthe other night, and had a quantity of amusement as well as an excellentdinner. She hinted--"

"Oh, Aunt Barbara's always hinting, " said Michael. 

"I know. After all, everything that isn't hints is obvious, and sothere's nothing to say about it. Tell me more about the Falbes, Mike. Will they let me go there again, do you think? Was I popular? Don't tellme if I wasn't. "

Michael smiled at this egoism that could not help being charming. 

"Would you care if you weren't?" he asked. 

"Very much. One naturally wants to please delightful people. And I thinkthey are both delightful. Especially the girl; but then she starts withthe tremendous advantage of being--of being a girl. I believe you are inlove with her, Mike, just as I am. It's that which makes you so grumpy. But then you never do fall in love. It's a pity; you miss a lot of jollytrouble. "

Michael felt a sudden overwhelming desire to make Francis stop thismaddening twaddle; also the events of the morning were beginning to takeon an air of reality, and as this grew he felt the need of sympathy ofsome kind. Francis might not be able to give him anything that wasof any use, but it would do no harm to see if his cousin's buoyantunconscious philosophy, which made life so exciting and pleasant a thingto him, would in any way help. Besides, he must stop this light banter, which was like drawing plaster off a sore and unhealed wound. 

"You're quite right, " he said. "I am in love with her. Furthermore, Iasked her to marry me this morning. "

This certainly had an effect. 

"Good Lord!" said Francis. "And do you mean to say she refused you?"

"She didn't accept me, " said Michael. "We--we adjourned. "

"But why on earth didn't she take you?" asked Francis. 

All Michael's old sensitiveness, his self-consciousness of hisplainness, his awkwardness, his big hands, his short legs, came back tohim. 

"I should think you could see well enough if you look at me, " he said, "without my telling you. "

"Oh, that silly old rot, " said Francis cheerfully. "I thought you hadforgotten all about it. "

"I almost had--in fact I quite had until this morning, " said Michael. "If I had remembered it I shouldn't have asked her. "

He corrected himself. 

"No, I don't think that's true, " he said. "I should have asked her, anyhow; but I should have been prepared for her not to take me. As amatter of fact, I wasn't. "

Francis turned sideways to the table, throwing one leg over the other. 

"That's nonsense, " he said. "It doesn't matter whether a man's ugly ornot. "

"It doesn't as long as he is not, " remarked Michael grimly. 

"It doesn't matter much in any case. We're all ugly compared to girls;and why ever they should consent to marry any of us awful hairy things, smelling of smoke and drink, is more than I can make out; but, as amatter of fact, they do. They don't mind what we look like; what theycare about is whether we want them. Of course, there are exceptions--"

"You see one, " said Michael. 

"No, I don't. Good Lord, you've only asked her once. You've got to makeyourself felt. You're not intending to give up, are you?"

"I couldn't give up. "

"Well then, just hold on. She likes you, doesn't she?"

"Certainly, " said Michael, without hesitation. "But that's a long wayfrom the other thing. "

"It's on the same road. "

Michael got up. 

"It may be, " he said, "but it strikes me it's round the corner. Youcan't even see one from the other. "

"Possibly not. But you never know how near the corner really is. Go forher, Mike, full speed ahead. "

"But how?"

"Oh, there are hundreds of ways. I'm not sure that one of the best isn'tto keep away for a bit. Even if she doesn't want you just now, whenyou are there, she may get to want you when you aren't. I don't think Ishould go on the mournful Byronic plan if I were you; I don't think itwould suit your style; you're too heavily built to stand leaning againstthe chimney-piece, gazing at her and dishevelling your hair. "

Michael could not help laughing. 

"Oh, for God's sake, don't make a joke of it, " he said. 

"Why not? It isn't a tragedy yet. It won't be a tragedy till she marriessomebody else, or definitely says no. And until a thing is proved to betragic, the best way to deal with it is to treat it like a comedywhich is going to end well. It's only the second act now, you see, wheneverything gets into a mess. By the merciful decrees of Providence, yousee, girls on the whole want us as much as we want them. That's whatmakes it all so jolly. "

Michael went down next day to Ashbridge, where Aunt Barbara and Franciswere to follow the day after, and found, after the freedom andinterests of the last six months, that the pompous formal life was moreintolerable than ever. He was clearly in disgrace still, as was madequite clear to him by his father's icy and awful politeness when itwas necessary to speak to him, and by his utter unconsciousness of hispresence when it was not. This he had expected. Christmas had usheredin a truce in which no guns were discharged, but remained sighted andpointed, ready to fire. 

But though there was no change in his father, his mother seemed toMichael to be curiously altered; her mind, which, as has been alreadynoticed, was usually in a stunned condition, seemed to have awakenedlike a child from its sleep, and to have begun vaguely crying in aninarticulate discomfort. It was true that Petsy was no more, havingsuccumbed to a bilious attack of unusual severity, but a second Petsyhad already taken her place, and Lady Ashbridge sat with him--it was agentleman Petsy this time--in her lap as before, and occasionally sheda tear or two over Petsy II. In memory of Petsy I. But this did not seemto account for the wakening up of her mind and emotions into thisstate of depression and anxiety. It was as if all her life she had beenquietly dozing in the sun, and that the place where she sat had passedinto the shade, and she had awoke cold and shivering from a bitterwind. She had become far more talkative, and though she had by nomeans abandoned her habit of upsetting any conversation by the extremeobviousness of her remarks, she asked many more questions, and, asMichael noticed, often repeated a question to which she had received ananswer only a few minutes before. During dinner Michael constantly foundher looking at him in a shy and eager manner, removing her gaze when shefound it was observed, and when, later, after a silent cigarette withhis father in the smoking-room, during which Lord Ashbridge, with someostentation, studied an Army List, Michael went to his bedroom, he wasutterly astonished, when he gave a "Come in" to a tapping at his door, to see his mother enter. Her maid was standing behind her holding theinevitable Petsy, and she herself hovered hesitatingly in the doorway. 

"I heard you come up, Michael, " she said, "and I wondered if it wouldannoy you if I came in to have a little talk with you. But I won't comein if it would annoy you. I only thought I should like a little chatwith you, quietly, secure from interruptions. "

Michael instantly got up from the chair in front of his fire, in whichhe had already begun to see images of Sylvia. This intrusion of hismother's was a thing utterly unprecedented, and somehow he at onceconnected its innovation with the strange manner he had remarkedalready. But there was complete cordiality in his welcome, and hewheeled up a chair for her. 

"But by all means come in, mother, " he said. "I was not going to bedyet. "

Lady Ashbridge looked round for her maid. 

"And will Petsy not annoy you if he sits quietly on my knee?" she asked. 

"Of course not. "

Lady Ashbridge took the dog. 

"There, that is nice, " she said. "I told them to see you had a good fireon this cold night. Has it been very cold in London?"

This question had already been asked and answered twice, now for thethird time Michael admitted the severity of the weather. 

"I hope you wrap up well, " she said. "I should be sorry if you caughtcold, and so, I am sure, your father would be. I wish you could make upyour mind not to vex him any more, but go back into the Guards. "

"I'm afraid that's impossible, mother, " he said. 

"Well, if it's impossible there is no use in saying anything more aboutit. But it vexed him very much. He is still vexed with you. I wish hewas not vexed. It is a sad thing when father and son fall out. But youdo wrap up, I hope, in the cold weather?"

Michael felt a sudden pang of anxiety and alarm. Each separate thingthat his mother said was sensible enough, but in the sum they werenonsense. 

"You have been in London since September, " she went on. "That is a longtime to be in London. Tell me about your life there. Do you work hard?Not too hard, I hope?"

"No! hard enough to keep me busy, " he said. 

"Tell me about it all. I am afraid I have not been a very good mother toyou; I have not entered into your life enough. I want to do so now. But I don't think you ever wanted to confide in me. It is sad when sonsdon't confide in their mothers. But I daresay it was my fault, and now Iknow so little about you. "

She paused a moment, stroking her dog's ears, which twitched under hertouch. 

"I hope you are happy, Michael, " she said. "I don't think I am so happyas I used to be. But don't tell your father; I feel sure he does notnotice it, and it would vex him. But I want you to be happy; you usednot to be when you were little; you were always sensitive and queer. Butyou do seem happier now, and that's a good thing. "

Here again this was all sensible, when taken in bits, but its aspect wasdifferent when considered together. She looked at Michael anxiously amoment, and then drew her chair closer to him, laying her thin, veinedhand, sparkling with many rings, on his knee. 

"But it wasn't I who made you happier, " she said, "and that's sodreadful. I never made anybody happy. Your father always made himselfhappy, and he liked being himself, but I suspect you haven't liked beingyourself, poor Michael. But now that you're living the life you chose, which vexes your father, is it better with you?"

The shyness had gone from the gaze that he had seen her direct at himat dinner, which fugitively fluttered away when she saw that it wasobserved, and now that it was bent so unwaveringly on him he saw shiningthrough it what he had never seen before, namely, the mother-lovewhich he had missed all his life. Now, for the first time, he saw it;recognising it, as by divination, when, with ray serene and untroubled, it burst through the mists that seemed to hang about his mother's mind. Before, noticing her change of manner, her restless questions, he hadbeen vaguely alarmed, and as they went on the alarm had becomemore pronounced; but at this moment, when there shone forth themother-instinct which had never come out or blossomed in her life, buthad been overlaid completely with routine and conventionality, renderingit too indolent to put forth petals, Michael had no thought but for thatwhich she had never given him yet, and which, now it began to expandbefore him, he knew he had missed all his life. 

She took up his big hand that lay on his knee and began timidly strokingit. 

"Since you have been away, " she said, "and since your father has beenvexed with you, I have begun to see how lonely you must have been. Whattaught me that, I am afraid, was only that I have begun to feel lonely, too. Nobody wants me; even Petsy, when she died, didn't want me to benear her, and then it began to strike me that perhaps you might want me. There was no one else, and who should want me if my son did not? I nevergave you the chance before, God forgive me, and now perhaps it is toolate. You have learned to do without me. "

That was bitterly true; the truth of it stabbed Michael. On his side, as he knew, he had made no effort either, or if he had they had been butchildish efforts, easily repulsed. He had not troubled about it, and ifshe was to blame, the blame was his also. She had been slow to show themother-instinct, but he had been just as wanting in the tenderness ofthe son. 

He was profoundly touched by this humble timidity, by the sincerity, vague but unquestionable, that lay behind it. 

"It's never too late, is it?" he said, bending down and kissing the thinwhite hands that held his. "We are in time, after all, aren't we?"

She gave a little shiver. 

"Oh, don't kiss my hands, Michael, " she said. "It hurts me that youshould do that. But it is sweet of you to say that I am not too late, after all. Michael, may I just take you in my arms--may I?"

He half rose. 

"Oh, mother, how can you ask?" he said. 

"Then let me do it. No, my darling, don't move. Just sit still as youare, and let me just get my arms about you, and put my head on yourshoulder, and hold me close like that for a moment, so that I canrealise that I am not too late. "

She got up, and, leaning over him, held him so for a moment, pressingher cheek close to his, and kissing him on the eyes and on the mouth. 

"Ah, that is nice, " she said. "It makes my loneliness fall away from me. I am not quite alone any more. And now, if you are not tired will youlet me talk to you a little more, and learn a little more about you?"

She pulled her chair again nearer him, so that sitting there she couldclasp his arm. 

"I want your happiness, dear, " she said, "but there is so little nowthat I can do to secure it. I must put that into other hands. You aretwenty-five, Michael; you are old enough to get married. All Combersmarry when they are twenty-five, don't they? Isn't there some girl youwould like to be yours? But you must love her, you know, you must wanther, you mustn't be able to do without her. It won't do to marry justbecause you are twenty-five. "

It would no more have entered into Michael's head this morning to tellto his mother about Sylvia than to have discussed counterpoint with her. But then this morning he had not been really aware that he had a mother. But to tell her now was not unthinkable, but inevitable. 

"Yes, there is a girl whom I can't do without, " he said. 

Lady Ashbridge's face lit up. 

"Ah, tell me about her--tell me about her, " she said. "You want her, youcan't do without her; that is the right wife for you. "

Michael caught at his mother's hand as it stroked his sleeve. 

"But she is not sure that she can do with me, " he said. 

Her face was not dimmed at this. 

"Oh, you may be sure she doesn't know her own mind, " she said. "Girls sooften don't. You must not be down-hearted about it. Who is she? Tell meabout her. "

"She's the sister of my great friend, Hermann Falbe, " he said, "whoteaches me music. "

This time the gladness faded from her. 

"Oh, my dear, it will vex your father again, " she said, "that you shouldwant to marry the sister of a music-teacher. It will never do to vex himagain. Is she not a lady?"

Michael laughed. 

"But certainly she is, " he said. "Her father was German, her mother wasa Tracy, just as well-born as you or I. "

"How odd, then, that her brother should have taken to giving musiclessons. That does not sound good. Perhaps they are poor, and certainlythere is no disgrace in being poor. And what is her name?"

"Sylvia, " said Michael. "You have probably heard of her; she is the MissFalbe who made such a sensation in London last season by her singing. "

The old outlook, the old traditions were beginning to come to thesurface again in poor Lady Ashbridge's mind. 

"Oh, my dear!" she said. "A singer! That would vex your father terribly. Fancy the daughter of a Miss Tracy becoming a singer. And yet you wanther--that seems to me to matter most of all. "

Then came a step at the door; it opened an inch or two, and Michaelheard his father's voice. 

"Is your mother with you, Michael?" he asked. 

At that Lady Ashbridge got up. For one second she clung to her son, andthen, disengaging herself, froze up like the sudden congealment of aspring. 

"Yes, Robert, " she said. "I was having a little talk to Michael. "

"May I come in?"

"It's our secret, " she whispered to Michael. 

"Yes, come in, father, " he said. 

Lord Ashbridge stood towering in the doorway. 

"Come, my dear, " he said, not unkindly, "it's time for you to go tobed. "

She had become the mask of herself again. 

"Yes, Robert, " she said. "I suppose it must be late. I will come. Oh, there's Petsy. Will you ring, Michael? then Fedden will come and takehim to bed. He sleeps with Fedden. "

CHAPTER IX

Michael, in desperate conversational efforts next morning at breakfast, mentioned the fact that the German Emperor had engaged him in asubstantial talk at Munich, and had recommended him to pass the winterat Berlin. It was immediately obvious that he rose in his father'sestimation, for, though no doubt primarily the fact that Michael washis son was the cause of this interest, it gave Michael a sort oftestimonial also to his respectability. If the Emperor had thoughtthat his taking up a musical career was indelibly disgraceful--as LordAshbridge himself had done--he would certainly not have made himselfso agreeable. On anyone of Lord Ashbridge's essential and deep-rootedsnobbishness this could not fail to make a certain effect; his chillypoliteness to Michael sensibly thawed; you might almost have detecteda certain cordiality in his desire to learn as much as possible of thisgratifying occurrence. 

"And you mean to go to Berlin?" he asked. 

"I'm afraid I shan't be able to, " said Michael; "my master is inLondon. "

"I should be inclined to reconsider that, Michael, " said the father. "The Emperor knows what he is talking about on the subject of music. "

Lady Ashbridge looked up from the breakfast she was giving Petsy II. His dietary was rather less rich than that of the defunct, and she wasafraid sometimes that his food was not nourishing enough. 

"I remember the concert we had here, " she said. "We had the 'Song toAegir' twice. "

Lord Ashbridge gave her a quick glance. Michael felt he would not havenoticed it the evening before. 

"Your memory is very good, my dear, " he said with encouragement. 

"And then we had a torchlight procession, " she remarked. 

"Quite so. You remember it perfectly. And about his visit here, Michael. Did he talk about that?"

"Yes, very warmly; also about our international relations. "

Lord Ashbridge gave a little giggle. 

"I must tell Barbara that, " he said. "She has become a sort ofCassandra, since she became a diplomatist, and sits on her tripod andprophesies woe. "

"She asked me about it, " said Michael. "I don't think she believes inhis sincerity. "

He giggled again. 

"That's because I didn't ask her down for his visit, " he said. 

He rose. 

"And what are you going to do, my dear?" he said to his wife. 

She looked across to Michael. 

"Perhaps Michael will come for a stroll with me, " she said. 

"No doubt he will. I shall have a round of golf, I think, on this finemorning. I should like to have a word with you, Michael, when you'vefinished your breakfast. "

The moment he had gone her whole manner changed: it was suffused withthe glow that had lit her last night. 

"And we shall have another talk, dear?" she said. "It was tiresome beinginterrupted last night. But your father was better pleased with you thismorning. "

Michael's understanding of the situation grew clearer. Whatever was thechange in his mother, whatever, perhaps, it portended, it was certainlyaccompanied by two symptoms, the one the late dawning of mother-love forhimself, the other a certain fear of her husband; for all her marriedlife she had been completely dominated by him, and had lived but in atwilight of her own; now into that twilight was beginning to steala dread of him. His pleasure or his vexation had begun to affect heremotionally, instead of being as before, merely recorded in her mind, as she might have recorded an object quite exterior to herself, and seenout of the window. Now it was in the room with her. Even as Michaelleft her to speak with him, the consciousness of him rose again in her, making her face anxious. 

"And you'll try not to vex him, won't you?" she said. 

His father was in the smoking-room, standing enormously in front of thefire, and for the first time the sense of his colossal fatuity struckMichael. 

"There are several things I want to tell you about, " he said. "Yourcareer, first of all. I take it that you have no intention of deferringto my wishes on the subject. "

"No, father, I am afraid not, " said Michael. 

"I want you to understand, then, that, though I shall not speak toyou again about it, my wishes are no less strong than they were. It issomething to me to know that a man whom I respect so much as the Emperordoesn't feel as I do about it, but that doesn't alter my view. "

"I understand, " said Michael. 

"The next is about your mother, " he said. "Do you notice any change inher?"

"Yes, " said Michael. 

"Can you describe it at all?"

Michael hesitated. 

"She shows quite a new affection for myself, " he said. "She came andtalked to me last night in a way she had never done before. "

The irritation which Michael's mere presence produced on his fatherwas beginning to make itself felt. The fact that Michael was squat andlong-armed and ugly had always a side-blow to deal at Lord Ashbridgein the reminder that he was his father. He tried to disregard this--hetried to bring his mind into an impartial attitude, without seeing fora moment the bitter irony of considering impartiality the idealquality when dealing with his son. He tried to be fair, and Michael wasperfectly conscious of the effort it cost him. 

"I had noticed something of the sort, " he said. "Your mother was alwaysasking after you. You have not been writing very regularly, Michael. Weknow little about your life. "

"I have written to my mother every week, " said Michael. 

The magical effects of the Emperor's interest were dying out. LordAshbridge became more keenly aware of the disappointment that Michaelwas to him. 

"I have not been so fortunate, then, " he said. 

Michael remembered his mother's anxious face, but he could not let thispass. 

"No, sir, " he said, "but you never answered any of my letters. I thoughtit quite probable that it displeased you to hear from me. "

"I should have expressed my displeasure if I had felt it, " said hisfather with all the pomposity that was natural to him. 

"That had not occurred to me, " said Michael. "I am afraid I took yoursilence to mean that my letters didn't interest you. "

He paused a moment, and his rebellion against the whole of his father'sattitude flared up. 

"Besides, I had nothing particular to say, " he said. "My life is passedin the pursuit of which you entirely disapprove. "

He felt himself back in boyhood again with this stifling and leadenatmosphere of authority and disapproval to breathe. He knew that Francisin his place would have done somehow differently; he could almosthear Aunt Barbara laughing at the pomposity of the situation that hadsuddenly erected itself monstrously in front of him. The fact that hewas Michael Comber vexed his father--there was no statement of the caseso succinctly true. 

Lord Ashbridge moved away towards the window, turning his backon Michael. Even his back, his homespun Norfolk jacket, his looseknickerbockers, his stalwart calves expressed disapproval; but when hisfather spoke again he realised that he had moved away like that, andobscured his face for a different reason. 

"Have you noticed anything else about your mother?" he asked. 

That made Michael understand. 

"Yes, father, " he said. "I daresay I am wrong about it--"

"Naturally I may not agree with you; but I should like to know what itis. "

"She's afraid of you, " said Michael. 

Lord Ashbridge continued looking out of the window a little longer, letting his eyes dwell on his own garden and his own fields, wheretowered the leafless elms and the red roofs of the little town whichhad given him his own name, and continued to give him so satisfactory anincome. There presented itself to his mind his own picture, painted andframed and glazed and hung up by himself, the beneficent nobleman, theconscientious landlord, the essential vertebra of England's backbone. Itwas really impossible to impute blame to such a fine fellow. He turnedround into the room again, braced and refreshed, and saw Michael thus. 

"It is quite true what you say, " he said, with a certain pride in hisown impartiality. "She has developed an extraordinary timidity towardsme. I have continually noticed that she is nervous and agitated in mypresence--I am quite unable to account for it. In fact, there is noaccounting for it. But I am thinking of going up to London before long, and making her see some good doctor. A little tonic, I daresay; though Idon't suppose she has taken a dozen doses of medicine in as many years. I expect she will be glad to go up, for she will be near you. The onedelusion--for it is no less than that--is as strange as the other. "

He drew himself up to his full magnificent height. 

"I do not mean that it is not very natural she should be devoted to herson, " he said with a tremendous air. 

What he did mean was therefore uncertain, and again he changed thesubject. 

"There is a third thing, " he said. "This concerns you. You are of theage when we Combers usually marry. I should wish you to marry, Michael. During this last year your mother has asked half a dozen girls downhere, all of whom she and I consider perfectly suitable, and no doubtyou have met more in London. I should like to know definitely if youhave considered the question, and if you have not, I ask you to setabout it at once. "

Michael was suddenly aware that never for a moment had Sylvia been awayfrom his mind. Even when his mother was talking to him last night Sylviahad sat at the back, in the inmost place, throned and secure. And nowshe stepped forward. Apart from the impossibility of not acknowledgingher, he wished to do it. He wanted to wear her publicly, though she wasnot his; he wanted to take his allegiance oath, though his sovereignheeded not. 

"I have considered the question, " he said, "and I have quite made up mymind whom I want to marry. She is Miss Falbe, Miss Sylvia Falbe, of whomyou may have heard as a singer. She is the sister of my music-master, and I can certainly marry nobody else. "

It was not merely defiance of the dreadful old tradition, which LordAshbridge had announced in the manner of Moses stepping down from Sinai, that prompted this appalling statement of the case; it was the joyin the profession of his love. It had to be flung out like that. LordAshbridge looked at him a moment in dead silence. 

"I have not the honour of knowing Miss--Miss Falbe, is it?" he said;"nor shall I have that honour. "

Michael got up; there was that in his father's tone that stung him tofury. 

"It is very likely that you will not, " he said, "since when I proposedto her yesterday she did not accept me. "

Somehow Lord Ashbridge felt that as an insult to himself. Indeed, it wasa double insult. Michael had proposed to this singer, and this singerhad not instantly clutched him. He gave his dreadful little treblegiggle. 

"And I am to bind up your broken heart?" he asked. 

Michael drew himself up to his full height. This was an indiscretion, for it but made his father recognise how short he was. It brought farceinto the tragic situation. 

"Oh, by no means, " he said. "My heart is not going to break yet. I don'tgive up hope. "

Then, in a flash, he thought of his mother's pale, anxious face, herdesire that he should not vex his father. 

"I am sorry, " he said, "but that is the case. I wish--I wish you wouldtry to understand me. "

"I find you incomprehensible, " said Lord Ashbridge, and left the roomwith his high walk and his swinging elbows. 

Well, it was done now, and Michael felt that there were no new vexationsto be sprung on his father. It was bound to happen, he supposed, sooneror later, and he was not sorry that it had happened sooner than heexpected or intended. Sylvia so held sway in him that he could not helpacknowledging her. His announcement had broken from him irresistibly, in spite of his mother's whispered word to him last night, "This is oursecret. " It could not be secret when his father spoke like that. . . . And then, with a flare of illumination he perceived how intensely hisfather disliked him. Nothing but sheer basic antipathy could have beenresponsible for that miserable retort, "Am I to bind up your brokenheart?" Anger, no doubt, was the immediate cause, but so utterlyungenerous a rejoinder to Michael's announcement could not have beenconceived, except in a heart that thoroughly and rootedly disliked him. That he was a continual monument of disappointment to his father he knewwell, but never before had it been quite plainly shown him how essentialan object of dislike he was. And the grounds of the dislike were nowequally plain--his father disliked him exactly because he was hisfather. On the other hand, the last twenty-four hours had shown him thathis mother loved him exactly because he was her son. When these two newand undeniable facts were put side by side, Michael felt that he was aninfinite gainer. 

He went rather drearily to the window. Far off across the field belowthe garden he could see Lord Ashbridge walking airily along on his wayto the links, with his head held high, his stick swinging in hishand, his two retrievers at his heels. No doubt already the soothinginfluences of Nature were at work--Nature, of course, standing for theportion of trees and earth and houses that belonged to him--and wereexpunging the depressing reflection that his wife and only son inspiredin him. And, indeed, such was actually the case: Lord Ashbridge, in hisamazing fatuity, could not long continue being himself without beingcheered and invigorated by that fact, and though when he set out hisbig white hands were positively trembling with passion, he carriedhis balsam always with him. But he had registered to himself, evenas Michael had registered, the fact that he found his son a mostintolerable person. And what vexed him most of all, what made him clangthe gate at the end of the field so violently that it hit one of hisretrievers shrewdly on the nose, was the sense of his own impotence. Heknew perfectly well that in point of view of determination (that qualitywhich in himself was firmness, and in those who opposed him obstinacy)Michael was his match. And the annoying thing was that, as his wife hadonce told him, Michael undoubtedly inherited that quality from him. Itwas as inalienable as the estates of which he had threatened to deprivehis son, and which, as he knew quite well, were absolutely entailed. Michael, in this regard, seemed no better than a common but successfulthief. He had annexed his father's firmness, and at his death wouldcertainly annex all his pictures and trees and acres and the red roofsof Ashbridge. 

Michael saw the gate so imperially slammed, he heard the despairing howlof Robin, and though he was sorry for Robin, he could not help laughing. He remembered also a ludicrous sight he had seen at the ZoologicalGardens a few days ago: two seals, sitting bolt upright, quarrellingwith each other, and making the most absurd grimaces and noises. Theyneither of them quite dared to attack the other, and so sat with theirfaces close together, saying the rudest things. Aunt Barbara wouldcertainly have seen how inimitably his father and he had, in theirinterview just now, resembled the two seals. 

And then he became aware that all the time, au fond, he had thoughtabout nothing but Sylvia, and of Sylvia, not as the subject of quarrel, but as just Sylvia, the singing Sylvia, with a hand on his shoulder. 

The winter sun was warm on the south terrace of the house, when, an hourlater, he strolled out, according to arrangement, with his mother. Ithad melted the rime of the night before that lay now on the grass inthreads of minute diamonds, though below the terrace wall, and on thesunk rims of the empty garden beds it still persisted in outline ofwhite heraldry. A few monthly roses, weak, pink blossoms, weary withthe toil of keeping hope alive till the coming of spring, hung dejectedheads in the sunk garden, where the hornbeam hedge that carried itsrusset leaves unfallen, shaded them from the wind. Here, too, a fewbulbs had pricked their way above ground, and stood with stout, erecthorns daintily capped with rime. All these things, which for yearshad been presented to Lady Ashbridge's notice without attracting herattention; now filled her with minute childlike pleasure; they werediscoveries as entrancing and as magical as the first finding ofthe oval pieces of blue sky that a child sees one morning in ahedge-sparrow's nest. Now that she was alone with her son, all hersecret restlessness and anxiety had vanished, and she remarked almostwith glee that her husband had telephoned from the golf links to saythat he would not be back for lunch; then, remembering that Michaelhad gone to talk to his father after breakfast, she asked him about theinterview. 

Michael had already made up his mind as to what to say here. Knowingthat his father was anxious about her, he felt it highly unlikely thathe would tell her anything to distress her, and so he represented theinterview as having gone off in perfect amity. Later in the day, onhis father's return, he had made up his mind to propose a truce betweenthem, as far as his mother was concerned. Whether that would be acceptedor not he could not certainly tell, but in the interval there wasnothing to be gained by grieving her. 

A great weight was lifted off her mind. 

"Ah, my dear, that is good, " she said. "I was anxious. So now perhaps weshall have a peaceful Christmas. I am glad your Aunt Barbara and Francisare coming, for though your aunt always laughs at your father, she doesit kindly, does she not? And as for Francis--my dear, if God had givenme two sons, I should have liked the other to be like Francis. And shallwe walk a little farther this way, and see poor Petsy's grave?"

Petsy's grave proved rather agitating. There were doleful little storiesof the last days to be related, and Petsy II. Was tiresome, and insistedon defying the world generally with shrill barkings from the top ofthe small mound, conscious perhaps that his helpless predecessor sleptbelow. Then their walk brought them to the band of trees that separatedthe links from the house, from which Lady Ashbridge retreated, fearful, as she vaguely phrased it, "of being seen, " and by whom there was noneed for her to explain. Then across the field came a group of childrenscampering home from school. They ceased their shouting and their gamesas the others came near, and demurely curtsied and took off their capsto Lady Ashbridge. 

"Nice, well-behaved children, " said she. "A merry Christmas to you all. I hope you are all good children to your mothers, as my son is to me. "

She pressed his arm, nodded and smiled at the children, and walked onwith him. And Michael felt the lump in his throat. 

The arrival of Aunt Barbara and Francis that afternoon did something, bythe mere addition of numbers to the party, to relieve the tension of thesituation. Lord Ashbridge said little but ate largely, and during theintervals of empty plates directed an impartial gaze at the portraits ofhis ancestors, while wholly ignoring his descendant. But Michael was toowise to put himself into places where he could be pointedly ignored, andthe resplendent dinner, with its six footmen and its silver service, was not really more joyless than usual. But his father's majesticdispleasure was more apparent when the three men sat alone afterwards, and it was in dead silence that port was pushed round and cigaretteshanded. Francis, it is true, made a couple of efforts to enliven things, but his remarks produced no response whatever from his uncle, and hesubsided into himself, thinking with regret of what an amusing eveninghe would have had if he had only stopped in town. But when they roseMichael signed to his cousin to go on, and planted himself firmly in thepath to the door. It was evident that his father did not mean to speakto him, but he could not push by him or walk over him. 

"There is one thing I want to say to you, father, " said he. "I have toldmy mother that our interview this morning was quite amicable. I do notsee why she should be distressed by knowing that it was not. "

His father's face softened a moment. 

"Yes, I agree to that, " he said. 

As far as that went, the compact was observed, and whenever LadyAshbridge was present her husband made a point of addressing a fewremarks to Michael, but there their intercourse ended. Michael foundopportunity to explain to Aunt Barbara what had happened, suggestingas a consolatory simile the domestic difficulties of the seals at theZoological Gardens, and was pleased to find her recognise the aptness ofthis description. But heaviest of all on the spirits of the whole partysat the anxiety about Lady Ashbridge. There could be no doubt thatsome cerebral degeneration was occurring, and Lady Barbara's urgentrepresentation to her brother had the effect of making him promiseto take her up to London without delay after Christmas, and let aspecialist see her. For the present the pious fraud practised on herthat Michael and his father had had "a good talk" together, and wereexcellent friends, sufficed to render her happy and cheerful. Shehad long, dim talks, full of repetition, with Michael, whose presenceappeared to make her completely content, and when he was out or awayfrom her she would sit eagerly waiting for his return. Petsy, to thegreat benefit of his health, got somewhat neglected by her; her wholenature and instincts were alight with the mother-love that had burntso late into flame, with this tragic accompaniment of derangement. Sheseemed to be groping her way back to the days when Michael was a littleboy, and she was a young woman; often she would seat herself at herpiano, if Michael was not there to play to her, and in a thin, quaveringvoice sing the songs of twenty years ago. She would listen to hisplaying, beating time to his music, and most of all she loved the hourwhen the day was drawing in, and the first shadow and flame of dusk andfirelight; then, with her hand in his, sitting in her room, wherethey would not be interrupted, she would whisper fresh inquiries aboutSylvia, offering to go herself to the girl and tell her how lovableher suitor was. She lived in a dim, subaqueous sort of consciousness, physically quite well, and mentally serene in the knowledge that Michaelwas in the house, and would presently come and talk to her. 

For the others it was dismal enough; this shadow, that was to her awatery sunlight, lay over them all--this, and the further quarrel, unknown to her, between Michael and his father. When they all met, asat meal times, there was the miserable pretence of friendliness andcomfortable ease kept up, for fear of distressing Lady Ashbridge. Itwas dreary work for all concerned, but, luckily, not difficult ofaccomplishment. A little chatter about the weather, the merest smallchange of conversation, especially if that conversation was held betweenMichael and his father, was sufficient to wreathe her in smiles, andshe would, according to habit, break in with some wrecking remark, thatentailed starting this talk all afresh. But when she left the room aglowering silence would fall; Lord Ashbridge would pick up a book orleave the room with his high-stepping walk and erect head, the pictureof insulted dignity. 

Of the three he was far most to be pitied, although the situationwas the direct result of his own arrogance and self-importance; butarrogance and self-importance were as essential ingredients of hischaracter as was humour of Aunt Barbara's. They were very awkward andtiresome qualities, but this particular Lord Ashbridge would haveno existence without them. He was deeply and mortally offended withMichael; that alone was sufficient to make a sultry and stiflingatmosphere, and in addition to that he had the burden of his anxietyabout his wife. Here came an extra sting, for in common humanity he had, by appearing to be friends with Michael, to secure her serenity, andthis could only be done by the continued profanation of his own highlyproper and necessary attitude towards his son. He had to addressfriendly words to Michael that really almost choked him; he had topractise cordiality with this wretch who wanted to marry the sister ofa music-master. Michael had pulled up all the old traditions, thatcarefully-tended and pompous flower-garden, as if they had been weeds, and thrown them in his father's face. It was indeed no wonder that, inhis wife's absence, he almost burst with indignation over the desecratedbeds. More than that, his own self-esteem was hurt by his wife's fear ofhim, just as if he had been a hard and unkind husband to her, which hehad not been, but merely a very self-absorbed and dominant one, whilethe one person who could make her quite happy was his despised son. Michael's person, Michael's tastes, Michael's whole presence andcharacter were repugnant to him, and yet Michael had the power which, todo Lord Ashbridge justice, he would have given much to be possessed ofhimself, of bringing comfort and serenity to his wife. 

On the afternoon of the day following Christmas the two cousins had beenacross the estuary to Ashbridge together. Francis, who, in spite of hishabitual easiness of disposition and general good temper, had found theconditions of anger and anxiety quite intolerable, had settled to leavenext day, instead of stopping till the end of the week, and Michaelacquiesced in this without any sense of desertion; he had really onlywondered why Francis had stopped three nights, instead of finding urgentprivate business in town after one. He realised also, somewhat withsurprise, that Francis was "no good" when there was trouble about; therewas no one so delightful when there was, so to speak, a contest of whoshould enjoy himself the most, and Francis invariably won. But ifthe subject of the contest was changed, and the prize given for theindividual who, under depressing circumstances, should contrive to showthe greatest serenity of aspect, Francis would have lost with an evengreater margin. Michael, in fact, was rather relieved than otherwiseat his cousin's immediate departure, for it helped nobody to see themartyred St. Sebastian, and it was merely odious for St. Sebastianhimself. In fact, at this moment, when Michael was rowing them backacross the full-flooded estuary, Francis was explaining this with hiscustomary lucidity. 

"I don't do any good here, Mike, " he said. "Uncle Robert doesn't speakto me any more than he does to you, except when Aunt Marion is there. And there's nothing going on, is there? I practically asked if I mightgo duck-shooting to-day, and Uncle Robert merely looked out of thewindow. But if anybody, specially you, wanted me to stop, why, of courseI would. "

"But I don't, " said Michael. 

"Thanks awfully. Gosh, look at those ducks! They're just wanting to beshot. But there it is, then. Certainly Uncle Robert doesn't want me, norAunt Marion. I say, what do they think is the matter with her?"

Michael looked round, then took, rather too late, another pull on hisoars, and the boat gently grated on the pebbly mud at the side of thelanding-place. Francis's question, the good-humoured insouciance of itgrated on his mind in rather similar fashion. 

"We don't know yet, " he said. "I expect we shall all go back to town ina couple of days, so that she may see somebody. "

Francis jumped out briskly and gracefully, and stood with his hands inhis pockets while Michael pushed off again, and brought the boat intoits shed. 

"I do hope it's nothing serious, " he said. "She looks quite well, doesn't she? I daresay it's nothing; but she's been alone, hasn't she, with Uncle Robert all these weeks. That would give her the hump, too. "

Michael felt a sudden spasm of impatience at these elegant and consolingreflections. But now, in the light of his own increasing maturity, hesaw how hopeless it was to feel Francis's deficiencies, his entire lackof deep feeling. He was made like that; and if you were fond of anybodythe only possible way of living up to your affection was to attachyourself to their qualities. 

They strolled a little way in silence. 

"And why did you tell Uncle Robert about Sylvia Falbe?" asked Francis. "I can't understand that. For the present, anyhow, she had refused you. There was nothing to tell him about. If I was fond of a girl like that Ishould say nothing about it, if I knew my people would disapprove, untilI had got her. "

Michael laughed. 

"Oh, yes you would, " he said, "if you were to use your own words, fond of her 'like that. ' You couldn't help it. At least, I couldn't. It's--it's such a glory to be fond like that. "

He stopped. 

"We won't talk about it, " he said--"or, rather, I can't talk about it, if you don't understand. "

"But she had refused you, " said the sensible Francis. 

"That makes no difference. She shines through everything, through theinfernal awfulness of these days, through my father's anger, and mymother's illness, whatever it proves to be--I think about them reallywith all my might, and at the end I find I've been thinking aboutSylvia. Everything is she--the woods, the tide--oh, I can't explain. "

They had walked across the marshy land at the edge of the estuary, andnow in front of them was the steep and direct path up to the house, and the longer way through the woods. At this point the estuary madea sudden turn to the left, sweeping directly seawards, and round thecorner, immediately in front of them was the long reach of deep waterup which, even when the tide was at its lowest, an ocean-going steamercould penetrate if it knew the windings of the channel. To-day, in thewindless, cold calm of mid-winter, though the sun was brilliant in ablue sky overhead, an opaque mist, thick as cotton-wool, lay over thesurface of the water, and, taking the winding road through the woods, which, following the estuary, turned the point, they presently foundthemselves, as they mounted, quite clear of the mist that lay below themon the river. Their steps were noiseless on the mossy path, and almostimmediately after they had turned the corner, as Francis paused to lighta cigarette, they heard from just below them the creaking of oars intheir rowlocks. It caught the ears of them both, and without consciouscuriosity they listened. On the moment the sound of rowing ceased, andfrom the dense mist just below them there came a sound which was quiteunmistakable, namely, the "plop" of something heavy dropped into thewater. That sound, by some remote form of association, suddenly recalledto Michael's mind certain questions Aunt Barbara had asked him about theEmperor's stay at Ashbridge, and his own recollection of his having goneup and down the river in a launch. There was something further, which hedid not immediately recollect. Yes, it was the request that if when hewas here at Christmas he found strangers hanging about the deep-waterreach, of which the chart was known only to the Admiralty, he shouldlet her know. Here at this moment they were overlooking the mist-swathedwater, and here at this moment, unseen, was a boat rowing stealthily, stopping, and, perhaps, making soundings. 

He laid his hand on Francis's arm with a gesture for silence, then, invisible below, someone said, "Fifteen fathoms, " and again the oarscreaked audibly in the rowlocks. 

Michael took a step towards his cousin, so that he could whisper to him. 

"Come back to the boat, " he said. "I want to row round and see who thatis. Wait a moment, though. "

The oars below made some half-dozen strokes, and then were still again. Once more there came the sound of something heavy dropped into thewater. 

"Someone is making soundings in the channel there, " he said. "Come. "

They went very quietly till they were round the point, then quickenedtheir steps, and Michael spoke. 

"That's the uncharted channel, " he said; "at least, only the Admiraltyhave the soundings. The water's deep enough right across for a shipof moderate draught to come up, but there is a channel up which anyman-of-war can pass. Of course, it may be an Admiralty boat making freshsoundings, but not likely on Boxing Day. "

"What are you going to do?" asked Francis, striding easily along byMichael's short steps. 

"Just see if we can find out who it is. Aunt Barbara asked me about it. I'll tell you afterwards. Now the tide's going out we can drop downwith it, and we shan't be heard. I'll row just enough to keep her headstraight. Sit in the bow, Francis, and keep a sharp look-out. "

Foot by foot they dropped down the river, and soon came into the thickmist that lay beyond the point. It was impossible to see more thana yard or two ahead, but the same dense obscurity would prevent anyfurther range of vision from the other boat, and, if it was still at itswork, the sound of its oars or of voices, Michael reflected, might guidehim to it. From the lisp of little wavelets lapping on the shore belowthe woods, he knew he was quite close in to the bank, and close also tothe place where the invisible boat had been ten minutes before. Then, in the bewildering, unlocalised manner in which sound without thecorrective guidance of sight comes to the ears, he heard as before thecreaking of invisible oars, somewhere quite close at hand. Next momentthe dark prow of a rowing-boat suddenly loomed into sight on theirstarboard, and he took a rapid stroke with his right-hand scull to bringthem up to it. But at the same moment, while yet the occupants of theother boat were but shadows in the mist, they saw him, and a quick wordof command rang out. 

"Row--row hard!" it cried, and with a frenzied churning of oars in thewater, the other boat shot by them, making down the estuary. Next momentit had quite vanished in the mist, leaving behind it knots of swirlingwater from its oar-blades. 

Michael started in vain pursuit; his craft was heavy and clumsy, andfrom the retreating and faint-growing sound of the other, it was clearthat he could get no pace to match, still less to overtake them. Soon hepantingly desisted. 

"But an Admiralty boat wouldn't have run away, " he said. "They'd haveasked us who the devil we were. "

"But who else was it?" asked Francis. 

Michael mopped his forehead. 

"Aunt Barbara would tell you, " he said. "She would tell you that theywere German spies. "

Francis laughed. 

"Or Timbuctoo niggers, " he remarked. 

"And that would be an odd thing, too, " said Michael. 

But at that moment he felt the first chill of the shadow thatmenaced, if by chance Aunt Barbara was right, and if already the cleartranquillity of the sky was growing dim as with the mist that laythat afternoon on the waters of the deep reach, and covered mysteriousmovements which were going on below it. England and Germany--there wasso much of his life and his heart there. Music and song, and Sylvia. 

CHAPTER X

Michael had heard the verdict of the brain specialist, who yesterday hadseen his mother, and was sitting in his room beside his unopenedpiano quietly assimilating it, and, without making plans of his owninitiative, contemplating the forms into which the future was beginningto fall, mapping itself out below him, outlining itself as when objectsin a room, as the light of morning steals in, take shape again. And evenas they take the familiar shapes, so already he felt that he had guessedall this in that week down at Ashbridge, from which he had returned withhis father and mother a couple of days before. 

She was suffering, without doubt, from some softening of the brain;nothing of remedial nature could possibly be done to arrest or cure theprogress of the disease, and all that lay in human power was to securefor her as much content and serenity as possible. In her presentcondition there was no question of putting her under restraint, nor, indeed, could she be certified by any doctor as insane. She would haveto have a trained attendant, she would live a secluded life, from whichmust be kept as far as possible anything that could agitate or distressher, and after that there was nothing more that could be done exceptto wait for the inevitable development of her malady. This might comequickly or slowly; there was no means of forecasting that, though therapid deterioration of her brain, which had taken place during thoselast two months, made it, on the whole, likely that the progress of thedisease would be swift. It was quite possible, on the other hand, thatit might remain stationary for months. . . . And in answer to a questionof Michael's, Sir James had looked at him a moment in silence. Then heanswered. 

"Both for her sake and for the sake of all of you, " he had said, "onehopes that it will be swift. "

Lord Ashbridge had just telephoned that he was coming round to seeMichael, a message that considerably astonished him, since it would havebeen more in his manner, in the unlikely event of his wishing to see hisson, to have summoned him to the house in Curzon Street. However, he hadannounced his advent, and thus, waiting for him, and not much concerninghimself about that, Michael let the future map itself. Already it wassharply defined, its boundaries and limits were clear, and though it wasyet untravelled it presented to him a familiar aspect, and he felt thathe could find his allotted road without fail, though he had never yettraversed it. It was strongly marked; there could be no difficulty orquestion about it. Indeed, a week ago, when first the recognition of hismother's condition, with the symptoms attached to it, was known to him, he had seen the signpost that directed him into the future. 

Lord Ashbridge made his usual flamboyant entry, prancing and swinginghis elbows. Whatever happened he would still be Lord Ashbridge, with hisgrey top-hat and his large carnation and his enviable position. 

"You will have heard what Sir James's opinion is about your poormother, " he said. "It was in consequence of what he recommended when hetalked over the future with me that I came to see you. "

Michael guessed very well what this recommendation was, but with acertain stubbornness and sense of what was due to himself, he let hisfather proceed with the not very welcome task of telling him. 

"In fact, Michael, " he said, "I have a favour to ask of you. "

The fact of his being Lord Ashbridge, and the fact of Michael being hisunsatisfactory son, stiffened him, and he had to qualify the favour. 

"Perhaps I should not say I am about to ask you a favour, " he correctedhimself, "but rather to point out to you what is your obvious duty. "

Suddenly it struck Michael that his father was not thinking about LadyAshbridge at all, nor about him, but in the main about himself. Allhad to be done from the dominant standpoint; he owed it to himself toalleviate the conditions under which his wife must live; he owed it tohimself that his son should do his part as a Comber. There was no longerany possible doubt as to what this favour, or this direction of duty, must be, but still Michael chose that his father should state it. Hepushed a chair forward for him. 

"Won't you sit down?" he said. 

"Thank you, I would rather stand. Yes; it is not so much a favour as theindication of your duty. I do not know if you will see it in the samelight as I; you have shown me before now that we do not take the sameview. "

Michael felt himself bristling. His father certainly had the effect ofdrawing out in him all the feelings that were better suppressed. 

"I think we need not talk of that now, sir, " he remarked. 

"Certainly it is not the subject of my interview with you now. The factis this. In some way your presence gives a certain serenity and contentto your mother. I noticed that at Ashbridge, and, indeed, there has beensome trouble with her this morning because I could not take her to cometo see you with me. I ask you, therefore, for her sake, to be with us asmuch as you can, in short, to come and live with us. "

Michael nodded, saluting, so to speak, the signpost into the future ashe passed it. 

"I had already determined to do that, " he said. "I had determined, atany rate, to ask your permission to do so. It is clear that my motherwants me, and no other consideration can weigh with that. "

Lord Ashbridge still remained completely self-sufficient. 

"I am glad you take that view of it, " he said. "I think that is all Ihave to say. "

Now Michael was an adept at giving; as indicated before, when hegave, he gave nobly, and he could not only outwardly disregard, buthe inwardly cancelled the wonderful ungenerosity with which his fatherreceived. That did not concern him. 

"I will make arrangements to come at once, " he said, "if you can receiveme to-day. "

"That will hardly be worth while, will it? I am taking your mother backto Ashbridge tomorrow. "

Michael got up in silence. After all, this gift of himself, of his time, of his liberty, of all that constituted life to him, was made not tohis father, but to his mother. It was made, as his heart knew, notungrudgingly only, but eagerly, and if it had been recommended bythe doctor that she should go to Ashbridge, he would have entirelydisregarded the large additional sacrifice on himself which it entailed. Thus it was not owing to any retraction of his gift, or reconsiderationof it, that he demurred. 

"I hope you will--will meet me half-way about this, sir, " he said. "Youmust remember that all my work lies in London. I want, naturally, tocontinue that as far as I can. If you go to Ashbridge it is completelyinterrupted. My friends are here too; everything I have is here. "

His father seemed to swell a little; he appeared to fill the room. 

"And all my duties lie at Ashbridge, " he said. "As you know, I am notof the type of absentee landlords. It is quite impossible that I shouldspend these months in idleness in town. I have never done such a thingyet, nor, I may say, would our class hold the position they do if wedid. We shall come up to town after Easter, should your mother's healthpermit it, but till then I could not dream of neglecting my duties inthe country. "

Now Michael knew perfectly well what his father's duties on thatexcellently managed estate were. They consisted of a bi-weekly interviewin the "business-room" (an abode of files and stags' heads, in whichLord Ashbridge received various reports of building schemes andrepairs), of a round of golf every afternoon, and of reading thelessons and handing the offertory-box on Sunday. That, at least, wasthe sum-total as it presented itself to him, and on which he framedhis conclusions. But he left out altogether the moral effect of thebig landlord living on his own land, and being surrounded by hisown dependents, which his father, on the other hand, so vastlyover-estimated. It was clear that there was not likely to be much accordbetween them on this subject. 

"But could you not go down there perhaps once or twice a week, and getBailey to come and consult you here?" he asked. 

Lord Ashbridge held his head very high. 

"That would be completely out of the question, " he said. 

All this, Michael felt, had nothing to do with the problem of hismother and himself. It was outside it altogether, and concerned onlyhis father's convenience. He was willing to press this point as far aspossible. 

"I had imagined you would stop in London, " he said. "Supposing underthese circumstances I refuse to live with you?"

"I should draw my own conclusion as to the sincerity of your professionof duty towards your mother. "

"And practically what would you do?" asked Michael. 

"Your mother and I would go to Ashbridge tomorrow all the same. "

Another alternative suddenly suggested itself to Michael which he wasalmost ashamed of proposing, for it implied that his father put his ownconvenience as outweighing any other consideration. But he saw that ifonly Lord Ashbridge was selfish enough to consent to it, it had manifestmerits. His mother would be alone with him, free of the presence that sodisconcerted her. 

"I propose, then, " he said, "that she and I should remain in town, asyou want to be at Ashbridge. "

He had been almost ashamed of suggesting it, but no such shame wasreflected in his father's mind. This would relieve him of the perpetualembarrassment of his wife's presence, and the perpetual irritation ofMichael's. He had persuaded himself that he was making a tremendouspersonal sacrifice in proposing that Michael should live with them, andthis relieved him of the necessity. 

"Upon my word, Michael, " he said, with the first hint of cordiality thathe had displayed, "that is very well thought of. Let us consider; it iscertainly the case that this derangement in your poor mother's mind hascaused her to take what I might almost call a dislike to me. I mentionedthat to Sir James, though it was very painful for me to do so, and hesaid that it was a common and most distressing symptom of brain disease, that the sufferer often turned against those he loved best. Your planwould have the effect of removing that. "

He paused a moment, and became even more sublimely fatuous. 

"You, too, " he said, "it would obviate the interruption of your work, about which you feel so keenly. You would be able to go on with it. Ofmyself, I don't think at all. I shall be lonely, no doubt, at Ashbridge, but my own personal feelings must not be taken into account. Yes; itseems to me a very sensible notion. We shall have to see what yourmother says to it. She might not like me to be away from her, in spiteof her apparent--er--dislike of me. It must all depend on her attitude. But for my part I think very well of your scheme. Thank you, Michael, for suggesting it. "

He left immediately after this to ascertain Lady Ashbridge's feelingsabout it, and walked home with a complete resumption of his usualexuberance. It indeed seemed an admirable plan. It relieved him fromthe nightmare of his wife's continual presence, and this he expressedto himself by thinking that it relieved her from his. It was not thathe was deficient in sympathy for her, for in his self-centred way he wasfond of her, but he could sympathise with her just as well at Ashbridge. He could do no good to her, and he had not for her that instinct of lovewhich would make it impossible for him to leave her. He would also bespared the constant irritation of having Michael in the house, and thishe expressed to himself by saying that Michael disliked him, and wouldbe far more at his ease without him. Furthermore, Michael would be ableto continue his studies . . . Of this too, in spite of the fact that hehad always done his best to discourage them, he made a self-laudatorytranslation, by telling himself that he was very glad not to haveto cause Michael to discontinue them. In fine, he persuaded himself, without any difficulty, that he was a very fine fellow in consenting toa plan that suited him so admirably, and only wondered that he had notthought of it himself. There was nothing, after his wife had expressedher joyful acceptance of it, to detain him in town, and he left forAshbridge that afternoon, while Michael moved into the house in CurzonStreet. 

Michael entered upon his new life without the smallest sense of havingdone anything exceptional or even creditable. It was so perfectlyobvious to him that he had to be with his mother that he had noinclination to regard himself at all in the matter; the thing wasas simple as it had been to him to help Francis out of financialdifficulties with a gift of money. There was no effort of will, nosense of sacrifice about it, it was merely the assertion of a paramountinstinct. The life limited his freedom, for, for a great part of the dayhe was with his mother, and between his music and his attendance on her, he had but little leisure. Occasionally he went out to see his friends, but any prolonged absence on his part always made her uneasy, and hewould often find her, on his return, sitting in the hall, waitingfor him, so as to enjoy his presence from the first moment that here-entered the house. But though he found no food for reflection inhimself, Aunt Barbara, who came to see them some few days after Michaelhad been installed here, found a good deal. 

They had all had tea together, and afterwards Lady Ashbridge's nurse hadcome down to fetch her upstairs to rest. And then Aunt Barbara surprisedMichael, for she came across the room to him, with her kind eyes full oftears, and kissed him. 

"My dear, I must say it once, " she said, "and then you will know that itis always in my mind. You have behaved nobly, Michael; it's a big word, but I know no other. As for your father--"

Michael interrupted her. 

"Oh, I don't understand him, " he said. "At least, that's the best way tolook at it. Let's leave him out. "

He paused a moment. 

"After all, it is a much better plan than our living all three of us atAshbridge. It's better for my mother, and for me, and for him. "

"I know, but how he could consent to the better plan, " she said. "Well, let us leave him out. Poor Robert! He and his golf. My dear, your fatheris a very ludicrous person, you know. But about you, Michael, do youthink you can stand it?"

He smiled at her. 

"Why, of course I can, " he said. "Indeed, I don't think I'll accept thatstatement of it. It's--it's such a score to be able to be of use, youknow. I can make my mother happy. Nobody else can. I think I'm gettingrather conceited about it. "

"Yes, dear; I find you insufferable, " remarked Aunt Barbaraparenthetically. 

"Then you must just bear it. The thing is"--Michael took a moment tofind the words he searched for--"the thing is I want to be wanted. Well, it's no light thing to be wanted by your mother, even if--"

He sat down on the sofa by his aunt. 

"Aunt Barbara, how ironically gifts come, " he said. "This was rather asinister way of giving, that my mother should want me like this just asher brain was failing. And yet that failure doesn't affect the qualityof her love. Is it something that shines through the poor tatteredfabric? Anyhow, it has nothing to do with her brain. It is she herself, somehow, not anything of hers, that wants me. And you ask if I can standit?"

Michael with his ugly face and his kind eyes and his simple heart seemedextraordinarily charming just then to Aunt Barbara. She wished thatSylvia could have seen him then in all the unconsciousness of what hewas doing so unquestioningly, or that she could have seen him as shehad with his mother during the last hour. Lady Ashbridge had insistedon sitting close to him, and holding his hand whenever she could possessherself of it, of plying him with a hundred repeated questions, andnever once had she made Michael either ridiculous or self-conscious. Andthis, she reflected, went on most of the day, and for how many days itwould go on, none knew. Yet Michael could not consider even whether hecould stand it; he rejected the expression as meaningless. 

"And your friends?" she said. "Do you manage to see them?"

"Oh, yes, occasionally, " said Michael. "They don't come here, for thepresence of strangers makes my mother agitated. She thinks they havesome design of taking her or me away. But she wants to see Sylvia. Sheknows about--about her and me, and I can't make up my mind what to doabout it. She is always asking if I can't take her to see Sylvia, or gether to come here. "

"And why not? Sylvia knows about your mother, I suppose. "

"I expect so. I told Hermann. But I am afraid my mother will--well, youcan't call it arguing--but will try to persuade her to have me. I can'tlet Sylvia in for that. Nor, if it comes to that, can I let myself infor that. "

"Can't you impress on your mother that she mustn't?"

Michael leaned forward to the fire, pondering this, and stretching outhis big hands to the blaze. 

"Yes, I might, " he said. "I should love to see Sylvia again, justsee her, you know. We settled that the old terms we were on couldn'tcontinue. At least, I settled that, and she understood. "

"Sylvia is a gaby, " remarked Aunt Barbara. 

"I'm rather glad you think so. "

"Oh, get her to come, " said she. "I'm sure your mother will do as youtell her. I'll be here too, if you like, if that will do any good. Bythe way, I see your Hermann's piano recital comes off to-morrow. "

"I know. My mother wants to go to that, and I think I shall take her. Will you come too, Aunt Barbara, and sit on the other side of her? My'Variations' are going to be played. If they are a success, Hermanntells me I shall be dragged screaming on to the platform, and have tobow. Lord! And if they're not, well, 'Lord' also. "

"Yes, my dear, of course I'll come. Let me see, I shall have to lie, asI have another engagement, but a little thing like that doesn't botherme. "

Suddenly she clapped her hands together. 

"My dear, I quite forgot, " she said. "Michael, such excitement. Youremember the boat you heard taking soundings on the deep-water reach? Ofcourse you do! Well, I sent that information to the proper quarter, andsince then watch has been kept in the woods just above it. Last nightonly the coastguard police caught four men at it--all Germans. Theytried to escape as they did before, by rowing down the river, but therewas a steam launch below which intercepted them. They had on them achart of the reach, with soundings, nearly complete; and when theysearched their houses--they are all tenants of your astute father, whomerely laughed at us--they found a very decent map of certain privateareas at Harwich. Oh, I'm not such a fool as I look. They thanked me, mydear, for my information, and I very gracefully said that my informationwas chiefly got by you. "

"But did those men live in Ashbridge?" asked Michael. 

"Yes; and your father will have four decorous houses on his hands. I amglad: he should not have laughed at us. It will teach him, I hope. Andnow, my dear, I must go. "

She stood up, and put her hand on Michael's arm. 

"And you know what I think of you, " she said. "To-morrow evening, then. I hate music usually; but then I adore Mr. Hermann. I only wish hewasn't a German. Can't you get him to naturalise himself and hissister?"

"You wouldn't ask that if you had seen him in Munich, " said Michael. 

"I suppose not. Patriotism is such a degrading emotion when it is notEnglish. "

Michael's "Variations" came some half-way down the programme nextevening, and as the moment for them approached, Lady Ashbridge got moreand more excited. 

"I hope he knows them by heart properly, dear, " she whispered toMichael. "I shall be so nervous for fear he'll forget them in themiddle, which is so liable to happen if you play without your notes. "

Michael laid his hand on his mother's. 

"Hush, mother, " he said, "you mustn't talk while he's playing. "

"Well, I was only whispering. But if you tell me I mustn't--"

The hall was crammed from end to end, for not only was Hermann a personof innumerable friends, but he had already a considerable reputation, and, being a German, all musical England went to hear him. And to-nighthe was playing superbly, after a couple of days of miserable nervousnessover his debut as a pianist; but his temperament was one of thosethat are strung up to their highest pitch by such nervous agonies; herequired just that to make him do full justice to his own personality, and long before he came to the "Variations, " Michael felt quite at easeabout his success. There was no question about it any more: thewhole audience knew that they were listening to a master. In the rowimmediately behind Michael's party were sitting Sylvia and her mother, who had not quite been torn away from her novels, since she had sought"The Love of Hermione Hogarth" underneath her cloak, and read itfurtively in pauses. They had come in after Michael, and until theinterval between the classical and the modern section of the concert hewas unaware of their presence; then idly turning round to look at thecrowded hall, he found himself face to face with the girl. 

"I had no idea you were there, " he said. "Hermann will do, won't he? Ithink--"

And then suddenly the words of commonplace failed him, and he looked ather in silence. 

"I knew you were back, " she said. "Hermann told me about--everything. "

Michael glanced sideways, indicating his mother, who sat next him, andwas talking to Barbara. 

"I wondered whether perhaps you would come and see my mother and me, " hesaid. "May I write?"

She looked at him with the friendliness of her smiling eyes and hergrave mouth. 

"Is it necessary to ask?" she said. 

Michael turned back to his seat, for his mother had had quite enough ofher sister-in-law, and wanted him again. She looked over her shoulderfor a moment to see whom Michael was talking to. 

"I'm enjoying my concert, dear, " she said. "And who is that nice younglady? Is she a friend of yours?"

The interval was over, and Hermann returned to the platform, and waitingfor a moment for the buzz of conversation to die down, gave out, without any preliminary excursion on the keys, the text of Michael's"Variations. " Then he began to tell them, with light and flying fingers, what that simple tune had suggested to Michael, how he imagined himselflooking on at an old-fashioned dance, and while the dancers moved tothe graceful measure of a minuet, or daintily in a gavotte, the tune of"Good King Wenceslas" still rang in his head, or, how in the joy ofthe sunlight of a spring morning it still haunted him. It lay behinda cascade of foaming waters that, leaping, roared into a ravine; itmarched with flying banners on some day of victorious entry, it watcheda funeral procession wind by, with tapers and the smell of incense; itheard, as it got nearer back to itself again, the peals of Christmasbells, and stood forth again in its own person, decorated andemblazoned. 

Hermann had already captured his audience; now he held them tame in thehollow of his hand. Twice he bowed, and then, in answer to the demand, just beckoned with his finger to Michael, who rose. For a moment hismother wished to detain him. 

"You're not going to leave me, my dear, are you?" she asked anxiously. 

He waited to explain to her quietly, left her, and, feeling ratherdazed, made his way round to the back and saw the open door on to theplatform confronting him. He felt that no power on earth could make himstep into the naked publicity there, but at the moment Hermann appearedin the doorway. 

"Come on, Mike, " he said, laughing. "Thank the pretty ladies andgentlemen! Lord, isn't it all a lark!"

Michael advanced with him, stared and hoped he smiled properly, thoughhe felt that he was nailing some hideous grimace to his face; and thenjust below him he saw his mother eagerly pointing him out to a totalstranger, with gesticulation, and just behind her Sylvia looking at her, and not at him, with such tenderness, such kindly pity. There were thetwo most intimately bound into his life, the mother who wanted him, thegirl whom he wanted; and by his side was Hermann, who, as Michael alwaysknew, had thrown open the gates of life to him. All the rest, evenincluding Aunt Barbara, seemed of no significance in that moment. Afterwards, no doubt, he would be glad they were pleased, be proud ofhaving pleased them; but just now, even when, for the first time in hislife, that intoxicating wine of appreciation was given him, he stoodwith it bubbling and yellow in his hand, not drinking of it. 

Michael had prepared the way of Sylvia's coming by telling his motherthe identity of the "nice young lady" at the concert; he had alsoimpressed on her the paramount importance of not saying anything withregard to him that could possibly embarrass the nice young lady, andwhen Sylvia came to tea a few days later, he was quite without anyuneasiness, while for himself he was only conscious of that thirst forher physical presence, the desire, as he had said to Aunt Barbara, "justto see her. " Nor was there the slightest embarrassment in their meeting!it was clear that there was not the least difficulty either for himor her in being natural, which, as usually happens, was the completesolution. 

"That is good of you to come, " he said, meeting her almost at the door. "My mother has been looking forward to your visit. Mother dear, here isMiss Falbe. "

Lady Ashbridge was pathetically eager to be what she called "good. "Michael had made it clear to her that it was his wish that Miss Falbeshould not be embarrassed, and any wish just now expressed by Michaelwas of the nature of a divine command to her. 

"Well, this is a pleasure, " she said, looking across to Michael with theeyes of a dog on a beloved master. "And we are not strangers quite, arewe, Miss Falbe? We sat so near each other to listen to your brother, whoI am sure plays beautifully, and the music which Michael made. Haven't Igot a clever son, and such a good one?"

Sylvia was unerring. Michael had known she would be. 

"Indeed, you have, " she said, sitting down by her. "And Michael mustn'thear what we say about him, must he, or he'll be getting conceited. "

Lady Ashbridge laughed. 

"And that would never do, would it?" she said, still retaining Sylvia'shand. Then a little dim ripple of compunction broke in her mind. "Michael, " she said, "we are only joking about your getting conceited. Miss Falbe and I are only joking. And--and won't you take off your hat, Miss Falbe, for you are not going to hurry away, are you? You are goingto pay us a long visit. "

Michael had not time to remind his mother that ladies who come to teado not usually take their hats off, for on the word Sylvia's hands werebusy with her hatpins. 

"I'm so glad you suggested that, " she said. "I always want to take myhat off. I don't know who invented hats, but I wish he hadn't. "

Lady Ashbridge looked at her masses of bright hair, and could not helptelegraphing a note of admiration, as it were, to Michael. 

"Now, that's more comfortable, " she said. "You look as if you weren'tgoing away next minute. When I like to see people, I hate their goingaway. I'm afraid sometimes that Michael will go away, but he tells me hewon't. And you liked Michael's music, Miss Falbe? Was it not clever ofhim to think of all that out of one simple little tune? And he tells meyou sing so nicely. Perhaps you would sing to us when we've had tea. Oh, and here is my sister-in-law. Do you know her--Lady Barbara? My dear, what is your husband's name?"

Seeing Sylvia uncovered, Lady Barbara, with a tact that was creditableto her, but strangely unsuccessful, also began taking off her hat. Hersister-in-law was too polite to interfere, but, as a matter of fact, shedid not take much pleasure in the notion that Barbara was going to staya very long time, too. She was fond of her, but it was not Barbara whomMichael wanted. She turned her attention to the girl again. 

"My husband's away, " she said, confidentially; "he is very busy down atAshbridge, and I daresay he won't find time to come up to town for manyweeks yet. But, you know, Michael and I do very well without him, very well, indeed, and it would never do to take him away from hisduties--would it, Michael?"

Here was a shoal to be avoided. 

"No, you mustn't think of tempting him to come up to town, " saidMichael. "Give me some tea for Aunt Barbara. "

This answer entranced Lady Ashbridge; she had to nudge Michael severaltimes to show that she understood the brilliance of it, and put lumpafter lump of sugar into Barbara's cup in her rapt appreciation of it. But very soon she turned to Sylvia again. 

"And your brother is a friend of Michael's, too, isn't he?" she said. "Some day perhaps he will come to see me. We don't see many people, Michael and I, for we find ourselves very well content alone. Butperhaps some day he will come and play his concert over again to us; andthen, perhaps, if you ask me, I will sing to you. I used to sing a greatdeal when I was younger. Michael--where has Michael gone?"

Michael had just left the room to bring some cigarettes in from nextdoor, and Lady Ashbridge ran after him, calling him. She found him inthe hall, and brought him back triumphantly. 

"Now we will all sit and talk for a long time, " she said. "You one sideof me, Miss Falbe, and Michael the other. Or would you be so kind as tosing for us? Michael will play for you, and would it annoy you if I cameand turned over the pages? It would give me a great deal of pleasure toturn over for you, if you will just nod each time when you are ready. "

Sylvia got up. 

"Why, of course, " she said. "What have you got, Michael? I haven'tanything with me. "

Michael found a volume of Schubert, and once again, as on the first timehe had seen her, she sang "Who is Sylvia?" while he played, and LadyAshbridge had her eyes fixed now on one and now on the other of them, waiting for their nod to do her part; and then she wanted to singherself, and with some far-off remembrance of the airs and graces oftwenty-five years ago, she put her handkerchief and her rings on thetop of the piano, and, playing for herself, emitted faint treble soundswhich they knew to be "The Soldier's Farewell. "

Then presently her nurse came for her to lie down before dinner, and shewas inclined to be tearful and refuse to go till Michael made it clearthat it was his express and sovereign will that she should do so. Thenvery audibly she whispered to him. "May I ask her to give me a kiss?"she said. "She looks so kind, Michael, I don't think she would mind. "

Sylvia went back home with a little heartache for Michael, wondering, if she was in his place, if her mother, instead of being absorbed in hernovels, demanded such incessant attentions, whether she had sufficientlove in her heart to render them with the exquisite simplicity, thetender patience that Michael showed. Well as she knew him, greatly asshe liked him, she had not imagined that he, or indeed any man couldhave behaved quite like that. There seemed no effort at all about it;he was not trying to be patient; he had the sense of "patience's perfectwork" natural to him; he did not seem to have to remind himself that hismother was ill, and thus he must be gentle with her. He was gentle withher because he was in himself gentle. And yet, though his behaviour wasno effort to him, she guessed how wearying must be the continual strainof the situation itself. She felt that she would get cross from merefatigue, however excellent her intentions might be, however willingthe spirit. And no one, so she had understood from Barbara, could takeMichael's place. In his occasional absences his mother was fretful andmiserable, and day by day Michael left her less. She would sit close tohim when he was practising--a thing that to her or to Hermann would haverendered practice impossible--and if he wrestled with one hand over adifficult bar, she would take the other into hers, would ask him if hewas not getting tired, would recommend him to rest for a little; and yetMichael, who last summer had so stubbornly insisted on leading his ownlife, and had put his determination into effect in the teeth of alldomestic opposition, now with more than cheerfulness laid his own lifeaside in order to look after his mother. Sylvia felt that the realheroisms of life were not so much the fine heady deeds which are soobviously admirable, as such serene steadfastness, such unvaryingpatience as that which she had just seen. 

Her whole soul applauded Michael, and yet below her applause was thisheartache for him, the desire to be able to help him to bear the burdenwhich must be so heavy, though he bore it so blithely. But in the verynature of things there was but one way in which she could help him, andin that she was powerless. She could not give him what he wanted. Butshe longed to be able to. 

CHAPTER XI

It was a morning of early March, and Michael, looking out from thedining-room window at the house in Curzon Street, where he had justbreakfasted alone, was smitten with wonder and a secret ecstasy, for hesuddenly saw and felt that it was winter no longer, but that spring hadcome. For the last week the skies had screamed with outrageous windsand had been populous with flocks of sullen clouds that dischargedthemselves in sleet and snowy rain, and half last night, for he hadslept very badly, he had heard the dashing of showers, as of wind-drivenspray, against the window-panes, and had listened to the fierce rattlingof the frames. Towards morning he had slept, and during those hours itseemed that a new heaven and a new earth had come into being; vitallyand essentially the world was a different affair altogether. 

At the back of the house on to which these windows looked was a gardenof some half acre, a square of somewhat sooty grass, bounded by highwalls, with a few trees at the further end. Into it, too, had themessage that thrilled through his bones penetrated, and this littleoasis of doubtful grass and blackened shrubs had a totally differentaspect to-day from that which it had worn all those weeks. The sparrowsthat had sat with fluffed-up feathers in corners sheltered from thegales, were suddenly busy and shrilly vocal, chirruping and draggingabout straws, and flying from limb to limb of the trees with twigs intheir beaks. For the first time he noticed that little verdant cabochonsof folded leaf had globed themselves on the lilac bushes below thewindow, crocuses had budded, and in the garden beds had shot up thepushing spikes of bulbs, while in the sooty grass he could see specksand patches of vivid green, the first growth of the year. 

He opened the window and strolled out. The whole taste and savour of theair was changed, and borne on the primrose-coloured sunshine came thesmell of damp earth, no longer dead and reeking of the decay of autumn, but redolent with some new element, something fertile and fecund, something daintily, indefinably laden with the secret of life andrestoration. The grey, lumpy clouds were gone, and instead chariots ofdazzling white bowled along the infinite blue expanse, harnessed to thesouthwest wind. But, above all, the sparrows dragged straws to and fro, loudly chirruping. All spring was indexed there. 

For a moment Michael was entranced with the exquisite moment, and stoodsunning his soul in spring. But then he felt the fetters of his ownindividual winter heavy on him again, and he could only see what washappening without feeling it. For that moment he had felt the leap inhis blood, but the next he was conscious again of the immensefatigue that for weeks had been growing on him. The task which he hadvoluntarily taken on himself had become no lighter with habit, theincessant attendance on his mother and the strain of it got heavier dayby day. For some time now her childlike content in his presence hadbeen clouded and, instead, she was constantly depressed and constantlyquerulous with him, finding fault with his words and his silences, andin her confused and muffled manner blaming him and affixing sinistermotives to his most innocent actions. But she was still entirelydependent on him, and if he left her for an hour or two, she would waitin an agony of anxiety for his return, and when he came back overwhelmedhim with tearful caresses and the exaction of promises not to go awayagain. Then, feeling certain of him once more, she would start again oncomplaints and reproaches. Her doctor had warned him that it lookedas if some new phase of her illness was approaching, which mightnecessitate the complete curtailment of her liberty; but day hadsucceeded to day and she still remained in the same condition, neitherbetter nor worse, but making every moment a burden to Michael. 

It had been necessary that Sylvia should discontinue her visits, forsome weeks ago Lady Ashbridge had suddenly taken a dislike to her, and, when she came, would sit in silent and lofty displeasure, speaking toher as little as possible, and treating her with a chilling and awfulpoliteness. Michael had enough influence with his mother to prevent hertelling the girl what her crime had been, which was her refusal tomarry him; but, when he was alone with his mother, he had to listen totorrents of these complaints. Lady Ashbridge, with a wealth of languagethat had lain dormant in her all her life, sarcastically supposed thatMiss Falbe was a princess in disguise ("very impenetrable disguise, forI'm sure she reminds me of a barmaid more than a princess"), and thoughtthat such a marriage would be beneath her. Or, another time, she hintedthat Miss Falbe might be already married; indeed, this seemed a veryplausible explanation of her attitude. She desired, in fact, that Sylviashould not come to see her any more, and now, when she did not, therewas scarcely a day in which Lady Ashbridge would not talk in a pointedmanner about pretended friends who leave you alone, and won't even takethe trouble to take a two-penny 'bus (if they are so poor as all that)to come from Chelsea to Curzon Street. 

Michael knew that his mother's steps were getting nearer and nearer tothat border line which separates the sane from the insane, and with allthe wearing strain of the days as they passed, had but the one desirein his heart, namely, to keep her on the right side for as long as washumanly possible. But something might happen, some new symptom developwhich would make it impossible for her to go on living with him as shedid now, and the dread of that moment haunted his waking hours and hisdreams. Two months ago her doctor had told him that, for the sake ofeveryone concerned, it was to be hoped that the progress of her diseasewould be swift; but, for his part, Michael passionately disclaimed sucha wish. In spite of her constant complaints and strictures, she wasstill possessed of her love for him, and, wearing though every day was, he grudged the passing of the hours that brought her nearer to the awfulboundary line. Had a deed been presented to him for his signature, whichbound him indefinitely to his mother's service, on the condition thatshe got no worse, his pen would have spluttered with his eagerness tosign. 

In consequence of his mother's dislike to Sylvia, Michael had hardlyseen her during this last month. Once, when owing to some small physicaldisturbance, Lady Ashbridge had gone to bed early on a Sunday evening, he had gone to one of the Falbes' weekly parties, and had tried to flinghimself with enjoyment into the friendly welcoming atmosphere. But forthe present, he felt himself detached from it all, for this life withhis mother was close round him with a sort of nightmare obsession, through which outside influence and desire could only faintly trickle. He knew that the other life was there, he knew that in his heart helonged for Sylvia as much as ever; but, in his present detachment, hisdesire for her was a drowsy ache, a remote emptiness, and the veil thatlay over his mother seemed to lie over him also. Once, indeed, duringthe evening, when he had played for her, the veil had lifted and for thedrowsy ache he had the sunlit, stabbing pang; but, as he left, the veildropped again, and he let himself into the big, mute house, sorry thathe had left it. In the same way, too, his music was in abeyance: hecould not concentrate himself or find it worth while to make the effortto absorb himself in it, and he knew that short of that, there wasneither profit nor pleasure for him in his piano. Everything seemedremote compared with the immediate foreground: there was a gap, a gulfbetween it and all the rest of the world. 

His father wrote to him from time to time, laying stress on the extremeimportance of all he was doing in the country, and giving no hint of hiscoming up to town at present. But he faintly adumbrated the time whenin the natural course of events he would have to attend to his nationalduties in the House of Lords, and wondered whether it would not (aboutthen) be good for his wife to have a change, and enjoy the countrywhen the weather became more propitious. Michael, with an excusableunfilialness, did not answer these amazing epistles; but, having baskedin their unconscious humour, sent them on to Aunt Barbara. Weeklyreports were sent by Lady Ashbridge's nurse to his father, and Michaelhad nothing whatever to add to these. His fear of him had given placeto a quiet contempt, which he did not care to think about, and certainlydid not care to express. 

Every now and then Lady Ashbridge had what Michael thought of as a goodhour or two, when she went back to her content and childlike joy in hispresence, and it was clear, when presently she came downstairs as hestill lingered in the garden, reading the daily paper in the sun, thatone of these better intervals had visited her. She, too, it appeared, felt the waving of the magic wand of spring, and she noted the signs ofit with a joy that was infinitely pathetic. 

"My dear, " she said, "what a beautiful morning! Is it wise to sit outof doors without your hat, Michael? Shall not I go and fetch it for you?No? Then let us sit here and talk. It is spring, is it not? Look how thebirds are collecting twigs for their nests! I wonder how they know thatthe time has come round again. Sweet little birds! How bold and merrythey are. "

She edged her way a little nearer him, so that her shoulder leaned onhis arm. 

"My dear, I wish you were going to nest, too, " she said. "I wonder--doyou think I have been ill-natured and unkind to your Sylvia, and thatmakes her not come to see me now? I do remember being vexed at her fornot wanting to marry you, and perhaps I talked unkindly about her. I amsorry, for my being cross to her will do no good; it will only makeher more unwilling than ever to marry a man who has such an unpleasantmamma. Will she come to see me again, do you think, if I ask her?"

These good hours were too rare in their appearances and swift in theirvanishings to warrant the certainty that she would feel the same thisafternoon, and Michael tried to turn the subject. 

"Ah, we shall have to think about that, mother, " he said. "Look, thereis a quarrel going on between those two sparrows. They both want thesame straw. "

She followed his pointing finger, easily diverted. 

"Oh, I wish they would not quarrel, " she said. "It is so sad and stupidto quarrel, instead of being agreeable and pleasant. I do not like themto do that. There, one has flown away! And see, the crocuses are comingup. Indeed it is spring. I should like to see the country to-day. If youare not busy, Michael, would you take me out into the country? We mightgo to Richmond Park perhaps, for that is in the opposite direction fromAshbridge, and look at the deer and the budding trees. Oh, Michael, might we take lunch with us, and eat it out of doors? I want to enjoy asmuch as I can of this spring day. "

She clung closer to Michael. 

"Everything seems so fragile, dear, " she whispered. "Everything maybreak. . . . Sometimes I am frightened. "

The little expedition was soon moving, after a slight altercationbetween Lady Ashbridge and her nurse, whom she wished to leave behindin order to enjoy Michael's undiluted society. But Miss Baker, who hadalready spoken to Michael, telling him she was not quite happy in hermind about her patient, was firm about accompanying them, though sheobligingly effaced herself as far as possible by taking the box-seat bythe chauffeur as they drove down, and when they arrived, and Michaeland his mother strolled about in the warm sunshine before lunch, keepingcarefully in the background, just ready to come if she was wanted. Butindeed it seemed as if no such precautions were necessary, for never hadLady Ashbridge been more amenable, more blissfully content in her son'scompanionship. The vernal hour, that first smell of the rejuvenatedearth, as it stirred and awoke from its winter sleep had reached herno less than it had reached the springing grass and the heart of buriedbulbs, and never perhaps in all her life had she been happier than onthat balmy morning of early March. Here the stir of spring that hadcrept across miles of smoky houses to the gardens behind Curzon Street, was more actively effervescent, and the "bare, leafless choirs" of thetrees, which had been empty of song all winter, were once more resonantwith feathered worshippers. Through the tussocks of the grey grass oflast year were pricking the vivid shoots of green, and over the groveof young birches and hazel the dim, purple veil of spring hung mistlike. Down by the water-edge of the Penn ponds they strayed, where moor-hensscuttled out of rhododendron bushes that overhung the lake, and hurriedacross the surface of the water, half swimming, half flying, for theshelter of some securer retreat. There, too, they found a plantation ofwillows, already in bud with soft moleskin buttons, and a tortoiseshellbutterfly, evoked by the sun from its hibernation, settled on one of thetwigs, opening and shutting its diapered wings, and spreading them tothe warmth to thaw out the stiffness and inaction of winter. Blackbirdsfluted in the busy thickets, a lark shot up near them soaring andsinging till it became invisible in the luminous air, a suspendedcarol in the blue, and bold male chaffinches, seeking their mates withtwittered songs, fluttered with burr of throbbing wings. All the promiseof spring was there--dim, fragile, but sure, on this day of days, this pearl that emerged from the darkness and the stress of winter, iridescent with the tender colours of the dawning year. 

They lunched in the open motor, Miss Baker again obligingly removingherself to the box seat, and spreading rugs on the grass sat in thesunshine, while Lady Ashbridge talked or silently watched Michael as hesmoked, but always with a smile. The one little note of sadness whichshe had sounded when she said she was frightened lest everything shouldbreak, had not rung again, and yet all day Michael heard it echoingsomewhere dimly behind the song of the wind and the birds, and theshoots of growing trees. It lurked in the thickets, just eluding him, and not presenting itself to his direct gaze; but he felt that he saw itout of the corner of his eye, only to lose it when he looked at it. Andyet for weeks his mother had never seemed so well: the cloud had liftedoff her this morning, and, but for some vague presage of trouble thatsomehow haunted his mind, refusing to be disentangled, he could havebelieved that, after all, medical opinion might be at fault, and that, instead of her passing more deeply into the shadows as he had beenwarned was inevitable, she might at least maintain the level to whichshe had returned to-day. All day she had been as she was before thedarkness and discontent of those last weeks had come upon her: hewho knew her now so well could certainly have affirmed that she hadrecovered the serenity of a month ago. It was so much, so tremendouslymuch that she should do this, and if only she could remain as she hadbeen all day, she would at any rate be happy, happier, perhaps, than shehad consciously been in all the stifled years which had preceded this. Nothing else at the moment seemed to matter except the preservation toher of such content, and how eagerly would he have given all the servicethat his young manhood had to offer, if by that he could keep herfrom going further into the bewildering darkness that he had been toldawaited her. 

There was some little trouble, though no more than the shadow of apassing cloud, when at last he said that they must be getting back totown, for the afternoon was beginning to wane. She besought him for fiveminutes more of sitting here in the sunshine that was still warm, andwhen those minutes were over, she begged for yet another postponement. But then the quiet imposition of his will suddenly conquered her, andshe got up. 

"My dear, you shall do what you like with me, " she said, "for you havegiven me such a happy day. Will you remember that, Michael? It has beena nice day. And might we, do you think, ask Miss Falbe to come to teawith us when we get back? She can but say 'no, ' and if she comes, I willbe very good and not vex her. "

As she got back into the motor she stood up for a moment, her vague blueeyes scanning the sky, the trees, the stretch of sunlit park. 

"Good-bye, lake, happy lake and moor-hens, " she said. "Good-bye, treesand grass that are growing green again. Good-bye, all pretty, peacefulthings. "

Michael had no hesitation in telephoning to Sylvia when they got back totown, asking her if she could come and have tea with his mother, for thegentle, affectionate mood of the morning still lasted, and her eagernessto see Sylvia was only equalled by her eagerness to be agreeable to her. He was greedy, whenever it could be done, to secure a pleasure for hismother, and this one seemed in her present mood a perfectly safe one. Added to that impulse, in itself sufficient, there was his own longingto see her again, that thirst that never left him, and soon after theyhad got back to Curzon Street Sylvia was with them, and, as before, in preparation for a long visit, she had taken off her hat. To-day shedivested herself of it without any suggestion on Lady Ashbridge's part, and this immensely pleased her. 

"Look, Michael, " she said. "Miss Falbe means to stop a long time. Thatis sweet of her, is it not? She is not in such a hurry to get awaytoday. Sugar, Miss Falbe? Yes, I remember you take sugar and milk, butno cream. Well, I do think this is nice!"

Sylvia had seen neither mother nor son for a couple of weeks, and hereyes coming fresh to them noticed much change in them both. In LadyAshbridge this change, though marked, was indefinable enough: she seemedto the girl to have somehow gone much further off than she had beenbefore; she had faded, become indistinct. It was evident that she found, except when she was talking to Michael, a far greater difficulty inexpressing herself, the channels of communication, as it were, weregetting choked. . . . With Michael, the change was easily stated, helooked terribly tired, and it was evident that the strain of these weekswas telling heavily on him. And yet, as Sylvia noticed with a suddensense of personal pride in him, not one jot of his patient tendernessfor his mother was abated. Tired as he was, nervous, on edge, wheneverhe dealt with her, either talking to her, or watching for any littleattention she might need, his face was alert with love. But she noticedthat when the footman brought in tea, and in arranging the cups let aspoon slip jangling from its saucer, Michael jumped as if a bomb hadgone off, and under his breath said to the man, "You clumsy fool!"Little as the incident was, she, knowing Michael's courtesy andpoliteness, found it significant, as bearing on the evidence of histired face. Then, next moment his mother said something to him, andinstantly his love transformed and irradiated it. 

To-day, more than ever before, Lady Ashbridge seemed to exist onlythrough him. As Sylvia knew, she had been for the last few weeksconstantly disagreeable to him; but she wondered whether this exacting, meticulous affection was not harder to bear. Yet Michael, in spite ofthe nervous strain which now showed itself so clearly, seemed to find nodifficulty at all in responding to it. It might have worn his nerves totatters, but the tenderness and love of him passed unhampered throughthe frayed communications, for it was he himself who was brought intoplay. It was of that Michael, now more and more triumphantly revealed, that Sylvia felt so proud, as if he had been a possession, anachievement wholly personal to her. He was her Michael--it was just thatwhich was becoming evident, since nothing else would account for herclaim of him, unconsciously whispered by herself to herself. 

It was not long before Lady Ashbridge's nurse appeared, to take herupstairs to rest. At that her patient became suddenly and unaccountablyagitated: all the happy content of the day was wiped off her mind. Sheclung to Michael. 

"No, no, Michael, " she said, "they mustn't take me away. I know they aregoing to take me away from you altogether. You mustn't leave me. "

Nurse Baker came towards her. 

"Now, my lady, you mustn't behave like that, " she said. "You know youare only going upstairs to rest as usual before dinner. You will seeLord Comber again then. "

She shrank from her, shielding herself behind Michael's shoulder. 

"No, Michael, no!" she repeated. "I'm going to be taken away from you. And look, Miss--ah, my dear, I have forgotten your name--look, she hasgot no hat on. She was going to stop with me a long time. Michael, mustI go?"

Michael saw the nurse looking at her, watching her with that quiet eyeof the trained attendant. 

Then she spoke to Michael. 

"Well, if Lord Comber will just step outside with me, " she said, "we'llsee if we can arrange for you to stop a little longer. "

"And you'll come back, Michael, " said she. 

Michael saw that the nurse wanted to say something to him, and withinfinite gentleness disentangled the clinging of Lady Ashbridge's hand. 

"Why, of course I will, " he said. "And won't you give Miss Falbe anothercup of tea?"

Lady Ashbridge hesitated a moment. 

"Yes, I'll do that, " she said. "And by the time I've done that you willbe back again, won't you?"

Michael followed the nurse from the room, who closed the door withoutshutting it. 

"There's something I don't like about her this evening, " she said. "Allday I have been rather anxious. She must be watched very carefully. NowI want you to get her to come upstairs, and I'll try to make her go tobed. "

Michael felt his mouth go suddenly dry. 

"What do you expect?" he said. 

"I don't expect anything, but we must be prepared. A change comes veryquickly. "

Michael nodded, and they went back together. 

"Now, mother darling, " he said, "up you go with Nurse Baker. You've beenout all day, and you must have a good rest before dinner. Shall I comeup and see you soon?"

A curious, sly look came into Lady Ashbridge's face. 

"Yes, but where am I going to?" she said. "How do I know Nurse Bakerwill take me to my own room?"

"Because I promise you she will, " said Michael. 

That instantly reassured her. Mood after mood, as Michael saw, werepassing like shadows over her mind. 

"Ah, that's enough!" she said. "Good-bye, Miss--there! the name's goneagain! But won't you sit here and have a talk to Michael, and let himshow you over the house to see if you like it against the time--Oh, Michael said I mustn't worry you about that. And won't you stop and havedinner with us, and afterwards we can sing. "

Michael put his arm around her. 

"We'll talk about that while you're resting, " he said. "Don't keep NurseBaker waiting any longer, mother. "

She nodded and smiled. 

"No, no; mustn't keep anybody waiting, " she said. "Your father taught meto be punctual. "

When they had left the room together, Sylvia turned to Michael. 

"Michael, my dear, " she said, "I think you are--well, I think you areMichael. "

She saw that at the moment he was not thinking of her at all, and herheart honoured him for that. 

"I'm anxious about my mother to-night, " he said. "She has been so--Isuppose you must call it--well all day, but the nurse isn't easy abouther. "

Suddenly all his fears and his fatigue and his trouble looked out of hiseyes. 

"I'm frightened, " he said, "and it's so unutterably feeble of me. AndI'm tired: you don't know how tired, and try as I may I feel that allthe time it is no use. My mother is slipping, slipping away. "

"But, my dear, no wonder you are tired, " she said. "Michael, can'tanybody help? It isn't right you should do everything. "

He shook his head, smiling. 

"They can't help, " he said. "I'm the only person who can help her. AndI--"

He stood up, bracing mind and body. 

"And I'm so brutally proud of it, " he said. "She wants me. Well, that'sa lot for a son to be able to say. Sylvia, I would give anything to keepher. "

Still he was not thinking of her, and knowing that, she came closeto him and put her arm in his. She longed to give him some feeling ofcomradeship. She could be sisterly to him over this without suggestingto him what she could not be to him. Her instinct had divined right, and she felt the answering pressure of his elbow that acknowledged hersympathy, welcomed it, and thought no more about it. 

"You are giving everything to keep her, " she said. "You are givingyourself. What further gift is there, Michael?"

He kept her arm close pressed by him, and she knew by the frankness ofthat holding caress he was thinking of her still either not at all, or, she hoped, as a comrade who could perhaps be of assistance to courageand clear-sightedness in difficult hours. She wanted to be no more thanthat to him just now; it was the most she could do for him, but witha desire, the most acute she had ever felt for him, she wanted him toaccept that--to take her comradeship as he would have surely taken herbrother's. Once, in the last intimate moments they had had together, hehad refused to accept that attitude from her--had felt it a relationshipaltogether impossible. She had seen his point of view, and recognisedthe justice of the embarrassment. Now, very simply but very eagerly, she hoped, as with some tugging strain, that he would not reject it. Sheknew she had missed this brother, who had refused to be brother to her. But he had been about his own business, and he had been doing his ownbusiness, with a quiet splendour that drew her eyes to him, and as theystood there, thus linked, she wondered if her heart was following. . . . She had seen, last December, how reasonable it was of him to refuse thisdomestic sort of intimacy with her; now, she found herself intenselylonging that he would not persist in his refusal. 

Suddenly Michael awoke to the fact of her presence, and abruptly hemoved away from her. 

"Thanks, Sylvia, " he said. "I know I have your--your good wishes. But--well, I am sure you understand. "

She understood perfectly well. And the understanding of it cut her tothe quick. 

"Have you got any right to behave like that to me, Michael?" she asked. "What have I done that you should treat me quite like that?"

He looked at her, completely recalled in mind to her alone. All thehopes and desires of the autumn smote him with encompassing blows. 

"Yes, every right, " he said. "I wasn't heeding you. I only thought of mymother, and the fact that there was a very dear friend by me. And then Icame to myself: I remembered who the friend was. "

They stood there in silence, apart, for a moment. Then Michael camecloser. The desire for human sympathy, and that the sympathy he mostlonged for, gripped him again. 

"I'm a brute, " he said. "It was awfully nice of you to--to offer methat. I accept it so gladly. I'm wretchedly anxious. "

He looked up at her. 

"Take my arm again, " he said. 

She felt the crook of his elbow tighten again on her wrist. She had notknown before how much she prized that. 

"But are you sure you are right in being anxious, Mike?" she asked. "Isn't it perhaps your own tired nerves that make you anxious?"

"I don't think so, " he said. "I've been tired a long time, you see, and I never felt about my mother like this. She has been so bright andcontent all day, and yet there were little lapses, if you understand. It was as if she knew: she said good-bye to the lake and the jollymoor-hens and the grass. And her nurse thinks so, too. She called me outof the room just now to tell me that. . . . I don't know why I shouldtell you these depressing things. "

"Don't you?" she asked. "But I do. It's because you know I care. Otherwise you wouldn't tell me: you couldn't. "

For a moment the balance quavered in his mind between Sylvia the belovedand Sylvia the friend. It inclined to the friend. 

"Yes, that's why, " he said. "And I reproach myself, you know. All theseyears I might, if I had tried harder, have been something to my mother. I might have managed it. I thought--at least I felt--that she didn'tencourage me. But I was a beast to have been discouraged. And now herwanting me has come just when it isn't her unclouded self that wants me. It's as if--as if it had been raining all day, and just on sunset therecomes a gleam in the west. And so soon after it's night. "

"You made the gleam, " said Sylvia. 

"But so late; so awfully late. "

Suddenly he stood stiff, listening to some sound which at presentshe did not hear. It sounded a little louder, and her ears caught therunning of footsteps on the stairs outside. Next moment the door opened, and Lady Ashbridge's maid put in a pale face. 

"Will you go to her ladyship, my lord?" she said. "Her nurse wants you. She told me to telephone to Sir James. "

Sylvia moved with him, not disengaging her arm, towards the door. 

"Michael, may I wait?" she said. "You might want me, you know. Pleaselet me wait. "

Lady Ashbridge's room was on the floor above, and Michael ran up theintervening stairs three at a time. He knocked and entered and wonderedwhy he had been sent for, for she was sitting quietly on her sofa nearthe window. But he noticed that Nurse Baker stood very close to her. Otherwise there was nothing that was in any way out of the ordinary. 

"And here he is, " said the nurse reassuringly as he entered. 

Lady Ashbridge turned towards the door as Michael came in, and when hemet her eyes he knew why he had been sent for, why at this moment SirJames was being summoned. For she looked at him not with the cloudedeyes of affection, not with the mother-spirit striving to breakthrough the shrouding trouble of her brain, but with eyes of blanknon-recognition. She saw him with the bodily organs of her vision, but the picture of him was conveyed no further: there was a blank wallbehind her eyes. 

Michael did not hesitate. It was possible that he still might besomething to her, that he, his presence, might penetrate. 

"But you are not resting, mother, " he said. "Why are you sitting up? Icame to talk to you, as I said I would, while you rested. "

Suddenly into those blank, irresponsive eyes there leaped recognition. He saw the pupils contract as they focused themselves on him, and handin hand with recognition there leaped into them hate. Instantly thatwas veiled again. But it had been there, and now it was not banished; itlurked behind in the shadows, crouching and waiting. 

She answered him at once, but in a voice that was quite toneless. Itseemed like that of a child repeating a lesson which it had learned byheart, and could be pronounced while it was thinking of something quitedifferent. 

"I was waiting till you came, my dear, " she said. "Now I will lie down. Come and sit by me, Michael. "

She watched him narrowly while she spoke, then gave a quick glance ather nurse, as if to see that they were not making signals to each other. There was an easy chair just behind her head, and as Michael wheeled itup near her sofa, he looked at the nurse. She moved her hand slightlytowards the left, and interpreting this, he moved the chair a little tothe left, so that he would not sit, as he had intended, quite close tothe sofa. 

"And you enjoyed your day in the country, mother?" asked Michael. 

She looked at him sideways and slowly. Then again, as if recollecting atask she had committed to memory, she answered. 

"Yes, so much, " she said. "All the trees and the birds and the sunshine. I enjoyed them so much. "

She paused a moment. 

"Bring your chair a little closer, my darling, " she said. "You are sofar off. And why do you wait, nurse? I will call you if I want you. "

Michael felt one moment of sickening spiritual terror. He understoodquite plainly why Nurse Baker did not want him to go near to his mother, and the reason of it gave him this pang, not of nervousness but of blackhorror, that the sane and the sensitive must always feel when they arebrought intimately in contact with some blind derangement of instinct inthose most nearly allied to them. Physically, on the material plane, hehad no fear at all. 

He made a movement, grasping the arm of his chair, as if to wheel itcloser, but he came actually no nearer her. 

"Why don't you go away, nurse?" said Lady Ashbridge, "and leave my sonand me to talk about our nice day in the country?"

Nurse Baker answered quite naturally. 

"I want to talk, too, my lady, " she said. "I went with you and LordComber. We all enjoyed it together. "

It seemed to Michael that his mother made some violent effort towardsself-control. He saw one of her hands that were lying on her knee clenchitself, so that the knuckles stood out white. 

"Yes, we will all talk together, then, " she said. "Or--er--shall I havea little doze first? I am rather sleepy with so much pleasant air. Andyou are sleepy, too, are you not, Michael? Yes, I see you look sleepy. Shall we have a little nap, as I often do after tea? Then, when I amfresh again, you shall come back, nurse, and we will talk over ourpleasant day. "

When he entered the room, Michael had not quite closed the door, andnow, as half an hour before, he heard steps on the stairs. A momentafterwards his mother heard them too. 

"What is that?" she said. "Who is coming now to disturb me, just when Iwanted to have a nap?"

There came a knock at the door. Nurse Baker did not move her head, butcontinued watching her patient, with hands ready to act. 

"Come in, " she said, not looking round. 

Lady Ashbridge's face was towards the door. As Sir James entered, shesuddenly sprang up, and in her right hand that lay beside her was aknife, which she had no doubt taken from the tea-table when she cameupstairs. She turned swiftly towards Michael, and stabbed at him withit. 

"It's a trap, " she cried. "You've led me into a trap. They are going totake me away. "

Michael had thrown up his arm to shield his head. The blow fell betweenshoulder and elbow, and he felt the edge of the knife grate on his bone. 

And from deep in his heart sprang the leaping fountains of compassionand love and yearning pity. 

CHAPTER XII

Michael was sitting in the big studio at the Falbes' house lateone afternoon at the end of June, and the warmth and murmur of thefull-blown summer filled the air. The day had so far declined that therays of the sun, level in its setting, poured slantingly in throughthe big window to the north, and shining through the foliage of theplane-trees outside made a diaper of rosy illuminated spots and angledshadows on the whitewashed wall. As the leaves stirred in the eveningbreeze, this pattern shifted and twinkled; now, as the wind blew aside abunch of foliage, a lake of rosy gold would spring up on the wall; then, as the breath of movement died, the green shadows grew thicker againfaintly stirring. Through the window to the south, which Hermann hadcaused to be cut there, since the studio was not used for paintingpurposes, Michael could see into the patch of high-walled garden, whereMrs. Falbe was sitting in a low basket chair, completely absorbed in abook of high-born and ludicrous adventures. She had made a mild attemptwhen she found that Michael intended to wait for Sylvia's return toentertain him till she came; but, with a little oblique encouragement, remarking on the beauty and warmth of the evening, and the pleasure ofsitting out of doors, Michael had induced her to go out again, and leavehim alone in the studio, free to live over again that which, twenty-fourhours ago, had changed life for him. 

He reconstructed it as he sat on the sofa and dwelt on the pearl-momentsof it. Just this time yesterday he had come in and found Sylvia alone. She had got up, he remembered, to give him greeting, and just oppositethe fireplace they had come face to face. She held in her hand a smallwhite rose which she had plucked in the tiny garden here in the middleof London. It was not a very fine specimen, but it was a rose, and shehad said in answer to his depreciatory glance: "But you must see it whenI have washed it. One has to wash London flowers. "

Then . . . The miracle happened. Michael, with the hand that had justtaken hers, stroked a petal of this prized vegetable, with no thought inhis mind stronger than the thoughts that had been indigenous there sinceChristmas. As his finger first touched the rim of the town-bred petals, undersized yet not quite lacking in "rose-quality, " he had intendednothing more than to salute the flower, as Sylvia made her apology forit. "One has to wash London flowers. " But as he touched it he lookedup at her, and the quiet, usual song of his thoughts towards her grewsuddenly loud and stupefyingly sweet. It was as if from the vacanthive-door the bees swarmed. In her eyes, as they met his, he thoughthe saw an expectancy, a welcome, and his hand, instead of stroking therose-petals, closed on the rose and on the hand that held it, and keptthem close imprisoned and strongly gripped. He could not remember if hehad spoken any word, but he had seen that in her face which rendered allspeech unnecessary, and, knowing in the bones and the blood of him thathe was right, he kissed her. And then she had said, "Yes, Michael. "

His hand still was tight on hers that held the crumpled rose, and whenhe opened it, lover-like, to stroke and kiss it, there was a spot ofblood in the palm of it, where a rose-thorn had pricked her, just onedrop of Sylvia's blood. As he kissed it, he had wiped it away withthe tip of his tongue between his lips, and she smiling had said, "Oh, Michael, how silly!"

They had sat together on the sofa where this afternoon he sat alonewaiting for her. Every moment of that half hour was as distinct as theoutline of trees and hills just before a storm, and yet it was stillentirely dream-like. He knew it had happened, for nothing but thehappening of it would account now for the fact of himself; but, thoughthere was nothing in the world so true, there was nothing so incredible. Yet it was all as clean-cut in his mind as etched lines, and roundeach line sprang flowers and singing birds. For a long space there wassilence after they had sat down, and then she said, "I think I alwaysloved you, Michael, only I didn't know it. . . . " Thereafter, foolishlove talk: he had claimed a superiority there, for he had always lovedher and had always known it. Much time had been wasted owing to herignorance . . . She ought to have known. But all the time that existedwas theirs now. In all the world there was no more time than what theyhad. The crumpled rose had its petals rehabilitated, the thorn that hadpricked her was peeled off. They wondered if Hermann had come in yet. Then, by some vague process of locomotion, they found themselves atthe piano, and with her arm around his neck Sylvia has whispered half averse of the song of herself. . . . 

They became a little more definite over lover-confessions. Michael had, so to speak, nothing to confess: he had loved all along--he had wantedher all along; there never had been the least pretence or nonsense aboutit. Her path was a little more difficult to trace, but once it had beentraversed it was clear enough. She had liked him always; she had feltsister-like from the moment when Hermann brought him to the house, andsister-like she had continued to feel, even when Michael had definitelydeclared there was "no thoroughfare" there. She had missed thatrelationship when it stopped: she did not mind telling him that now, since it was abandoned by them both; but not for the world would shehave confessed before that she had missed it. She had loved being askedto come and see his mother, and it was during those visits that she hadhelped to pile the barricade across the "sister-thoroughfare" with herown hands. She began to share Michael's sense of the impossibility ofthat road. They could not walk down it together, for they had to beeither more or less to each other than that. And, during these visits, she had begun to understand (and her face a little hid itself) whatMichael's love meant. She saw it manifested towards his mother; she wastaught by it; she learned it; and, she supposed, she loved it. Anyhow, having seen it, she could not want Michael as a brother any longer, andif he still wanted anything else, she supposed (so she supposed) thatsome time he would mention that fact. Yes: she began to hope that hewould not be very long about it. . . . 

Michael went over this very deliberately as he sat waiting for hertwenty-four hours later. He rehearsed this moment and that over and overagain: in mind he followed himself and Sylvia across to the piano, nothurrying their steps, and going through the verse of the song shesang at the pace at which she actually sang it. And, as he dreamed andrecollected, he heard a little stir in the quiet house, and Sylvia came. 

They met just as they met yesterday in front of the fireplace. 

"Oh, Michael, have you been waiting long?" she said. 

"Yes, hours, or perhaps a couple of minutes. I don't know. "

"Ah, but which? If hours, I shall apologise, and then excuse myself bysaying that you must have come earlier than you intended. If minutes Ishall praise myself for being so exceedingly punctual. "

"Minutes, then, " said he. "I'll praise you instead. Praise is moreconvincing if somebody else does it. "

"Yes, but you aren't somebody else. Now be sensible. Have you done allthe things you told me you were going to do?"

"Yes. "

Sylvia released her hands from his. 

"Tell me, then, " she said. "You've seen your father?"

There was no cloud on Michael's face. There was such sunlight where hissoul sat that no shadow could fall across it. 

"Oh, yes, I saw him, " he said. 

He captured Sylvia's hand again. 

"And what is more he saw me, so to speak, " he said. "He realised that Ihad an existence independent of him. I used to be a--a sort of clock tohim; he could put its hands to point to any hour he chose. Well, he hasrealised--he has really--that I am ticking along on my own account. He was quite respectful, not only to me, which doesn't matter, but toyou--which does. " Michael laughed, as he plaited his fingers in withhers. 

"My father is so comic, " he said, "and unlike most great humourists hishumour is absolutely unconscious. He was perfectly well aware that Imeant to marry you, for I told him that last Christmas, adding that youdid not mean to marry me. So since then I think he's got used to you. Used to you--fancy getting used to you!"

"Especially since he had never seen me, " said the girl. 

"That makes it less odd. Getting used to you after seeing you would bemuch more incredible. I was saying that in a way he had got used toyou, just as he's got used to my being a person, and not a clock on hischimney-piece, and what seems to have made so much difference is whatAunt Barbara told him last night, namely, that your mother was a Tracy. Sylvia, don't let it be too much for you, but in a certain far-awaymanner he realises that you are 'one of us. ' Isn't he a comic? He'sgoing to make the best of you, it appears. To make the best of you! Youcan't beat that, you know. In fact, he told me to ask if he might comeand pay his respects to your mother to-morrow. 

"And what about my singing, my career?" she asked. 

Michael laughed again. 

"He was funny about that also, " he said. "My father took it absolutelyfor granted that having made this tremendous social advance, youwould bury your past, all but the Tracy part of it, as if it hadbeen something disgraceful which the exalted Comber family agreed tooverlook. "

"And what did you say?"

"I? Oh, I told him that, of course, you would do as you pleased aboutthat, but that for my part I should urge you most strongly to do nothingof the kind. "

"And he?"

"He got four inches taller. What is so odd is that as long as I neveropposed my father's wishes, as long as I was the clock on the chimneypiece, I was terrified at him. The thought of opposing myself to himmade my knees quake. But the moment I began doing so, I found there wasnothing to be frightened at. "

Sylvia got up and began walking up and down the long room. 

"But what am I to do about it, Michael?" she asked. "Oh, I blush whenI think of a conversation I had with Hermann about you, just beforeChristmas, when I knew you were going to propose to me. I said that Icould never give up my singing. Can you picture the self-importance ofthat? Why, it doesn't seem to me to matter two straws whether I door not. Naturally, I don't want to earn my living by it any more, butwhether I sing or not doesn't matter. And even as the words are in mymouth I try to imagine myself not singing any more, and I can't. It'sbecome part of me, and while I blush to think of what I said to Hermann, I wonder whether it's not true. "

She came and sat down by him again. 

"I believe you have got enough artistic instinct to understand that, Michael, " she said, "and to know what a tremendous help it is to one'sart to be a professional, and to be judged seriously. I suppose that, ideally, if one loves music as I do one ought to be able to do one'svery best, whether one is singing professionally or not, but itis hardly possible. Why, the whole difference between amateurs andprofessionals is that amateurs sing charmingly and professionals justsing. Only they sing as well as they possibly can, not only because theylove it, but because if they don't they will be dropped on to, and ifthey continue not singing their best, will lose their place which theyhave so hardly won. I can see myself, perhaps, not singing at all, literally never opening my lips in song again, but I can't see myselfcoming down to the Drill Hall at Brixton, extremely beautifullydressed, with rows of pearls, and arriving rather late, and just singingcharmingly. It's such a spur to know that serious musicians judge one'sperformance by the highest possible standard. It's so relaxing to thinkthat one can easily sing well enough, that one can delight ninety-ninehundredths of the audience without any real effort. I could sing 'TheLost Chord' and move the whole Drill Hall at Brixton to tears. But theremight be one man there who knew, you or Hermann or some other, and atthe end he would just shrug his shoulders ever so slightly, and I wouldwish I had never been born. "

She paused a moment. 

"I'll not sing any more at all, ever, " she said, "or I must sing tothose who will take me seriously and judge me ruthlessly. To sing justwell enough to please isn't possible. I'll do either you like. "

Mrs. Falbe strayed in at this moment with her finger in her book, butotherwise as purposeless as a wandering mist. 

"I was afraid it might be going to get chilly, " she remarked. "After ahot day there is often a cool evening. Will you stop and dine, Lord--Imean, Michael?"

"Please; certainly!" said Michael. 

"Then I hope there will be something for you to eat. Sylvia, is theresomething to eat? No doubt you will see to that, darling. I shall justrest upstairs for a little before dinner, and perhaps finish my book. Sopleased you are stopping. "

She drifted towards the studio door, in thistledown fashion catching atcorners a little, and then moving smoothly on again, talking gently halfto herself, half to the others. 

"And Hermann's not in yet, but if Lord--I mean, Michael, is going tostop here till dinnertime, it won't matter whether Hermann comes in intime to dress or not, as Michael is not dressed either. Oh, there is thepostman's knock! What a noise! I am not expecting any letters. "

The knock in question, however, proved to be Hermann, who, as wasgenerally the case, had forgotten his latchkey. He ran into his motherat the studio door, and came and sat down, regardless of whether he waswanted or not, between the two on the sofa, and took an arm of each. 

"I probably intrude, " he said, "but such is my intention. I've just seenLady Barbara, who says that the shock has not been too much for Mike'sfather. That is a good thing; she says he is taking nourishment much asusual. I suppose I oughtn't to jest on so serious a subject, but Itook my cue from Lady Barbara. It appears that we have blue blood too, Sylvia, and we must behave more like aristocrats. A Tracy in the timeof King John flirted, if no more, with a Comber. And what about yourcareer, Sylvia? Are you going to continue to urge your wild career, or not? I ask with a purpose, as Blackiston proposes we should give aconcert together in the third week in July. The Queen's Hall is vacantone afternoon, and he thinks we might sing and play to them. I'm on ifyou are. It will be about the last concert of the season, too, so weshall have to do our best. Otherwise we, or I, anyhow, will start againin the autumn with a black mark. By the way, are you going to startagain in the autumn? It wouldn't surprise me one bit to hear that youand Mike had been talking about just that. "

"Don't be too clever to live, Hermann, " said Sylvia. 

"I don't propose to die, if you mean that. Oh, Blackiston had anothersuggestion also. He wanted to know if we would consider making a shorttour in Germany in the autumn. He says that the beloved Fatherland israther disposed to be interested in us. He thinks we should havegood audiences at Leipzig, and so on. There's a tendency, he says, torecognise poor England, a cordial intention, anyhow. I said that in yourcase there might be domestic considerations which--But I think I shallgo in any case. Lord, fancy playing in Germany to Germans again. Fancybeing listened to by a German audience; fancy if they approved. "

Michael leaned forward, putting his elbow into Hermann's chest. EarlyDecember had already been mentioned as a date for their marriage, and asa pre-nuptial journey, this seemed to him a plan ecstatically ideal. 

"Yes, Sylvia, " he said. "The answer is yes. I shall come with you, youknow. I can see it; a triumphal procession, you two making noises, andme listening. A month's tour, Hermann. Middle of October till middle ofNovember. Yes, yes. "

All his tremendous pride in her singing, dormant for the moment underthe wonder of his love, rose to the surface. He knew what her singingmeant to her, and, from their conversation together just now, how keenwas her eagerness for the strict judgment of those who knew, how sheloved that austere pinnacle of daylight. Here was an ideal opportunity;never yet, since she had won her place as a singer, had she sung inGermany, that Mecca of the musical artist, and in her case, the landfrom which she sprung. Had the scheme implied a postponement of theirmarriage, he would still have declared himself for it, for he unerringlyfelt for her in this; he knew intuitively what delicious beckoning thisheld for her. 

"Yes, yes, " he repeated, "I must have you do that, Sylvia. I don't carewhat Hermann wants or what you want. I want it. "

"Yes, but who's to do the playing and the singing?" asked Hermann. "Isn't it a question, perhaps, for--"

Michael felt quite secure about the feelings of the other two, andrudely interrupted. 

"No, " he said. "It's a question for me. When the Fatherland hears thatI am there it will no doubt ask me to play and sing instead of you two. Lord! Fancy marrying into such a distinguished family. I burst withpride!"

It required, then, little debate, since all three were agreed, beforeHermann was empowered with authority to make arrangements, and theyremained simultaneously talking till Mrs. Falbe, again drifting in, announced that the bell for dinner had sounded some minutes before. Shehad her finger in the last chapter of "Lady Ursula's Ordeal, " and laidit face downwards on the table to resume again at the earliest possiblemoment. This opportunity was granted her when, at the close of dinner, coffee and the evening paper came in together. This Hermann opened atthe middle page. 

"Hallo!" he said. "That's horrible! The Heir Apparent of the AustrianEmperor has been murdered at Serajevo. Servian plot, apparently. "

"Oh, what a dreadful thing, " said Mrs. Falbe, opening her book. "Poorman, what had he done?"

Hermann took a cigarette, frowning. 

"It may be a match--" he began. 

Mrs. Falbe diverted her attention from "Lady Ursula" for a moment. 

"They are on the chimney-piece, dear, " she said, thinking he spoke ofmaterial matches. 

Michael felt that Hermann saw something, or conjectured somethingominous in this news, for he sat with knitted brow reading, and lettingthe match burn down. 

"Yes; it seems that Servian officers are implicated, " he said. "Andthere are materials enough already for a row between Austria and Serviawithout this. "

"Those tiresome Balkan States, " said Mrs. Falbe, slowly immersingherself like a diving submarine in her book. "They are alwaysquarrelling. Why doesn't Austria conquer them all and have done withit?"

This simple and striking solution of the whole Balkan question washer final contribution to the topic, for at this moment she becamecompletely submerged, and cut off, so to speak, from the outer world, inthe lucent depths of Lady Ursula. 

Hermann glanced through the other pages, and let the paper slide to thefloor. 

"What will Austria do?" he said. "Supposing she threatens Servia in someoutrageous way and Russia says she won't stand it? What then?"

Michael looked across to Sylvia; he was much more interested in the wayshe dabbled the tips of her hands in the cool water of her finger bowlthan in what Hermann was saying. Her fingers had an extraordinary lifeof their own; just now they were like a group of maidens by a fountain. . . . But Hermann repeated the question to him personally. 

"Oh, I suppose there will be a lot of telegraphing, " he said, "andperhaps a board of arbitration. After all, one expected a Europeanconflagration over the war in the Balkan States, and again over theirrow with Turkey. I don't believe in European conflagrations. We are alltoo much afraid of each other. We walk round each other like collie dogson the tips of their toes, gently growling, and then quietly get back toour own territories and lie down again. "

Hermann laughed. 

"Thank God, there's that wonderful fire-engine in Germany ready to turnthe hose on conflagrations. "

"What fire-engine?" asked Michael. 

"The Emperor, of course. We should have been at war ten times over butfor him. "

Sylvia dried her finger-tips one by one. 

"Lady Barbara doesn't quite take that view of him, does she, Mike?" sheasked. 

Michael suddenly remembered how one night in the flat Aunt Barbara hadsuddenly turned the conversation from the discussion of cognate topics, on hearing that the Falbes were Germans, only to resume it again whenthey had gone. 

"I don't fancy she does, " he said. "But then, as you know, Aunt Barbarahas original views on every subject. "

Hermann did not take the possible hint here conveyed to drop the matter. 

"Well, then, what do you think about him?" he asked. 

Michael laughed. 

"My dear Hermann, " he said, "how often have you told me that we Englishdon't pay the smallest attention to international politics. I am awarethat I don't; I know nothing whatever about them. "

Hermann shook off the cloud of preoccupation that so unaccountably, to Michael's thinking, had descended on him, and walked across to thewindow. 

"Well, long may ignorance be bliss, " he said. "Lord, what a divineevening! 'Uber allen gipfeln ist Ruhe. ' At least, there is peace on theonly summits visible, which are house roofs. There's not a breath ofwind in the trees and chimney-pots; and it's hot, it's really hot. "

"I was afraid there was going to be a chill at sunset, " remarked Mrs. Falbe subaqueously. 

"Then you were afraid even where no fear was, mother darling, " said he, "and if you would like to sit out in the garden I'll take a chair outfor you, and a table and candles. Let's all sit out; it's a divine hour, this hour after sunset. There are but a score of days in the whole yearwhen the hour after sunset is warm like this. It's such a pity towaste one indoors. The young people"--and he pointed to Sylvia andMichael--"will gaze into each other's hearts, and Mamma's will beat inunison with Lady Ursula's, and I will sit and look at the sky and becomeprofoundly sentimental, like a good German. "

Hermann and Michael bestirred themselves, and presently the whole littleparty had encamped on chairs placed in an oasis of rugs (this was doneat the special request of Mrs. Falbe, since Lady Ursula had caught achill that developed into consumption) in the small, high-walled garden. Beyond at the bottom lay the road along the embankment and the grey-blueThames, and the dim woods of Battersea Park across the river. When theycame out, sparrows were still chirping in the ivy on the studio walland in the tall angle-leaved planes at the bottom of the little plot, discussing, no doubt, the domestic arrangements for their comfortduring the night. But presently a sudden hush fell upon them, and theirshrillness was sharp no more against the drowsy hum of the city. Thesky overhead was of veiled blue, growing gradually more toneless as thelight faded, and was unflecked by any cloud, except where, high in thezenith, a fleece of rosy vapour still caught the light of the sunkensun, and flamed with the soft radiance of some snow-summit. Near itthere burned a molten planet, growing momentarily brighter as the nightgathered and presently beginning to be dimmed again as a tawny moonthree days past the full rose in the east above the low river horizon. Occasionally a steamer hooted from the Thames and the noise of churnedwaters sounded, or the crunch of a motor's wheels, or the tapping ofthe heels of a foot passenger on the pavement below the garden wall. Butsuch evidence of outside seemed but to accentuate the perfect peace ofthis secluded little garden where the four sat: the hour and the placewere cut off from all turmoil and activities: for a moment the streamof all their lives had flowed into a backwater, where it rested immobilebefore the travel that was yet to come. So it seemed to Michael then, and so years afterwards it seemed to him, as vividly as on this eveningwhen the tawny moon grew golden as it climbed the empty heavens, dimmingthe stars around it. 

What they talked of, even though it was Sylvia who spoke, seemedexternal to the spirit of the hour. They seemed to have reached a point, some momentary halting-place, where speech and thought even lay outside, and the need of the spirit was merely to exist and be conscious ofits existence. Sometimes for a moment his past life with itsself-repression, its mute yearnings, its chrysalis stirrings, formed amist that dispersed again, sometimes for a moment in wonder at whatthe future held, what joys and troubles, what achings, perhaps, andanguishes, the unknown knocked stealthily at the door of his mind, butthen stole away unanswered and unwelcome, and for that hour, while Mrs. Falbe finished with Lady Ursula, while Hermann smoked and sighed like asentimental German, and while he and Sylvia sat, speaking occasionally, but more often silent, he was in some kind of Nirvana for which its ownexistence was everything. Movement had ceased: he held his breath whilethat divine pause lasted. 

When it was broken, there was no shattering of it: it simply died awaylike a long-drawn chord as Mrs. Falbe closed her book. 

"She died, " she said, "I knew she would. "

Hermann gave a great shout of laughter. 

"Darling mother, I'm ever so much obliged, " he said. "We had to returnto earth somehow. Where has everybody else been?"

Michael stirred in his chair. 

"I've been here, " he said. 

"How dull! Oh, I suppose that's not polite to Sylvia. I've been inLeipzig and in Frankfort and in Munich. You and Sylvia have been there, too, I may tell you. But I've also been here: it's jolly here. "

His sentimentalism had apparently not quite passed from him. 

"Ah, we've stolen this hour!" he said. "We've taken it out of thehurly-burly and had it to ourselves. It's been ripping. But I'm backfrom the rim of the world. Oh, I've been there, too, and looked out overthe immortal sea. Lieber Gott, what a sea, where we all come from, andwhere we all go to! We're just playing on the sand where the waves havecast us up for one little hour. Oh, the pleasant warm sand and the play!How I love it. "

He got out of his chair stretching himself, as Mrs. Falbe passed intothe house, and gave a hand on each side to Michael and Sylvia. 

"Ah, it was a good thing I just caught that train at Victoria nearlya year ago, " he said. "If I had been five seconds later, I should havemissed it, and so I should have missed my friend, and Sylvia would havemissed hers, and Mike would have missed his. As it is, here we all are. Behold the last remnant of my German sentimentality evaporates, but I amfilled with a German desire for beer. Let us come into the studio, liebeKinder, and have beer and music and laughter. We cannot recapture thishour or prolong it. But it was good, oh, so good! I thank God for thishour. "

Sylvia put her hand on her brother's arm, looking at him with just ashade of anxiety. 

"Nothing wrong, Hermann?" she asked. 

"Wrong? There is nothing wrong unless it is wrong to be happy. But wehave to go forward: my only quarrel with life is that. I would stop itnow if I could, so that time should not run on, and we should stay justas we are. Ah, what does the future hold? I am glad I do not know. "

Sylvia laughed. 

"The immediate future holds beer apparently, " she said. "It also holda great deal of work for you and me, if it is to hold Leipzig andFrankfort and Munich. Oh, Hermann, what glorious days!"

They walked together into the studio, and as they entered Hermann lookedback over her into the dim garden. Then he pulled down the blind with arattle. 

"'Move on there!' said the policeman, " he remarked. "And so they movedon. "

The news about the murder of the Austrian Grand Duke, which, for thatmoment at dinner, had caused Hermann to peer with apprehension into theveil of the future, was taken quietly enough by the public in general inEngland. It was a nasty incident, no doubt, and the murder having beencommitted on Servian soil, the pundits of the Press gave themselvesan opportunity for subsequently saying that they were right, byconjecturing that Austria might insist on a strict inquiry into thecircumstances, and the due punishment of not only the actual culpritsbut of those also who perhaps were privy to the plot. But three daysafterwards there was but little uneasiness; the Stock Exchanges ofthe European capitals--those highly sensitive barometers of comingstorm--were but slightly affected for the moment, and within a weekhad steadied themselves again. From Austria there came no sign of anyunreasonable demand which might lead to trouble with Servia, and so withSlavonic feeling generally, and by degrees that threatening of storm, that sudden lightning on the horizon passed out of the mind of thepublic. There had been that one flash, no more, and even that had notbeen answered by any growl of thunder; the storm did not at once moveup and the heavens above were still clear and sunny by day, andstarry-kirtled at night. But here and there were those who, like Hermannon the first announcement of the catastrophe, scented trouble, andMichael, going to see Aunt Barbara one afternoon early in the secondweek of July, found that she was one of them. 

"I distrust it all, my dear, " she said to him. "I am full of uneasiness. And what makes me more uneasy is that they are taking it so quietlyat the Austrian Embassy and at the German. I dined at one Embassylast night and at the other only a few nights ago, and I can't getanybody--not even the most indiscreet of the Secretaries--to say a wordabout it. "

"But perhaps there isn't a word to be said, " suggested Michael. 

"I can't believe that. Austria cannot possibly let an incident of thatsort pass. There is mischief brewing. If she was merely intending toinsist--as she has every right to do--on an inquiry being held thatshould satisfy reasonable demands for justice, she would have insistedon that long ago. But a fortnight has passed now, and still she makesno sign. I feel sure that something is being arranged. Dear me, I quiteforgot, Tony asked me not to talk about it. But it doesn't matter withyou. "

"But what do you mean by something being arranged?" asked Michael. 

She looked round as if to assure herself that she and Michael werealone. 

"I mean this: that Austria is being persuaded to make some outrageousdemand, some demand that no independent country could possibly grant. "

"But who is persuading her?" asked Michael. 

"My dear, you--like all the rest of England--are fast asleep. Who butGermany, and that dangerous monomaniac who rules Germany? She has longbeen wanting war, and she has only been delaying the dawning of Der Tag, till all her preparations were complete, and she was ready to hurl herarmies, and her fleet too, east and west and north. Mark my words! Sheis about ready now, and I believe she is going to take advantage of heropportunity. "

She leaned forward in her chair. 

"It is such an opportunity as has never occurred before, " she said, "andin a hundred years none so fit may occur again. Here are we--England--onthe brink of civil war with Ireland and the Home Rulers; our hands aretied, or, rather, are occupied with our own troubles. Anyhow, Germanythinks so: that I know for a fact among so much that is only conjecture. And perhaps she is right. Who knows whether she may not be right, andthat if she forces on war whether we shall range ourselves with ourallies?"

Michael laughed. 

"But aren't you piling up a European conflagration rather in a hurry, Aunt Barbara?" he asked. 

"There will be hurry enough for us, for France and Russia and perhapsEngland, but not for Germany. She is never in a hurry: she waits tillshe is ready. "

A servant brought in tea and Lady Barbara waited till he had left theroom again. 

"It is as simple as an addition sum, " she said, "if you grant the firststep, that Austria is going to make some outrageous demand ofServia. What follows? Servia refuses that demand, and Austria beginsmobilisation in order to enforce it. Servia appeals to Russia, invokes the bond of blood, and Russia remonstrates with Austria. Herrepresentations will be of no use: you may stake all you have on that;and eventually, since she will be unable to draw back she, too, willbegin in her slow, cumbrous manner, hampered by those immense distancesand her imperfect railway system, to mobilise also. Then will Germany, already quite prepared, show her hand. She will demand that Russia shallcease mobilisation, and again will Russia refuse. That will set themilitary machinery of France going. All the time the governments ofEurope will be working for peace, all, that is, except one, which issituated at Berlin. "

Michael felt inclined to laugh at this rapid and disastrous sequence ofominous forebodings; it was so completely characteristic of Aunt Barbarato take the most violent possible view of the situation, which no doubthad its dangers. And what Michael felt was felt by the enormous majorityof English people. 

"Dear Aunt Barbara, you do get on quick, " he said. 

"It will happen quickly, " she said. "There is that little cloud in theeast like a man's hand today, and rather like that mailed fist whichour sweet peaceful friend in Germany is so fond of talking about. But itwill spread over the sky, I tell you, like some tropical storm. Franceis unready, Russia is unready; only Germany and her marionette, Austria, the strings of which she pulls, is ready. "

"Go on prophesying, " said Michael. 

"I wish I could. Ever since that Sarajevo murder I have thought ofnothing else day and night. But how events will develop then I can'timagine. What will England do? Who knows? I only know what Germanythinks she will do, and that is, stand aside because she can't stir, with this Irish mill-stone round her neck. If Germany thought otherwise, she is perfectly capable of sending a dozen submarines over to our navalmanoeuvres and torpedoing our battleships right and left. "

Michael laughed outright at this. 

"While a fleet of Zeppelins hovers over London, and drops bombs on theWar Office and the Admiralty, " he suggested. 

But Aunt Barbara was not in the least diverted by this. 

"And if England stands aside, " she said, "Der Tag will only dawn alittle later, when Germany has settled with France and Russia. We shalllive to see Der Tag, Michael, unless we are run over by motor-buses, andpray God we shall see it soon, for the sooner the better. Your adorableFalbes, now, Sylvia and Hermann. What do they think of it?"

"Hermann was certainly rather--rather upset when he read of the Sarajevomurders, " he said. "But he pins his faith on the German Emperor, whom healluded to as a fire-engine which would put out any conflagration. "

Aunt Barbara rose in violent incredulity. 

"Pish and bosh!" she remarked. "If he had alluded to him as anincendiary bomb, there would have been more sense in his simile. "

"Anyhow, he and Sylvia are planning a musical tour in Germany in theautumn, " said Michael. 

"'It's a long, long way to Tipperary, '" remarked Aunt Barbaraenigmatically. 

"Why Tipperary?" asked Michael. 

"Oh, it's just a song I heard at a music-hall the other night. There'sa jolly catchy tune to it, which has rung in my head ever since. That'sthe sort of music I like, something you can carry away with you. Andyour music, Michael?"

"Rather in abeyance. There are--other things to think about. "

Aunt Barbara got up. 

"Ah, tell me more about them, " she said. "I want to get this nightmareout of my head. Sylvia, now. Sylvia is a good cure for the nightmare. Isshe kind as she is fair, Michael?"

Michael was silent for a moment. Then he turned a quiet, radiant face toher. 

"I can't talk about it, " he said. "I can't get accustomed to the wonderof it. "

"That will do. That's a completely satisfactory account. But go on. "

Michael laughed. 

"How can I?" he asked. "There's no end and no beginning. I can't 'go on'as you order me about a thing like that. There is Sylvia; there is me. "

"I must be content with that, then, " she said, smiling. 

"We are, " said Michael. 

Lady Barbara waited a moment without speaking. 

"And your mother?" she asked. 

He shook his head. 

"She still refuses to see me, " he said. "She still thinks it was I whomade the plot to take her away and shut her up. She is often angry withme, poor darling, but--but you see it isn't she who is angry: it's justher malady. "

"Yes, my dear, " said Lady Barbara. "I am so glad you see it like that. "

"How else could I see it? It was my real mother whom I began to knowlast Christmas, and whom I was with in town for the three months thatfollowed. That's how I think of her: I can't think of her as anythingelse. "

"And how is she otherwise?"

Again he shook his head. 

"She is wretched, though they say that all she feels is dim and veiled, that we mustn't think of her as actually unhappy. Sometimes there aregood days, when she takes a certain pleasure in her walks and in lookingafter a little plot of ground where she gardens. And, thank God, thatsudden outburst when she tried to kill me seems to have entirely passedfrom her mind. They don't think she remembers it at all. But then thegood days are rare, and are growing rarer, and often now she sits doingnothing at all but crying. "

Aunt Barbara laid her hand on him. 

"Oh, my dear, " she said. 

Michael paused for a moment, his brown eyes shining. 

"If only she could come back just for a little to what she was inJanuary, " he said. "She was happier then, I think, than she ever wasbefore. I can't help wondering if anyhow I could have prolonged thosedays, by giving myself up to her more completely. "

"My dear, you needn't wonder about that, " said Aunt Barbara. "Sir Jamestold me that it was your love and nothing else at all that gave herthose days. "

Michael's lips quivered. 

"I can't tell you what they were to me, " he said, "for she and I foundeach other then, and we both felt we had missed each other so much andso long. She was happy then, and I, too. And now everything hasbeen taken from her, and still, in spite of that, my cup is full tooverflowing. "

"That's how she would have it, Michael, " said Barbara. 

"Yes, I know that. I remind myself of that. "

Again he paused. 

"They don't think she will live very long, " he said. "She is gettingphysically much weaker. But during this last week or two she has beenless unhappy, they think. They say some new change may come any time:it may be only the great change--I mean her death; but it is possiblebefore that that her mind will clear again. Sir James told me thatoccasionally happened, like--like a ray of sunlight after a stormy day. It would be good if that happened. I would give almost anything to feelthat she and I were together again, as we were. "

Barbara, childless, felt something of motherhood. Michael's simplicityand his sincerity were already known to her, but she had never yetknown the strength of him. You could lean on Michael. In his quiet, undemonstrative way he supported you completely, as a son should; therewas no possibility of insecurity. . . . 

"God bless you, my dear, " she said. 

CHAPTER XIII

One close thundery morning about a week later, Michael was sitting athis piano in his shirtsleeves, busy practising. He was aware that at theother end of the room the telephone was calling for him, but it seemedto be of far greater importance at the minute to finish the last page ofone of the Bach fugues, than to attend to what anybody else might haveto say to him. Then it suddenly flashed across him that it might beSylvia who wanted to speak to him, or that there might be news about hismother, and his fingers leaped from the piano in the middle of a bar, and he ran and slid across the parquet floor. 

But it was neither of these, and compared to them it was a case of"only" Hermann who wanted to see him. But Hermann, it appeared, wantedto see him urgently, and, if he was in (which he was) would be with himin ten minutes. 

But the Bach thread was broken, and Michael, since it was not worthwhile trying to mend it for the sake of these few minutes, sat down bythe open window, and idly took up the morning paper, which as yet he hadnot opened, since he had hurried over breakfast in order to get to hispiano. The music announcements on the outside page first detained him, and seeing that the concert by the Falbes, which was to take place infive or six days, was advertised, he wondered vaguely whether it wasabout that that Hermann wanted to see him, and, if so, why he could nothave said whatever he had to say on the telephone, instead of cuttingthings short with the curt statement that he wished to see him urgently, and would come round at once. Then remembering that Francis had beenplaying cricket for the Guards yesterday, he turned briskly over to thelast page of sporting news, and found that his cousin had distinguishedhimself by making no runs at all, but by missing two expensive catchesin the deep field. From there, after a slight inspection of a coupleof advertisement columns, he worked back to the middle leaf, where wereleaders and the news of nations and the movements of kings. All thislast week he had scanned such items with a growing sense of amusementin the recollection of Hermann's disquiet over the Sarajevo murders, and Aunt Barbara's more detailed and vivid prognostications of comingdanger, for nothing more had happened, and he supposed--vaguely only, since the affair had begun to fade from his mind--that Austria hadmade inquiries, and that since she was satisfied there was no publicpronouncement to be made. 

The hot breeze from the window made the paper a little unmanageable fora moment, but presently he got it satisfactorily folded, and a big blackheadline met his eye. A half-column below it contained the demands whichAustria had made in the Note addressed to the Servian Government. A glance was sufficient to show that they were framed in the mosttruculent and threatening manner possible to imagine. They were notthe reasonable proposals that one State had a perfect right to makeof another on whose soil and with the connivance of whose subjects themurders had been committed; they were a piece of arbitrary dictation, athreat levelled against a dependent and an inferior. 

Michael had read them through twice with a growing sense of uneasinessat the thought of how Lady Barbara's first anticipations had beenfulfilled, when Hermann came in. He pointed to the paper Michael held. 

"Ah, you have seen it, " he said. "Perhaps you can guess what I wanted tosee you about. "

"Connected with the Austrian Note?" asked Michael. 

"Yes. "

"I have not the vaguest idea. "

Hermann sat down on the arm of his chair. 

"Mike, I'm going back to Germany to-day, " he said. "Now do youunderstand? I'm German. "

"You mean that Germany is at the back of this?"

"It is obvious, isn't it? Those demands couldn't have been made withoutthe consent of Austria's ally. And they won't be granted. Servia willappeal to Russia. And . . . And then God knows what may happen. In theevent of that happening, I must be in my Fatherland ready to serve, ifnecessary. "

"You mean you think it possible you will go to war with Russia?" askedMichael. 

"Yes, I think it possible, and, if I am right, if there is thatpossibility, I can't be away from my country. "

"But the Emperor, the fire-engine whom you said would quench anyconflagration?"

"He is away yachting. He went off after the visit of the British fleetto Kiel. Who knows whether before he gets back, things may have gonetoo far? Can't you see that I must go? Wouldn't you go if you were me?Suppose you were in Germany now, wouldn't you hurry home?"

Michael was silent, and Hermann spoke again. 

"And if there is trouble with Russia, France, I take it, is bound tojoin her. And if France joins her, what will England do?"

The great shadow of the approaching storm fell over Michael, even asoutside the sultry stillness of the morning grew darker. 

"Ah, you think that?" asked Michael. 

Hermann put his hand on Michael's shoulder. 

"Mike, you're the best friend I have, " he said, "and soon, please God, you are going to marry the girl who is everything else in the world tome. You two make up my world really--you two and my mother, anyhow. No other individual counts, or is in the same class. You know that, I expect. But there is one other thing, and that's my nationality. Itcounts first. Nothing, nobody, not even Sylvia or my mother or you canstand between me and that. I expect you know that also, for you saw, nearly a year ago, what Germany is to me. Perhaps I may be quite wrongabout it all--about the gravity, I mean, of the situation, and perhapsin a few days I may come racing home again. Yes, I said 'home, ' didn'tI? Well, that shows you just how I am torn in two. But I can't helpgoing. "

Hermann's hand remained on his shoulder gently patting it. To Michaelthe world, life, the whole spirit of things had suddenly grown sinister, of the quality of nightmare. It was true that all the ground of thisominous depression which had darkened round him, was conjectural andspeculative, that diplomacy, backed by the horror of war which surelyall civilised nations and responsible govermnents must share, had, sofar from saying its last, not yet said its first word; that the wits ofall the Cabinets of Europe were at this moment only just beginning tostir themselves so as to secure a peaceful solution; but, in spiteof this, the darkness and the nightmare grew in intensity. But as toHermann's determination to go to Germany, which made this so terriblyreal, since it was beginning to enter into practical everyday life, he had neither means nor indeed desire to combat it. He saw perfectlyclearly that Hermann must go. 

"I don't want to dissuade you, " he said, "not only because it would beuseless, but because I am with you. You couldn't do otherwise, Hermann. "

"I don't see that I could. Sylvia agrees too. "

A terrible conjecture flashed through Michael's mind. 

"And she?" he asked. 

"She can't leave my mother, of course, " said Hermann, "and, after all, I may be on a wild goose chase. But I can't risk being unable to get toGermany, if--if the worst happens. "

The ghost of a smile played round his mouth for a moment. 

"And I'm not sure that she could leave you, Mike, " he added. 

Somehow this, though it gave Michael a moment of intensest relief toknow that Sylvia remained, made the shadow grow deeper, accentuated thelines of the storm which had begun to spread over the sky. He beganto see as nightmare no longer, but as stern and possible realities, something of the unutterable woe, the divisions, the heart-breaks whichmenaced. 

"Hermann, what do you think will happen?" he said. "It is incredible, unfaceable--"

The gentle patting on his shoulder, that suddenly and poignantlyreminded him of when Sylvia's hand was there, ceased for a moment, andthen was resumed. 

"Mike, old boy, " said Hermann, "we've got to face the unfaceable, andbelieve that the incredible is possible. I may be all wrong about it, and, as I say, in a few days' time I may come racing back. But, onthe other hand, this may be our last talk together, for I go off thisafternoon. So let's face it. "

He paused a moment. 

"It may be that before long I shall be fighting for my Fatherland, "he said. "And if there is to be fighting, it may be that Germany willbefore long be fighting England. There I shall be on one side, and, since naturally you will go back into the Guards, you will be fightingon the other. I shall be doing my best to kill Englishmen, whom I love, and they will be doing their best to kill me and those of my blood. There's the horror of it, and it's that we must face. If we met in abayonet charge, Mike, I should have to do my best to run you through, and yet I shouldn't love you one bit the less, and you must know that. Or, if you ran me through, I shall have to die loving you just the sameas before, and hoping you would live happy, for ever and ever, as thestory-books say, with Sylvia. "

"Hermann, don't go, " said Michael suddenly. 

"Mike, you didn't mean that, " he said. 

Michael looked at him for a moment in silence. 

"No, it is unsaid, " he replied. 

Hermann looked round as the clock on the chimney-piece chimed. 

"I must be going, " he said, "I needn't say anything to you about Sylvia, because all I could say is in your heart already. Well, we've met inthis jolly world, Mike, and we've been great friends. Neither you nor Icould find a greater friend than we've been to each other. I bless Godfor this last year. It's been the happiest in my life. Now what else isthere? Your music: don't ever be lazy about your music. It's worth whiletaking all the pains you can about it. Lord! do you remember the eveningwhen I first tried your Variations? . . . Let me play the last one now. I want something jubilant. Let's see, how does it go?"

He held his hands, those long, slim-fingered hands, poised for a momentabove the keys, then plunged into the glorious riot of the full chordsand scales, till the room rang with it. The last chord he held for amoment, and then sprang up. 

"Ah, that's good, " he said. "And now I'm going to say good-bye, and gowithout looking round. "

"But might I see you off this afternoon?" asked Michael. 

"No, please don't. Station partings are fussy and disagreeable. I wantto say good-bye to you here in your quiet room, just as I shall saygoodbye to Sylvia at home. Ah, Mike, yes, both hands and smiling. MayGod give us other meetings and talks and companionship and years oflove, my best of friends. Good-bye. "

Then, as he had said, he walked to the door without looking round, andnext moment it had closed behind him. 

Throughout the next week the tension of the situation grew ever greater, strained towards the snapping-point, while the little cloud, the man'shand, which had arisen above the eastern horizon grew and overspread theheavens in a pall that became ever more black and threatening. For a fewdays yet it seemed that perhaps even now the cataclysm might be averted, but gradually, in spite of all the efforts of diplomacy to loosen theknot, it became clear that the ends of the cord were held in hands thatdid not mean to release their hold till it was pulled tight. Serviayielded to such demands as it was possible for her to grant as anindependent State; but the inflexible fingers never abated one jotof their strangling pressure. She appealed to Russia, and Russia'sremonstrance fell on deaf ears, or, rather, on ears that had determinednot to hear. From London and Paris came proposals for conference, forarbitration, with welcome for any suggestion from the other side whichmight lead to a peaceful solution of the disputed demands, alreadyrecognised by Europe as a firebrand wantonly flung into the midstof dangerous and inflammable material. Over that burning firebrand, preventing and warding off all the eager hands that were stretched toput it out, stood the figure of the nation at whose bidding it had beenflung there. 

Gradually, out of the thunder-clouds and gathering darkness, vaguely atfirst and then in definite and menacing outline, emerged the inexorable, flint-like face of Germany, whose figure was clad in the shining armourso well known in the flamboyant utterances of her War Lord, which hadbeen treated hitherto as mere irresponsible utterances to be greetedwith a laugh and a shrugged shoulder. Deep and patient she had alwaysbeen, and now she believed that the time had come for her patience todo its perfect work. She had bided long for the time when she couldbest fling that lighted brand into the midst of civilisation, and shebelieved she had calculated well. She cared nothing for Servia nor forher ally. On both her frontiers she was ready, and now on the Eastshe heeded not the remonstrance of Russia, nor her sincere and cordialinvitation to friendly discussion. She but waited for the step that shehad made inevitable, and on the first sign of Russian mobilisation she, with her mobilisation ready to be completed in a few days, peremptorilydemanded that it should cease. On the Western frontier behind theRhine she was ready also; her armies were prepared, cannon fodder inuncountable store of shells and cartridges was prepared, and in endlessbattalions of men, waiting to be discharged in one bull-like rush, tooverrun France, and holding the French armies, shattered and dispersed, with a mere handful of her troops, to hurl the rest at Russia. 

The whole campaign was mathematically thought out. In a few months atthe outside France would be lying trampled down and bleeding; Russiawould be overrun; already she would be mistress of Europe, and preparedto attack the only country that stood between her and world-widedominion, whose allies she would already have reduced to impotence. Here she staked on an uncertainty: she could not absolutely tell whatEngland's attitude would be, but she had the strongest reason for hopingthat, distracted by the imminence of civil strife, she would be unableto come to the help of her allies until the allies were past helping. 

For a moment only were seen those set stern features mad for war;then, with a snap, Germany shut down her visor and stood with swordunsheathed, waiting for the horror of the stupendous bloodshed whichshe had made inevitable. Her legions gathered on the Eastern frontthreatening war on Russia, and thus pulling France into the spreadingconflagration and into the midst of the flame she stood ready to castthe torn-up fragments of the treaty that bound her to respect theneutrality of Belgium. 

All this week, while the flames of the flung fire-brand began to spread, the English public waited, incredulous of the inevitable. Michael, amongthem, found himself unable to believe even then that the bugles werealready sounding, and that the piles of shells in their wicker-basketswere being loaded on to the military ammunition trains. But all theordinary interests in life, all the things that busily and contentedlyoccupied his day, one only excepted, had become without savour. A dozentimes in the morning he would sit down to his piano, only to findthat he could not think it worth while to make his hands produce thesemeaningless tinkling sounds, and he would jump up to read the paperover again, or watch for fresh headlines to appear on the boards ofnews-vendors in the street, and send out for any fresh edition. Or hewould walk round to his club and spend an hour reading the tape news andwaiting for fresh slips to be pinned up. But, through all the nightmareof suspense and slowly-dying hope, Sylvia remained real, and after hehad received his daily report from the establishment where his motherwas, with the invariable message that there was no marked change of anykind, and that it was useless for him to think of coming to see her, hewould go off to Maidstone Crescent and spend the greater part of the daywith the girl. 

Once during this week he had received a note from Hermann, written atMunich, and on the same day she also had heard from him. He had goneback to his regiment, which was mobilised, as a private, and was verybusy with drill and duties. Feeling in Germany, he said, was elated andtriumphant: it was considered certain that England would stand aside, asthe quarrel was none of hers, and the nation generally looked forward toa short and brilliant campaign, with the occupation of Paris to be madein September at the latest. But as a postscript in his note to Sylvia hehad added:

"You don't think there is the faintest chance of England coming in, doyou? Please write to me fully, and get Mike to write. I have heard fromneither of you, and as I am sure you must have written, I concludethat letters are stopped. I went to the theatre last night: there was atremendous scene of patriotism. The people are war-mad. "

Since then nothing had been heard from him, and to-day, as Michael drovedown to see Sylvia, he saw on the news-boards that Belgium had appealedto England against the violation of her territory by the German armiesen route for France. Overtures had been made, asking for leave to passthrough the neutral territory: these Belgium had rejected. This wasgiven as official news. There came also the report that the Belgianremonstrances would be disregarded. Should she refuse passage to theGerman battalions, that could make no difference, since it was a matterof life and death to invade France by that route. 

Sylvia was out in the garden, where, hardly a month ago, they had spentthat evening of silent peace, and she got up quickly as Michael cameout. 

"Ah, my dear, " she said, "I am glad you have come. I have got thehorrors. You saw the latest news? Yes? And have you heard again fromHermann? No, I have not had a word. "

He kissed her and sat down. 

"No, I have not heard either, " he said. "I expect he is right. Lettershave been stopped. "

"And what do you think will be the result of Belgium's appeal?" sheasked. 

"Who can tell? The Prime Minister is going to make a statement onMonday. There have been Cabinet meetings going on all day. "

She looked at him in silence. 

"And what do you think?" she asked. 

Quite suddenly, at her question, Michael found himself facing it, evenas, when the final catastrophe was more remote, he had faced it withFalbe. All this week he knew he had been looking away from it, tellinghimself that it was incredible. Now he discovered that the one thinghe dreaded more than that England should go to war, was that sheshould not. The consciousness of national honour, the thing which, withreligion, Englishmen are most shy of speaking about, suddenly asserteditself, and he found on the moment that it was bigger than anything elsein the world. 

"I think we shall go to war, " he said. "I don't see personally how wecan exist any more as a nation if we don't. We--we shall be damned if wedon't, damned for ever and ever. It's moral extinction not to. "

She kindled at that. 

"Yes, I know, " she said, "that's what I have been telling myself; but, oh, Mike, there's some dreadful cowardly part of me that won't listenwhen I think of Hermann, and . . . "

She broke off a moment. 

"Michael, " she said, "what will you do, if there is war?"

He took up her hand that lay on the arm of his chair. 

"My darling, how can you ask?" he said. "Of course I shall go back tothe army. "

For one moment she gave way. 

"No, no, " she said. "You mustn't do that. "

And then suddenly she stopped. 

"My dear, I ask your pardon, " she said. "Of course you will. I knowthat really. It's only this stupid cowardly part of me that--thatinterrupted. I am ashamed of it. I'm not as bad as that all through. I don't make excuses for myself, but, ah, Mike, when I think of whatGermany is to me, and what Hermann is, and when I think what England isto me, and what you are! It shan't appear again, or if it does, youwill make allowance, won't you? At least I can agree with you utterly, utterly. It's the flesh that's weak, or, rather, that is so strong. ButI've got it under. "

She sat there in silence a little, mopping her eyes. 

"How I hate girls who cry!" she said. "It is so dreadfully feeble! Look, Mike, there are some roses on that tree from which I plucked the one youdidn't think much of. Do you remember? You crushed it up in my hand andmade it bleed. "

He smiled. 

"I have got some faint recollection of it, " he said. 

Sylvia had got hold of her courage again. 

"Have you?" she asked. "What a wonderful memory. And that quiet eveningout here next day. Perhaps you remember that too. That was real: thatwas a possession that we shan't ever part with. "

She pointed with her finger. 

"You and I sat there, and Hermann there, " she said. "And mothersat--why, there she is. Mother darling, let's have tea out here, shallwe? I will go and tell them. "

Mrs. Falbe had drifted out in her usual thistledown style, and shookhands with Michael. 

"What an upset it all is, " she said, "with all these dreadful rumoursgoing about that we shall be at war. I fell asleep, I think, a littleafter lunch, when I could not attend to my book for thinking about war. "

"Isn't the book interesting?" asked Michael. 

"No, not very. It is rather painful. I do not know why people writeabout painful things when there are so many pleasant and interestingthings to write about. It seems to me very morbid. "

Michael heard something cried in the streets, and at the same moment heheard Sylvia's step quickly crossing the studio to the side door thatopened on to it. In a minute she returned with a fresh edition of anevening paper. 

"They are preparing to cross the Rhine, " she said. 

Mrs. Falbe gave a little sigh. 

"I don't know, I am sure, " she said, "what you are in such a stateabout, Sylvia. Of course the Germans want to get into France the easiestand quickest way, at least I'm sure I should. It is very foolish ofBelgium not to give them leave, as they are so much the strongest. "

"Mother darling, you don't understand one syllable about it, " saidSylvia. 

"Very likely not, dear, but I am very glad we are an island, and thatnobody can come marching here. But it is all a dreadful upset, Lord--Imean Michael, what with Hermann in Germany, and the concert tourabandoned. Still, if everything is quiet again by the middle of October, as I daresay it will be, it might come off after all. He will be on thespot, and you and Michael can join him, though I'm not quite sure ifthat would be proper. But we might arrange something: he might meet youat Ostend. "

"I'm afraid it doesn't look very likely, " remarked Michael mildly. 

"Oh, and are you pessimistic too, like Sylvia? Pray don't bepessimistic. There is a dreadful pessimist in my book, who always thinksthe worst is going to happen. "

"And does it?" asked Michael. 

"As far as I have got, it does, which makes it all the worse. Of courseI am very anxious about Hermann, but I feel sure he will come backsafe to us. I daresay France will give in when she sees Germany is inearnest. "

Mrs. Falbe pulled the shattered remnants of her mind together. In herheart of hearts she knew she did not care one atom what might happen toarmies and navies and nations, provided only that she had a quantityof novels to read, and meals at regular hours. The fact of being on anisland was an immense consolation to her, since it was quite certainthat, whatever happened, German armies (or French or Soudanese, for thatmatter) could not march here and enter her sitting-room and take herbooks away from her. For years past she had asked nothing more of theworld than that she should be comfortable in it, and it really seemednot an unreasonable request, considering at how small an outlay of moneyall the comfort she wanted could be secured to her. The thought of warhad upset her a good deal already: she had been unable to attend to herbook when she awoke from her after-lunch nap; and now, when she hoped tohave her tea in peace, and find her attention restored by it, she foundthe general atmosphere of her two companions vaguely disquieting. Shebecame a little more loquacious than usual, with the idea of talkingherself back into a tranquil frame of mind, and reassuring to herselfthe promise of a peaceful future. 

"Such a blessing we have a good fleet, " she said. "That will make ussafe, won't it? I declare I almost hate the Germans, though my dearhusband was one himself, for making such a disturbance. The papers allsay it is Germany's fault, so I suppose it must be. The papersknow better than anybody, don't they, because they have foreigncorrespondents. That must be a great expense!"

Sylvia felt she could not endure this any longer. It was like having araw wound stroked. . . . 

"Mother, you don't understand, " she said. "You don't appreciate what ishappening. In a day or two England will be at war with Germany. "

Mrs. Falbe's book had slipped from her knee. She picked it up andflapped the cover once or twice to get rid of dust that might havesettled there. 

"But what then?" she said. "It is very dreadful, no doubt, to thinkof dear Hermann being with the German army, but we are getting used tothat, are we not? Besides, he told me it was his duty to go. I do notthink for a moment that France will be able to stand against Germany. Germany will be in Paris in no time, and I daresay Hermann's next letterwill be to say that he has been walking down the boulevards. Of coursewar is very dreadful, I know that. And then Germany will be at war withRussia, too, but she will have Austria to help her. And as for Germanybeing at war with England, that does not make me nervous. Think of ourfleet, and how safe we feel with that! I see that we have twice as manyboats as the Germans. With two to one we must win, and they won't beable to send any of their armies here. I feel quite comfortable againnow that I have talked it over. "

Sylvia caught Michael's eye for a moment over the tea-urn. She felt heacquiesced in what she was intending to say. 

"That is good, then, " she said. "I am glad you feel comfortable aboutit, mother dear. Now, will you read your book out here? Why not, if Ifetch you a shawl in case you feel cold?"

Mrs. Falbe turned a questioning eye to the motionless trees and theunclouded sky. 

"I don't think I shall even want a shawl, dear, " she said. "Listen, howthe newsboys are calling! is it something fresh, do you think?"

A moment's listening attention was sufficient to make it known thatthe news shouted outside was concerned only with the result of a countycricket match, and Michael, as well as Sylvia, was conscious of acertain relief to know that at the immediate present there was no freshclang of the bell that was beating out the seconds of peace that stillremained. Just for now, for this hour on Saturday afternoon, there wasa respite: no new link was forged in the intolerable sequence ofevents. But, even as he drew breath in that knowledge, there camethe counter-stroke in the sense that those whose business it was todisseminate the news that would cause their papers to sell, had just acricket match to advertise their wares. Now, when the country andwhen Europe were on the brink of a bloodier war than all the annals ofhistory contained, they, who presumably knew what the public desiredto be informed on, thought that the news which would sell best was thatconcerned with wooden bats and leather balls, and strong young menin flannels. Michael had heard with a sort of tender incredulity Mrs. Falbe's optimistic reflections, and had been more than content to lether rest secure in them; but was the country, the heart of England, likeher? Did it care more for cricket matches, as she for her book, than forthe maintenance of the nation's honour, whatever that championship mightcost? . . . And the cry went on past the garden-walk. "Fine innings byHorsfield! Result of the Oval match!"

And yet he had just had his tea as usual, and eaten a slice of cake, andwas now smoking a cigarette. It was natural to do that, not to make afuss and refuse food and drink, and it was natural that people shouldstill be interested in cricket. And at the moment his attitude towardsMrs. Falbe changed. Instead of pity and irritation at her normality, hewas suddenly taken with a sense of gratitude to her. It was restful tosuspense and jangled nerves to see someone who went on as usual. The sunshone, the leaves of the plane-trees did not wither, Mrs. Falbe readher book, the evening paper was full of cricket news. . . . And then thereaction from that seized him again. Supposing all the nation was likethat. Supposing nobody cared. . . . And the tension of suspense strainedmore tightly than ever. 

For the next forty-eight hours, while day and night the telegraph wiresof Europe tingled with momentous questions and grave replies, whileMinisters and Ambassadors met and parted and met again, rumoursflew this way and that like flocks of wild-fowl driven backwards andforwards, settling for a moment with a stir and splash, and then withrush of wings speeding back and on again. A huge coal strike in thenorthern counties, fostered and financed by German gold, was supposed tobe imminent, and this would put out of the country's power the abilityto interfere. The Irish Home Rule party, under the same suasion, wassaid to have refused to call a truce. A letter had been received inhigh quarters from the German Emperor avowing his fixed determination topreserve peace, and this was honey to Lord Ashbridge. Then in turn eachof these was contradicted. All thought of the coal strike in this crisisof national affairs was abandoned; the Irish party, as well as theConservatives, were of one mind in backing up the Government, no matterwhat postponement of questions that were vital a month ago, theircohesion entailed; the Emperor had written no letter at all. But throughthe nebulous mists of hearsay, there fell solid the first drops of theimminent storm. Even before Michael had left Sylvia that afternoon, Germany had declared war on Russia, on Sunday Belgium received a Notefrom Berlin definitely stating that should their Government not grantthe 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 theGovernment, which should be announced that afternoon, should be. Onefact only was publicly known, and that was that the English fleet, onlylately 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 greatfleet, the swift forts of sea-power, had gone, disappearing no one knewwhere, into the fine weather haze that brooded over the midsummer sea. There perhaps was an indication of what the decision would be, yet therewas 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. 

Then suddenly came certainty, a rainbow set in the intolerable cloud. OnMonday afternoon, when the House of Commons met, all parties were knownto have sunk their private differences and to be agreed on one pointthat should take precedence of all other questions. Germany should not, with England's consent, violate the neutrality of Belgium. As far asEngland was concerned, all negotiations were at an end, diplomacy hadsaid its last word, and Germany was given twenty-four hours in which toreply. Should a satisfactory answer not be forthcoming, England woulduphold the neutrality she with others had sworn to respect by forceof arms. And at that one immense sigh of relief went up from the wholecountry. Whatever now might happen, in whatever horrors of long-drawnand bloody war the nation might be involved, the nightmare of possibleneutrality, of England's repudiating the debt of honour, was removed. The one thing worse than war need no longer be dreaded, and for themoment the future, hideous and heart-rending though it would surely be, smiled like a land of promise. 

Michael woke on the morning of Tuesday, the fourth of August, with thefeeling of something having suddenly roused him, and in a few seconds heknew that this was so, for the telephone bell in the room next door sentout another summons. He got straight out of bed and went to it, with ahundred vague shadows of expectation crossing his mind. Then he learnedthat his mother was gravely ill, and that he was wanted at once. And inless than half an hour he was on his way, driving swiftly through theserene warmth of the early morning to the private asylum where she hadbeen removed after her sudden homicidal outburst in March. 

CHAPTER XIV

Michael was sitting that same afternoon by his mother's bedside. Hehad learned the little there was to be told him on his arrival in themorning; how that half an hour before he had been summoned, she had hadan attack of heart failure, and since then, after recovering from theacute and immediate danger, she had lain there all day with closed eyesin a state of but semi-conscious exhaustion. Once or twice only, andthat but for a moment she had shown signs of increasing vitality, andthen sank back into this stupor again. But in those rare short intervalsshe had opened her eyes, and had seemed to see and recognise him, andMichael thought that once she had smiled at him. But at present she hadspoken no word. All the morning Lord Ashbridge had waited there too, butsince there was no change he had gone away, saying that he would returnagain later, and asking to be telephoned for if his wife regainedconsciousness. So, but for the nurse and the occasional visits of thedoctor, Michael was alone with his mother. 

In this long period of inactive waiting, when there was nothing to bedone, Michael did not seem to himself to be feeling very vividly, andbut for one desire, namely, that before the end his mother would comeback to him, even if only for a moment, his mind felt drugged andstupefied. Sometimes for a little it would sluggishly turn over thoughtsabout his father, wondering with a sort of blunt, remote contempt how itwas possible for him not to be here too; but, except for the one greatlonging that his mother should cleave to him once more in consciousmind, he observed rather than felt. The thought of Sylvia even was dim. He knew that she was somewhere in the world, but she had become for thepresent like some picture painted in his mind, without reality. Dim, too, was the tension of those last days. Somewhere in Europe was acountry called Germany, where was his best friend, drilling in the ranksto which he had returned, or perhaps already on his way to bloodierbattlefields than the world had ever dreamed of; and somewhere set inthe seas was Germany's arch-foe, who already stood in her path with opencannon mouths pointing. But all this had no real connection with him. From the moment when he had come into this quiet, orderly room and sawhis mother lying on the bed, nothing beyond those four walls reallyconcerned him. 

But though the emotional side of his mind lay drugged and insensitiveto anything outside, he found himself observing the details of the roomwhere he waited with a curious vividness. There was a big window openingdown to the ground in the manner of a door on to the garden outside, where a smooth lawn, set with croquet hoops and edged with brightflower-beds, dozed in the haze of the August heat. Beyond was a rowof tall elms, against which a copper beech glowed metallically, andsomewhere out of sight a mowing-machine was being used, for Michaelheard the click of its cropping journey, growing fainter as it receded, followed by the pause as it turned, and its gradual crescendo as itapproached again. Otherwise everything outside was strangely silent; asthe hot hours of midday and early afternoon went by there was no note ofbird-music, nor any sound of wind in the elm-tops. Just a little breezestirred from time to time, enough to make the slats of the half-drawnVenetian blind rattle faintly. Earlier in the day there had come in fromthe window the smell of dew-damp earth, but now that had been sucked upby the sun. 

Close beside the window, with her back to the light and facing the bed, which projected from one of the side walls out into the room, sat LadyAshbridge's nurse. She was reading, and the rustle of the turned pagewas regular; but regular and constant also were her glances towards thebed where her patient lay. At intervals she put down her book, markingthe place with a slip of paper, and came to watch by the bed for amoment, looking at Lady Ashbridge's face and listening to her breathing. Her eye met Michael's always as she did this, and in answer to hismute question, each time she gave him a little head-shake, or perhaps awhispered word or two, that told him there was no change. Opposite thebed was the empty fireplace, and at the foot of it a table, on whichstood a vase of roses. Michael was conscious of the scent of these everynow and then, and at intervals of the faint, rather sickly smell ofether. A Japan screen, ornamented with storks in gold thread, stoodnear the door and half-concealed the washing-stand. There was a chestof drawers on one side of the fireplace, a wardrobe with a looking-glassdoor on the other, a dressing-table to one side of the window, a fewprints on the plain blue walls, and a dark blue drugget carpet onthe floor; and all these ordinary appurtenances of a bedroom etchedthemselves into Michael's mind, biting their way into it by the acid ofhis own suspense. 

Finally there was the bed where his mother lay. The coverlet of bluesilk upon it he knew was somehow familiar to him, and after fitfulgropings in his mind to establish the association, he remembered that ithad been on the bed in her room in Curzon Street, and supposed that ithad been brought here with others of her personal belongings. A littlecore of light, focused on one of the brass balls at the head of the bed, caught his eye, and he saw that the sun, beginning to decline, came inunder the Venetian blind. The nurse, sitting in the window, noticedthis also, and lowered it. The thought of Sylvia crossed his brain fora moment; then he thought of his father; but every train of reflectiondissolved almost as soon as it was formed, and he came back again andagain to his mother's face. 

It was perfectly peaceful and strangely young-looking, as if the cool, soothing hand of death, which presently would quiet all trouble forher, had been already at work there erasing the marks that the years hadgraven upon it. And yet it was not so much young as ageless; it seemedto have passed beyond the register and limitations of time. Sometimesfor a moment it was like the face of a stranger, and then suddenly itwould become beloved and familiar again. It was just so she had lookedwhen she came so timidly into his room one night at Ashbridge, askinghim if it would be troublesome to him if she sat and talked with him fora little. The mouth was a little parted for her slow, even breathing;the corners of it smiled; and yet he was not sure if they smiled. Itwas hard to tell, for she lay there quite flat, without pillows, and helooked at her from an unusual angle. Sometimes he felt as if he had beensitting there watching for uncounted years; and then again the hoursthat he had been here appeared to have lasted but for a moment, as if hehad but looked once at her. 

As the day declined the breeze of evening awoke, rattling the blind. Bynow the sun had swung farther west, and the nurse pulled the blind up. Outside in the bushes in the garden the call of birds to each other hadbegun, and a thrush came close to the window and sang a liquidphrase, and then repeated it. Michael glanced there and saw the bird, speckle-breasted, with throat that throbbed with the notes; and then, looking back to the bed, he saw that his mother's eyes were open. 

She looked vaguely about the room for a moment, as if she had awoke fromsome deep sleep and found herself in an unfamiliar place. Then, turningher head slightly, she saw him, and there was no longer any questionas to whether her mouth smiled, for all her face was flooded with deep, serene joy. 

He bent towards her and her lips parted. 

"Michael, my dear, " she said gently. 

Michael heard the rustle of the nurse's dress as she got up and came tothe bedside. He slipped from his chair on to his knees, so that his facewas near his mother's. He felt in his heart that the moment he had solonged for was to be granted him, that she had come back to him, notonly as he had known her during the weeks that they had lived alonetogether, when his presence made her so content, but in a mannerinfinitely more real and more embracing. 

"Have you been sitting here all the time while I slept, dear?" sheasked. "Have you been waiting for me to come back to you?"

"Yes, and you have come, " he said. 

She looked at him, and the mother-love, which before had been veiled andclouded, came out with all the tender radiance of evening sun, with theclear shining after rain. 

"I knew you wouldn't fail me, my darling, " she said. "You were sopatient with me in the trouble I have been through. It was a nightmare, but it has gone. "

Michael bent forward and kissed her. 

"Yes, mother, " he said, "it has all gone. "

She was silent a moment. 

"Is your father here?" she said. 

"No; but he will come at once, if you would like to see him. "

"Yes, send for him, dear, if it would not vex him to come, " she said;"or get somebody else to send; I don't want you to leave me. "

"I'm not going to, " said he. 

The nurse went to the door, gave some message, and presently returned tothe other side of the bed. Then Lady Ashbridge spoke again. 

"Is this death?" she asked. 

Michael raised his eyes to the figure standing by the bed. She nodded tohim. 

He bent forward again. 

"Yes, dear mother, " he said. 

For a moment her eyes dilated, then grew quiet again, and the smilereturned to her mouth. 

"I'm not frightened, Michael, " she said, "with you there. It isn'tlonely or terrible. "

She raised her head. 

"My son!" she said in a voice loud and triumphant. Then her head fellback again, and she lay with face close to his, and her eyelids quiveredand shut. Her breath came slow and regular, as if she slept. Then heheard that she missed a breath, and soon after another. Then, withoutstruggle at all, her breathing ceased. . . . And outside on the lawnclose by the open window the thrush still sang. 

It was an hour later when Michael left, having waited for his father'sarrival, and drove to town through the clear, falling dusk. He wasconscious of no feeling of grief at all, only of a complete pervadinghappiness. He could not have imagined so perfect a close, nor could hehave desired anything different from that imperishable moment when hismother, all trouble past, had come back to him in the serene calm oflove. . . . 

As he entered London he saw the newsboards all placarded with one fact:England had declared war on Germany. 

He went, not to his own flat, but straight to Maidstone Crescent. Withthose few minutes in which his mother had known him, the stupor that hadbeset his emotions all day passed off, and he felt himself longing, ashe had never longed before, for Sylvia's presence. Long ago he had givenher all that he knew of as himself; now there was a fresh gift. He hadto give her all that those moments had taught him. Even as already theywere knitted into him, made part of him, so must they be to her. . . . And when they had shared that, when, like water gushing from a springshe flooded him, there was that other news which he had seen on thenewsboards that they had to share together. 

Sylvia had been alone all day with her mother; but, before Michaelarrived, Mrs. Falbe (after a few more encouraging remarks about war ingeneral, to the effect that Germany would soon beat France, and what ablessing it was that England was an island) had taken her book up to herroom, and Sylvia was sitting alone in the deep dusk of the evening. Shedid not even trouble to turn on the light, for she felt unable to applyherself to any practical task, and she could think and take hold ofherself better in the dark. All day she had longed for Michael to cometo her, though she had not cared to see anybody else, and several timesshe had rung him up, only to find that he was still out, supposedlywith his mother, for he had been summoned to her early that morning, andsince then no news had come of him. Just before dinner had arrived theannouncement of the declaration of war, and Sylvia sat now trying tofind some escape from the encompassing nightmare. She felt confusedand distracted with it; she could not think consecutively, butonly contemplate shudderingly the series of pictures that presentedthemselves to her mind. Somewhere now, in the hosts of the Fatherland, which was hers also, was Hermann, the brother who was part of herself. When she thought of him, she seemed to be with him, to see the glintof his rifle, to feel her heart on his heart, big with passionatepatriotism. She had no doubt that patriotism formed the essence of hisconsciousness, and yet by now probably he knew that the land beloved byhim, where he had made his home, was at war with his own. She could notbut know how often his thoughts dwelled here in the dark quiet studiowhere she sat, and where so many days of happiness had been passed. Sheknew what she was to him, she and her mother and Michael, and the hostsof friends in this land which had become his foe. Would he have gone, she asked herself, if he had guessed that there would be war between thetwo? She thought he would, though she knew that for herself she wouldhave made it as hard as possible for him to do so. She would have usedevery argument she could think of to dissuade him, and yet she felt thather entreaties would have beaten in vain against the granite of his andher nationality. Dimly she had foreseen this contingency when, a fewdays ago, she had asked Michael what he would do if England went to war, and now that contingency was realised, and Hermann was even now perhapson his way to violate the neutrality of the country for the sake ofwhich England had gone to war. On the other side was Michael, into whosekeeping she had given herself and her love, and on which side was she?It was then that the nightmare came close to her; she could not tell, she was utterly unable to decide. Her heart was Michael's; her heartwas her brother's also. The one personified Germany for her, the otherEngland. It was as if she saw Hermann and Michael with bayonet and riflestalking each other across some land of sand-dunes and hollows, creepingcloser to each other, always closer. She felt as if she would havegladly given herself over to an eternity of torment, if only they couldhave had one hour more, all three of them, together here, as on thatnight of stars and peace when first there came the news which for themoment had disquieted Hermann. 

She longed as with thirst for Michael to come, and as her solitudebecame more and more intolerable, a hundred hideous fancies obsessedher. What if some accident had happened to Michael, or what, if in thistremendous breaking of ties that the war entailed, he felt that he couldnot see her? She knew that was an impossibility; but the whole world hadbecome impossible. And there was no escape. Somehow she had to adjustherself to the unthinkable; somehow her relations both with Hermann andMichael had to remain absolutely unshaken. Even that was not enough:they had to be strengthened, made impregnable. 

Then came a knock on the side door of the studio that led into thestreet: Michael often came that way without passing through the house, and with a sense of relief she ran to it and unlocked it. And even ashe stepped in, before any word of greeting had been exchanged, she flungherself on him, with fingers eager for the touch of his solidity. . . . 

"Oh, my dear, " she said. "I have longed for you, just longed for you. I never wanted you so much. I have been sitting in the darkdesolate--desolate. And oh! my darling, what a beast I am to think ofnothing but myself. I am ashamed. What of your mother, Michael?"

She turned on the light as they walked back across the studio, andMichael saw that her eyes, which were a little dazzled by the changefrom the dark into the light, were dim with unshed tears, and her handsclung to him as never before had they clung. She needed him now withthat imperative need which in trouble can only turn to love for comfort. She wanted that only; the fact of him with her, in this land in whichshe had suddenly become an alien, an enemy, though all her friendsexcept Hermann were here. And instantaneously, as a baby at the breast, she found that all his strength and serenity were hers. 

They sat down on the sofa by the piano, side by side, with handsintertwined before Michael answered. He looked up at her as he spoke, and in his eyes was the quiet of love and death. 

"My mother died an hour ago, " he said. "I was with her, and as I hadlonged might happen, she came back to me before she died. For two orthree minutes she was herself. And then she said to me, 'My son, ' andsoon she ceased breathing. "

"Oh, Michael, " she said, and for a little while there was silence, andin turn it was her presence that he clung to. Presently he spoke again. 

"Sylvia, I'm so frightfully hungry, " he said. "I don't think I've eatenanything since breakfast. May we go and forage?"

"Oh, you poor thing!" she cried. "Yes, let's go and see what there is. "

Instantly she busied herself. 

"Hermann left the cellar key on the chimney-piece, Michael, " she said. "Get some wine out, dear. Mother and I don't drink any. And there's someham, I know. While you are getting wine, I'll broil some. And therewere some strawberries. I shall have some supper with you. What a goodthought! And you must be famished. "

As they ate they talked perfectly simply and naturally of the hundredassociations which this studio meal at the end of the evening calledup concerning the Sunday night parties. There was an occasion on whichHermann tried to recollect how to mull beer, with results that smelledlike a brickfield; there was another when a poached egg had fallen, exploding softly as it fell into the piano. There was the occasion, the first on which Michael had been present, when two eminent actorsimitated each other; another when Francis came and made himself soimmensely agreeable. It was after that one that Sylvia and Hermann hadsat and talked in front of the stove, discussing, as Sylvia laughed toremember, what she would say when Michael proposed to her. Then had comethe break in Michael's attendances and, as Sylvia allowed, a certainfalling-off in gaiety. 

"But it was really Hermann and I who made you gay originally, " she said. "We take a wonderful deal of credit for that. "

All this was as completely natural for them as was the impromptu meal, and soon without effort Michael spoke of his mother again, and presentlyafterwards of the news of war. But with him by her side Sylvia foundher courage come back to her; the news itself, all that it certainlyimplied, and all the horror that it held, no longer filled her withthe sense that it was impossibly terrible. Michael did not diminish theawfulness of it, but he gave her the power of looking out bravely at it. Nor did he shrink from speaking of all that had been to her so grim anightmare. 

"You haven't heard from Hermann?" he asked. 

"No. And I suppose we can't hear now. He is with his regiment, that'sall; nor shall we hear of him till there is peace again. "

She came a little closer to him. 

"Michael, I have to face it, that I may never see Hermann again, " shesaid. "Mother doesn't fear it, you know. She--the darling--she livesin a sort of dream. I don't want her to wake from it. But how can I getaccustomed to the thought that perhaps I shan't see Hermann again? Imust get accustomed to it: I've got to live with it, and not quarrelwith it. "

He took up her hand, enclosing it in his. 

"But, one doesn't quarrel with the big things of life, " he said. "Isn'tit so? We haven't any quarrel with things like death and duty. Dear me, I'm afraid I'm preaching. "

"Preach, then, " she said. 

"Well, it's just that. We don't quarrel with them: they managethemselves. Hermann's going managed itself. It had to be. "

Her voice quivered as she spoke now. 

"Are you going?" she asked. "Will that have to be?"

Michael looked at her a moment with infinite tenderness. 

"Oh, my dear, of course it will, " he said. "Of course, one doesn't knowyet what the War Office will do about the Army. I suppose it's possiblethat they will send troops to France. All that concerns me is that Ishall rejoin again if they call up the Reserves. "

"And they will?"

"Yes, I should think that is inevitable. And you know there's somethingbig about it. I'm not warlike, you know, but I could not fail to be asoldier under these new conditions, any more than I could continue beinga soldier when all it meant was to be ornamental. Hermann in bursts ofpride and patriotism used to call us toy-soldiers. But he's wrong now;we're not going to be toy-soldiers any more. "

She did not answer him, but he felt her hand press close in the palm ofhis. 

"I can't tell you how I dreaded we shouldn't go to war, " he said. "Thathas been a nightmare, if you like. It would have been the end of us ifwe had stood aside and seen Germany violate a solemn treaty. "

Even with Michael close to her, the call of her blood made itselfaudible to Sylvia. Instinctively she withdrew her hand from his. 

"Ah, you don't understand Germany at all, " she said. "Hermann alwaysfelt that too. He told me he felt he was talking gibberish to you whenhe spoke of it. It is clearly life and death to Germany to move againstFrance as quickly as possible. "

"But there's a direct frontier between the two, " said he. 

"No doubt, but an impossible one. "

Michael frowned, drawing his big eyebrows together. 

"But nothing can justify the violation of a national oath, " he said. "That's the basis of civilisation, a thing like that. "

"But if it's a necessity? If a nation's existence depends on it?" sheasked. "Oh, Michael, I don't know! I don't know! For a little I amentirely English, and then something calls to me from beyond the Rhine!There's the hopelessness of it for me and such as me. You are English;there's no question about it for you. But for us! I love England: Ineedn't tell you that. But can one ever forget the land of one's birth?Can I help feeling the necessity Germany is under? I can't believe thatshe has wantonly provoked war with you. "

"But consider--" said he. 

She got up suddenly. 

"I can't argue about it, " she said. "I am English and I am German. Youmust make the best of me as I am. But do be sorry for me, and never, never forget that I love you entirely. That's the root fact between us. I can't go deeper than that, because that reaches to the very bottom ofmy soul. Shall we leave it so, Michael, and not ever talk of it again?Wouldn't that be best?"

There was no question of choice for Michael in accepting that appeal. He knew with the inmost fibre of his being that, Sylvia being Sylvia, nothing that she could say or do or feel could possibly part him fromher. When he looked at it directly and simply like that, there wasnothing that could blur the verity of it. But the truth of what shesaid, the reality of that call of the blood, seemed to cast a shadowover it. He knew beyond all other knowledge that it was there: only itlooked out at him with a shadow, faint, but unmistakable, fallenacross it. But the sense of that made him the more eagerly accept hersuggestion. 

"Yes, darling, we'll never speak of it again, " he said. "That would bemuch wisest. "

Lady Ashbridge's funeral took place three days afterwards, down inSuffolk, and those hours detached themselves in Michael's mind from allthat had gone before, and all that might follow, like a little pieceof blue sky in the midst of storm clouds. The limitations of man'sconsciousness, which forbid him to think poignantly about two things atonce, hedged that day in with an impenetrable barrier, so that while itlasted, and afterwards for ever in memory, it was unflecked by troubleor anxiety, and hung between heaven and earth in a serenity of its own. 

The coffin lay that night in his mother's bedroom, which was next toMichael's, and when he went up to bed he found himself listening forany sound that came from there. It seemed but yesterday when he had gonerather early upstairs, and after sitting a minute or two in front ofhis fire, had heard that timid knock on the door, which had meant theopening of a mother's heart to him. He felt it would scarcely be strangeif that knock came again, and if she entered once more to be with him. From the moment he came upstairs, the rest of the world was shut downto him; he entered his bedroom as if he entered a sanctuary that wasscented with the incense of her love. He knew exactly how her knock hadsounded when she came in here that night when first it burned for him:his ears were alert for it to come again. Once his blind tapped againstthe frame of his open window, and, though knowing it was that, he heardhimself whisper--for she could hear his whisper--"Come in, mother, " andsat up in his deep chair, looking towards the door. But only the blindtapped again, and outside in the moonlit dusk an owl hooted. 

He remembered she liked owls. Once, when they lived alone in CurzonStreet, some noise outside reminded her of the owls that hooted atAshbridge--she had imitated their note, saying it sounded like sleep. . . . She had sat in a chintz-covered chair close to him when atChristmas she paid him that visit, and now he again drew it close to hisown, and laid his hand on its arm. Petsy II. Had come in with her, andshe had hoped that he would not annoy Michael. 

There were steps in the passage outside his room, and he heard a littleshrill bark. He opened his door and found his mother's maid there, trying to entice Petsy away from the room next to his. The little dogwas curled up against it, and now and then he turned round scratching atit, asking to enter. "He won't come away, my lord, " said the maid; "he'sgone back a dozen times to the door. "

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 tohim. 

"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 inwhich 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, andlay awake about a couple of minutes, not thinking, but only being, whilethe owls hooted outside. 

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

Michael had no feeling of fright at all, only of longing for somethingthat physically could not be. And longing, only longing, once more hesaid:

"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 nocuriosity 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 doorhad 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 thedeep-water reach, where Michael and Francis at Christmas had heard thesound of stealthy rowing, and on to the boat that awaited it to ferry itacross to the church. There was high tide, and, as they passed over theestuary, the stillness of supreme noon bore to them the tolling of thebell. The mourners from the house followed, just three of them, LordAshbridge, Michael, and Aunt Barbara, for the rest were to assemble atthe church. But of all that, one moment stood out for Michael above allothers, when, as they entered the graveyard, someone whom he could notsee said: "I am the Resurrection and the Life, " and he heard that hisfather, by whom he walked, suddenly caught his breath in a sob. 

All that day there persisted that sense of complete detachment from allbut her whose body they had laid to rest on the windy hill overlookingthe broad water. His father, Aunt Barbara, the cousins and relations whothronged the church were no more than inanimate shadows compared withher whose presence had come last night into his room, and had not lefthim since. The affairs of the world, drums and the torch of war, hadpassed for those hours from his knowledge, as at the centre of a cyclonethere was a windless calm. To-morrow he knew he would pass out intothe 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 hisfather, who was coming up later in the day, when he told him that heintended to go back to his regiment as soon as possible. But, knowingthat he meant to go by the slow midday train, his father proposed tostop the express for him that went through a few minutes before. Michaelcould hardly believe his ears. . . . 

CHAPTER XV

It was but a day or two after the outbreak of the war that it wasbelieved that an expeditionary force was to be sent to France, to helpin arresting the Teutonic tide that was now breaking over Belgium; butno public and authoritative news came till after the first draft of theforce had actually set foot on French soil. From the regiment of theGuards which Michael had rejoined, Francis was among the first batch ofofficers to go, and that evening Michael took down the news to Sylvia. Already stories of German barbarity were rife, of women violated, ofdefenceless civilians being shot down for no object except to terrorise, and to bring home to the Belgians the unwisdom of presuming to cross thewill of the sovereign people. To-night, in the evening papers, there hadbeen a fresh batch of these revolting stories, and when Michael enteredthe studio where Sylvia and her mother were sitting, he saw the girl letdrop behind the sofa the paper she had been reading. He guessed what shemust have found there, for he had already seen the paper himself, andher silence, her distraction, and the misery of her face confirmed hisconjecture. 

"I've brought you a little news to-night, " he said. "The first draftfrom 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 sayI should feel safer if they didn't send our soldiers away. Where havethey gone to?"

"Destination unknown, " said Michael. "But it's France. My cousin hasgone. "

"Francis?" asked Sylvia. "Oh, how wicked to send boys like that. "

Michael saw that her nerves were sharply on edge. She had given him nogreeting, and now as he sat down she moved a little away from him. Sheseemed 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. Isaw 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 onbetter with her book, for she found conversation rather distracting. Butto-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 withMichael, for never had she done this before. Nor did it avail anythingnow, for Mrs. Falbe, who was quite determined to pursue her readingwithout delay, moved towards the door. 

"But I am sure Michael wants to talk to you, dear, " she said, "and youhave 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, thesilence in which they had so often sat together had taken on a perfectlydifferent 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 tohear about it. "

"I dined with Aunt Barbara, " said Michael. "She sent you her love. Shealso 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 haveguessed. She set every nerve in my body jangling last time I saw her bythe way she talked about Germans. And then suddenly she pulled herselfup and apologised, saying she had forgotten. That made it worse!Michael, when you are unhappy, kindness is even more intolerable thanunkindness. I would sooner have Lady Barbara abusing my people thansaying how sorry she is for me. Don't let's talk about it! Let's dosomething. 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 theartist was of no nationality. Let's begin quick. These are all Germansongs: 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 supposeart hasn't either, " he said. 

Sylvia pulled herself together, conscious of a want of control, and laidher hand on Michael's shoulder. 

"Oh, Michael, what should I do without you?" she said. "And yet--well, let me sing. "

She had placed a volume of Schubert on the music-stand, and opening itat random he found "Du Bist die Ruhe. " She sang the first verse, but inthe middle of the second she stopped. 

"I can't, " she said. "It's no use. "

He turned round to her. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry, " he said. "But you know that. "

She moved away from him, and walked down to the empty fireplace. 

"I can't keep silence, " she said, "though I know we settled not to talkof those things when necessarily we cannot feel absolutely at one. But, just before you came in, I was reading the evening paper. Michael, howcan the English be so wicked as to print, and I suppose to believe, those awful things I find there? You told me you had glanced at it. Well, did you glance at the lies they tell about German atrocities?"

"Yes, I saw them, " said Michael. "But it's no use talking about them. "

"But aren't you indignant?" she said. "Doesn't your blood boil to readof such infamous falsehoods? You don't know Germans, but I do, and it isimpossible that such things can have happened. "

Michael felt profoundly uncomfortable. Some of these stories whichSylvia called lies were vouched for, apparently, by respectabletestimony. 

"Why talk about them?" he said. "I'm sure we were wise when we settlednot to. "

She shook her head. 

"Well, I can't live up to that wisdom, " she said. "When I think of thiswar day and night and night and day, how can I prevent talking toyou about it? And those lies! Germans couldn't do such things. It's acampaign of hate against us, set up by the English Press. "

"I daresay the German Press is no better, " said Michael. 

"If that is so, I should be just as indignant about the German Press, "said she. "But it is only your guess that it is so. "

Suddenly she stopped, and came a couple of steps nearer him. 

"Michael, it isn't possible that you believe those things of us?" shesaid. 

He got up. 

"Ah, do leave it alone, Sylvia, " he said. "I know no more of the truthor falsity of it than you. I have seen just what you have seen in thepapers. "

"You don't feel the impossibility of it, then?" she asked. 

"No, I don't. There seems to have been sworn testimony. War is a cruelthing; I hate it as much as you. When men are maddened with war, youcan't tell what they would do. They are not the Germans you know, northe Germans I know, who did such things--not the people I saw when Iwas with Hermann in Baireuth and Munich a year ago. They are no more thesame than a drunken man is the same as that man when he is sober. Theyare two different people; drink has made them different. And war hasdone the same for Germany. "

He held out his hand to her. She moved a step back from him. 

"Then you think, I suppose, that Hermann may be concerned in thoseatrocities, " she said. 

Michael looked at her in amazement. 

"You are talking sheer nonsense, Sylvia, " he said. 

"Not at all. It is a logical inference, just an application of theprinciple you have stated. "

Michael's instinct was just to take her in his arms and make thefinal appeal, saying, "We love each other, that's all, " but his reasonprevented him. Sylvia had said a monstrous thing in cold blood, when shesuggested that he thought Hermann might be concerned in these deeds, andin cold blood, not by appealing to her emotions, must she withdraw that. 

"I'm not going to argue about it, " he said. "I want you to tell me atonce that I am right, that it was sheer nonsense, to put no other nameto it, when you suggested that I thought that of Hermann. "

"Oh, pray put another name to it, " she said. 

"Very well. It was a wanton falsehood, " said Michael, "and you know it. "

Truly this hellish nightmare of war and hate which had arisen broughtwith it a brood not less terrible. A day ago, an hour ago he would havemerely laughed at the possibility of such a situation between Sylvia andhimself. Yet here it was: they were in the middle of it now. 

She looked up at him flashing with indignation, and a retort as stingingas his rose to her lips. And then quite suddenly, all her anger wentfrom her, as her, heart told her, in a voice that would not be silenced, the complete justice of what he had said, and the appeal that Michaelrefrained from making was made by her to herself. Remorse held her onits spikes for her abominable suggestion, and with it came a senseof utter desolation and misery, of hatred for herself in having thusquietly and deliberately said what she had said. She could not accountfor it, nor excuse herself on the plea that she had spoken in passion, for she had spoken, as he felt, in cold blood. Hence came the misery inthe knowledge that she must have wounded Michael intolerably. 

Her lips so quivered that when she first tried to speak no words wouldcome. That she was truly ashamed brought no relief, no ease to hersurrender, for she knew that it was her real self who had spoken thusincredibly. But she could at least disown that part of her. 

"I beg your pardon, Michael, " she said. "I was atrocious. Will youforgive me? Because I am so miserable. "

He had nothing but love for her, love and its kinsman pity. 

"Oh, my dear, fancy you asking that!" he said. 

Just for the moment of their reconciliation, it seemed to both that theycame closer to each other than they had ever been before, and the chanceof the need of any such another reconciliation was impossible to theverge of laughableness, so that before five minutes were past he couldmake the smile break through her tears at the absurdity of the momentthat now seemed quite unreal. Yet that which was at the root of theirtemporary antagonism was not removed by the reconciliation; at mostthey had succeeded in cutting off the poisonous shoot that had suddenlysprouted from it. The truth of this in the days that followed washorribly demonstrated. 

It was not that they ever again came to the spoken bitterness of words, for the sharpness of them, once experienced, was shunned by each ofthem, but times without number they had to sheer off, and not approachthe ground where these poisoned tendrils trailed. And in that sense ofhaving to take care, to be watchful lest a chance word should bring theperil close to them, the atmosphere of complete ease and confidence, in which alone love can flourish, was tainted. Love was there, but itsflowers could not expand, it could not grow in the midst of this bitterair. And what made the situation more and increasingly difficult wasthe fact that, next to their love for each other, the emotion thatmost filled the mind of each was this sense of race-antagonism. It wasimpossible that the news of the war should not be mentioned, for thatwould have created an intolerable unreality, and all that was in theirpower was to avoid all discussion, to suppress from speech all thefeelings with which the news filled them. Every day, too, there camefresh stories of German abominations committed on the Belgians, and eachknew that the other had seen them, and yet neither could mention them. For while Sylvia could not believe them, Michael could not help doingso, and thus there was no common ground on which they could speak ofthem. Often Mrs. Falbe, in whose blood, it would seem, no sense ofrace beat at all, would add to the embarrassment by childlike comments, saying at one time in reference to such things that she made a point ofnot believing all she saw in the newspapers, or at another ejaculating, "Well, the Germans do seem to have behaved very cruelly again!" But noemotion appeared to colour these speeches, while all the emotion of theworld surged and bubbled behind the silence of the other two. 

Then followed the darkest days that England perhaps had ever known, whenthe German armies, having overcome the resistance of Belgium, suddenlyswept forward again across France, pushing before them like the jetsamand flotsam on the rim of the advancing tide the allied armies. Often inthese appalling weeks, Michael would hesitate as to whether he should goto see Sylvia or not, so unbearable seemed the fact that she did not andcould not feel or understand what England was going through. So farfrom blaming her for it, he knew that it could not be otherwise, for herblood called to her, even as his to him, while somewhere in the onrushof those advancing and devouring waves was her brother, with whom, so ithad often seemed to him, she was one soul. Thus, while in that his wholesympathy and whole comprehension of her love was with him, there was aswell all that deep, silent English patriotism of which till now he hadscarcely been conscious, praying with mute entreaty that disaster anddestruction and defeat might overwhelm those advancing hordes. Once, when the anxiety and peril were at their height, he made up his mind notto see her that day, and spent the evening by himself. But later, whenhe was actually on his way to bed, he knew he could not keep away fromher, and though it was already midnight, he drove down to Chelsea, andfound her sitting up, waiting for the chance of his coming. 

For a moment, as she greeted him and he kissed her silently, theyescaped from the encompassing horror. 

"Ah, you have come, " she said. "I thought perhaps you might. I havewanted you dreadfully. "

The roar of artillery, the internecine strife were still. Just for afew seconds there was nothing in the world for him but her, nor for heranything but him. 

"I couldn't go to bed without just seeing you, " he said. "I won't keepyou up. "

They stood with hands clasped. 

"But if you hadn't come, Michael, " she said, "I should have understood. "

And then the roar and the horror began again. Her words were thesimplest, the most directly spoken to him, yet could not but evoke thespectres that for the moment had vanished. She had meant to let herlove for him speak; it had spoken, and instantly through the momentarysunlight of it, there loomed the fierce and enormous shadow. It couldnot be banished from their most secret hearts; even when the doorswere shut and they were alone together thus, it made its entrance, ghost-like, terrible, and all love's bolts and bars could not keep itout. Here was the tragedy of it, that they could not stand embraced withclasped hands and look at it together and so rob it of its terrors, for, at the sight of it, their hands were loosened from each other's, and inits presence they were forced to stand apart. In his heart, as surelyas he knew her love, Michael knew that this great shadow under whichEngland lay was shot with sunlight for Sylvia, that the anxiety, theawful suspense that made his fingers cold as he opened the daily papers, brought into it to her an echo of victorious music that beat to thetramp of advancing feet that marched ever forward leaving the glitteringRhine leagues upon leagues in their rear. The Bavarian corps in whichHermann served was known to be somewhere on the Western front, forthe Emperor had addressed them ten days before on their departure fromMunich, and Sylvia and Michael were both aware of that. But theywho loved Hermann best could not speak of it to each other, and theknowledge of it had to be hidden in silence, as if it had been someguilty secret in which they were the terrified accomplices, instead ofits being a bond of love which bound them both to Hermann. 

In addition to the national anxiety, there was the suspense of thosewhose sons and husbands and fathers were in the fighting line. Columnsof casualty lists were published, and each name appearing there was asword that pierced a home. One such list, published early in September, was seen by Michael as he drove down on Sunday morning to spend the restof the day with Sylvia, and the first name that he read there was thatof Francis. For a moment, as he remembered afterwards, the print haddanced before his eyes, as if seen through the quiver of hot air. Thenit settled down and he saw it clearly. 

He turned and drove back to his rooms in Half Moon Street, feeling thatstrange craving for loneliness that shuns any companionship. He must, for a little, sit alone with the fact, face it, adjust himself to it. Till that moment when the dancing print grew still again he had not, inall the anxiety and suspense of those days, thought of Francis's deathas a possibility even. He had heard from him only two mornings before, in a letter thoroughly characteristic that saw, as Francis always saw, the pleasant and agreeable side of things. Washing, he had announced, was a delusion; after a week without it you began to wonder why you hadever made a habit of it. . . . They had had a lot of marching, alwaysin the wrong direction, but everyone knew that would soon be over. . . . Wasn't London very beastly in August? . . . Would Michael see if hecould get some proper cigarettes out to him? Here there was nothing butlittle black French affairs (and not many of them) which tied a knot inthe throat of the smoker. . . . And now Francis, with all his gaietyand his affection, and his light pleasant dealings with life, lay deadsomewhere on the sunny plains of France, killed in action by shellor bullet in the midst of his youth and strength and joy in life, togratify the damned dreams of the man who had been the honoured guestat Ashbridge, and those who had advised and flattered and at the endperhaps just used him as their dupe. To their insensate greed andswollen-headed lust for world-power was this hecatomb of sweet andpleasant lives offered, and in their onward course through the vinesand corn of France they waded through the blood of the slain whose onlycrime was that they had dared to oppose the will of Germany, as voicedby the War Lord. And as milestones along the way they had come were setthe records of their infamy, in rapine and ruthless slaughter of theinnocent. Just at first, as he sat alone in his room, Michael butcontemplated images that seemed to form in his mind without hisvolition, and, emotion-numb from the shock, they seemed external tohim. Sometimes he had a vision of Francis lying without mark or wound orviolence on him in some vineyard on the hill-side, with face as quietas in sleep turned towards a moonlit sky. Then came another picture, andFrancis was walking across the terrace at Ashbridge with his gunover his shoulder, towards Lord Ashbridge and the Emperor, who stoodtogether, just as Michael had seen the three of them when they camein from the shooting-party. As Francis came near, the Emperor put acartridge into his gun and shot him. . . . Yes, that was it: that waswhat had happened. The marvellous peacemaker of Europe, the fire-enginewho, as Hermann had said, was ready to put out all conflagrations, the fatuous mountebank who pretended to be a friend to England, whoconducted his own balderdash which he called music, had changed his roleand shown his black heart and was out to kill. 

Wild panoramas like these streamed through Michael's head, as ifprojected there by some magic lantern, and while they lasted he wasconscious of no grief at all, but only of a devouring hate for the mad, lawless butchers who had caused Francis's death, and willingly at thatmoment if he could have gone out into the night and killed a German, andmet his death himself in the doing of it, he would have gone to hisdoom as to a bridal-bed. But by degrees, as the stress of these unsoughtimaginings abated, his thoughts turned to Francis himself again, who, through all his boyhood and early manhood, had been to him a sort ofideal and inspiration. How he had loved and admired him, yet never witha touch of jealousy! And Francis, whose letter lay open by him on thetable, lay dead on the battlefields of France. There was the envelope, with the red square mark of the censor upon it, and the sheet with itsgay scrawl in pencil, asking for proper cigarettes. And, with a pangof remorse, all the more vivid because it concerned so trivial a thing, Michael recollected that he had not sent them. He had meant to do soyesterday afternoon but something had put it out of his head. Neveragain would Francis ask him to send out cigarettes. Michael laid hishead on his arms, so that his face was close to that pencilled note, andthe relief of tears came to him. 

Soon he raised himself again, not ashamed of his sorrow, but somehowashamed of the black hate that before had filled him. That was gone forthe present, anyhow, and Michael was glad to find it vanished. Insteadthere was an aching pity, not for Francis alone nor for himself, but forall those concerned in this hideous business. A hundred and a thousandhomes, thrown suddenly to-day into mourning, were there: no doubt therewere houses in that Bavarian village in the pine woods above which heand Hermann had spent the day when there was no opera at Baireuth wherea son or a brother or a father were mourned, and in the kinship ofsorrow he found himself at peace with all who had suffered loss, withall who were living through days of deadly suspense. There was nothingeffeminate or sentimental about it; he had never been manlier than inthis moment when he claimed his right to be one with them. It was rightto pause like this, with his hand clasped in the hands of friends andfoes alike. But without disowning that, he knew that Francis's death, which had brought that home to him, had made him eager also for his ownturn to come, when he would go out to help in the grim work that lay infront of him. He was perfectly ready to die if necessary, and if not, tokill as many Germans as possible. And somehow the two aspects of itall, the pity and the desire to kill, existed side by side, neitheroverlapping nor contradicting one another. 

His servant came into the room with a pencilled note, which he opened. It was from Sylvia. 

"Oh, Michael, I have just called and am waiting to know if you will seeme. I have seen the news, and I want to tell you how sorry I am. But ifyou don't care to see me I know you will say so, won't you?"

Though an hour before he had turned back on his way to go to Sylvia, hedid not hesitate now. 

"Yes, ask Miss Falbe to come up, " he said. 

She came up immediately, and once again as they met, the world and thewar stood apart from them. 

"I did not expect you to come, Michael, " she said, "when I saw the news. I did not mean to come here myself. But--but I had to. I had just tofind out whether you wouldn't see me, and let me tell you how sorry Iam. "

He smiled at her as they stood facing each other. 

"Thank you for coming, " he said; "I'm so glad you came. But I had to bealone just a little. "

"I didn't do wrong?" she asked. 

"Indeed you didn't. I did wrong not to come to you. I loved Francis, yousee. "

Already the shadow threatened again. It was just the fact that he lovedFrancis that had made it impossible for him to go to her, and he couldnot explain that. And as the shadow began to fall she gave a littleshudder. 

"Oh, Michael, I know you did, " she said. "It's just that which concernsus, that and my sympathy for you. He was such a dear. I only saw him, I know, once or twice, but from that I can guess what he was to you. Hewas a brother to you--a--a--Hermann. "

Michael felt, with Sylvia's hand in his, they were both runningdesperately away from the shadow that pursued them. Desperately he triedwith her to evade it. But every word spoken between them seemed but tobring it nearer to them. 

"I only came to say that, " she said. "I had to tell you myself, to seeyou as I told you, so that you could know how sincere, how heartfelt--"

She stopped suddenly. 

"That's all, my dearest, " she added. "I will go away again now. "

Across that shadow that had again fallen between them they looked andyearned for each other. 

"No, don't go--don't go, " he said. "I want you more than ever. We arehere, here and now, you and I, and what else matters in comparison ofthat? I loved Francis, as you know, and I love Hermann, but there is ourlove, the greatest thing of all. We've got it--it's here. Oh, Sylvia, wemust be wise and simple, we must separate things, sort them out, not letthem get mixed with one another. We can do it; I know we can. There'snothing outside us; nothing matters--nothing matters. "

There was just that ray of sun peering over the black cloud thatillumined their faces to each other, while already the sharp peakedshadow of it had come between them. For that second, while he spoke, itseemed possible that, in the middle of welter and chaos and death andenmity, these two souls could stand apart, in the passionate serene oflove, and the moment lasted for just as long as she flung herself intohis arms. And then, even while her face was pressed to his, and whilethe riotous blood of their pressed lips sang to them, the shadow fellacross them. Even as he asserted the inviolability of the sanctuary inwhich they stood, he knew it to be an impossible Utopia--that he shouldfind with her the peace that should secure them from the raging storm, the cold shadow--and the loosening of her arms about his neck butendorsed the message of his own heart. For such heavenly security cannotcome except to those who have been through the ultimate bitterness thatthe world can bring; it is not arrived at but through complete surrenderto the trial of fire, and as yet, in spite of their opposed patriotism, in spite of her sincerest sympathy with Michael's loss, the assaulton the most intimate lines of the fortress had not yet been delivered. Before they could reach the peace that passed understanding, a fiercerattack had to be repulsed, they had to stand and look at each otherunembittered across waves and billows of a salter Marah than this. 

But still they clung, while in their eyes there passed backwards andforwards the message that said, "It is not yet; it is not thus!" Theyhad been like two children springing together at the report of somethunder-clap, not knowing in the presence of what elemental outpouringof force they hid their faces together. As yet it but boomed on thehorizon, though messages of its havoc reached them, and the test wouldcome when it roared and lightened overhead. Already the tension of theapproaching tempest had so wrought on them that for a month past theyhad been unreal to each other, wanting ease, wanting confidence; andnow, when the first real shock had come, though for a moment it threwthem into each other's arms, this was not, as they knew, the real, thefinal reconciliation, the touchstone that proved the gold. Francis'sdeath, the cousin whom Michael loved, at the hands of one of the nationto whom Sylvia belonged, had momentarily made them feel that all elsebut their love was but external circumstance; and, even in the momentof their feeling this, the shadow fell again, and left them chilly andshivering. 

For a moment they still held each other round the neck and shoulder, then the hold slipped to the elbow, and soon their hands parted. As yetno word had been said since Michael asserted that nothing else mattered, and in the silence of their gradual estrangement the sanguine falsity ofthat grew and grew and grew. 

"I know what you feel, " she said at length, "and I feel it also. "

Her voice broke, and her hands felt for his again. 

"Michael, where are you?" she cried. "No, don't touch me; I didn't meanthat. Let's face it. For all we know, Hermann might have killed Francis. . . . Whether he did or not, doesn't matter. It might have been. It'slike that. "

A minute before Michael, in soul and blood and mind and bones, had saidthat nothing but Sylvia and himself had any real existence. He had clungto her, even as she to him, hoping that this individual love wouldprove itself capable of overriding all else that existed. But it had notneeded that she should speak to show him how pathetically he had erred. Before she had made a concrete instance he knew how hopeless his wishhad been: the silence, the loosening of hands had told him that. Andwhen she spoke there was a brutality in what she said, and worse thanthe brutality there was a plain, unvarnished truth. 

There was no question now of her going away at once, as she hadproposed, any more than a boat in the rapids, roared round by breakers, can propose to start again. They were in the middle of it, and soshort a way ahead was the cataract that ran with blood. On each sideat present were fine, green landing-places; he at the oar, she at thetiller, could, if they were of one mind, still put ashore, could runtheir boat in, declining the passage of the cataract with all its risks, its river of blood. There was but a stroke of the oar to be made, a pullon a rope of the rudder, and a step ashore. Here was a way out of thestorm and the rapids. 

A moment before, when, by their physical parting they had realisedthe strength of the bonds that held them apart this solution had notoccurred to Sylvia. Now, critically and forlornly hopeful, it flashedon her. She felt, she almost felt--for the ultimate decision rested withhim--that with him she would throw everything else aside, and escape, just escape, if so he willed it, into some haven of neutrality, wherehe and she would be together, leaving the rest of the world, her countryand his, to fight over these irreconcilable quarrels. It did not seem tomatter what happened to anybody else, provided only she and Michael weretogether, out of risk, out of harm. Other lives might be precious, otherideals and patriotisms might be at stake, but she wanted to be with himand nothing else at all. No tie counted compared to that; there was butone life given to man and woman, and now that her individual happiness, the individual joy of her love, was at stake, she felt, even as Michaelhad said, that nothing else mattered, that they would be right torealise themselves at any cost. 

She took his hands again. 

"Listen to me, Michael, " she said. "I can't bear any longer that thesehorrors should keep rising up between us, and, while we are here in themiddle of it all, it can't be otherwise. I ask you, then, to come awaywith me, to leave it all behind. It is not our quarrel. Already Hermannhas gone; I can't lose you too. "

She looked up at him for a moment, and then quickly away again, for shefelt her case, which seemed to her just now so imperative, slipping awayfrom her in that glance she got of his eyes, that, for all the love thatburned there, were blank with astonishment. She must convince him; buther own convictions were weak when she looked at him. 

"Don't answer me yet, " she said. "Hear what I have to say. Don't yousee that while we are like this we are lost to each other? And as youyourself said just now, nothing matters in comparison to our love. Iwant you to take me away, out of it all, so that we can find each otheragain. These horrors thwart and warp us; they spoil the best thing thatthe world holds for us. My patriotism is just as sound as yours, butI throw it away to get you. Do the same, then. You can get out of yourservice somehow. . . . "

And then her voice began to falter. 

"If you loved me, you would do it, " she said. "If--"

And then suddenly she found she could say no more at all. She had hopedthat when she stated these things she would convince him, and, behold, all she had done was to shake her own convictions so that they fellclattering round her like an unstable card-house. Desperately she lookedagain at him, wondering if she had convinced him at all, and then againshe looked, wondering if she should see contempt in his eyes. After thatshe stood still and silent, and her face flamed. 

"Do you despise me, Michael?" she said. 

He gave a little sigh of utter content. 

"Oh, my dear, how I love you for suggesting such a sweet impossibility, "he said. "But how you would despise me if I consented. "

She did not answer. 

"Wouldn't you?" he repeated. 

She gave a sorrowful semblance of a laugh. 

"I suppose I should, " she said. 

"And I know you would. You would contrast me in your mind, whetheryou wished to or not, with Hermann, with poor Francis, sorely to mydisadvantage. "

They sat silent a little, but there was another question Sylvia had toask for which she had to collect her courage. At last it came. 

"Have they told you yet when you are going?" she said. 

"Not for certain. But--it will be before many days are passed. And thequestion arises--will you marry me before I go?"

She hid her face on his shoulder. 

"I will do what you wish, " she said. 

"But I want to know your wish. "

She clung closer to him. 

"Michael, I don't think I could bear to part with you if we weremarried, " she said. "It would be worse, I think, than it's going to be. But I intend to do exactly what you wish. You must tell me. I'm going toobey you before I am your wife as well as after. "

Michael had long debated this in his mind. It seemed to him that ifhe came back, as might easily happen, hopelessly crippled, incurablyinvalid, it would be placing Sylvia in an unfairly difficult position, if she was already his wife. He might be hideously disfigured; she wouldbe bound to but a wreck of a man; he might be utterly unfit to be herhusband, and yet she would be tied to him. He had already talked thequestion over with his father, who, with that curious posthumous anxietyto have a further direct heir, had urged that the marriage should takeplace at once; but with his own feeling on the subject, as well asSylvia's, he at once made up his mind. 

"I agree with you, " he said. "We will settle it so, then. "

She smiled at him. 

"How dreadfully business-like, " she said, with an attempt at lightness. 

"I know. It's rather a good thing one has got to be business-like, when--"

That failed also, and he drew her to him and kissed her. 

CHAPTER XVI

Michael was sitting in the kitchen of a French farm-house just outsidethe village of Laires, some three miles behind the English front. Thekitchen door was open, and on the flagged floor was cast an oblong ofprimrose-coloured November sunshine, warm and pleasant, so that thebluebottle flies buzzed hopefully about it, settling occasionally onthe cracked green door, where they cleaned their wings, and generallyfurbished themselves up, as if the warmth was that of a spring day thatpromised summer to follow. They were there in considerable numbers, for just outside in the cobbled yard was a heap of manure, where theyhungrily congregated. Against the white-washed wall of the house therelay a fat sow, basking contentedly, and snorting in her dreams. Theyard, bounded on two sides by the house walls, was shut in on the thirdby a row of farm-sheds, and the fourth was open. Just outside it stooda small copse half flooded with the brimming water of a sluggish streamthat meandered by the side of the farm-road leading out of the yard, which turned to the left, and soon joined the highway. This farm-roadwas partly under water, though not deeply, so that by skirting along itsraised banks it was possible to go dry-shod to the highway underneathwhich the stream passed in a brick culvert. 

Through the kitchen window, set opposite the door, could be seen a broadstretch of country of the fenland type, flat and bare, and intersectedwith dykes, where sedges stirred slightly in the southerly breeze. Hereand there were pools of overflowed rivulets, and here and there wereplantations of stunted hornbeam, the russet leaves of which stillclung thickly to them. But in the main it was a bare and empty land, featureless and stolid. 

Just below the kitchen window there was a plot of cultivated ground, thriftily and economically used for the growing of vegetables. Concession, however, was made to the sense of brightness and beauty, foron each side of the path leading up to the door ran a row of Michaelmasdaisies, rather battered by the fortnight of rain which had precededthis day of still warm sun, but struggling bravely to shake off theeffect of the adverse conditions under which they had laboured. 

The kitchen itself was extremely clean and orderly. Its flagged floorwas still damp and brown in patches from the washing it had received twohours before; but the draught between open window and open door was fastdrying it. Down the centre of the room was a deal table without a cloth, on which were laid some half-dozen places, each marked with a knife andfork and spoon and a thick glass, ready for the serving of the middaymeal. On the white-washed walls hung two photographs of family groups, in one of which appeared the father and mother and three littlechildren, in the other the same personages some ten years later, and alithograph of the Blessed Virgin. On each side of the table was adeal bench, at the head and foot two wooden armchairs. A dresser stoodagainst the wall, on the floor by the oven was a frayed rug, and mostimportant of all, to Michael's mind, was a big stewpot that stood onthe top of the oven. From time to time a fat, comfortable Frenchwomanbustled in, and took off the lid of this to stir it, or placed on thedresser a plate of cheese, or a loaf of freshly cooked brown bread. Twoor three of Michael's brother-officers were there, one sitting in thepatch of sunlight with his back against the green door, another on thestep outside. The post had come in not long before, and all of them, Michael included, were occupied with letters and papers. 

To-day there happened to be no letters for Michael, and the paper whichhe glanced at seemed a very feeble effort in the way of entertainment. There was no news in it, except news about the war, which here, out atthe front, did not interest him in the least. Perhaps in England peopleliked to know that a hundred yards of trenches had been taken at oneplace, and that three German attacks had failed at another; but whenyou were actually engaged (or had been or would soon again be) in takingpart in those things, it seemed a waste of paper and compositor'stime to record them. There was a column of letters also from indignantBritons, using violent language about the crimes and treachery ofGermany. That also was uninteresting and far-fetched. Nothing thatGermany had done mattered the least. There was no use in arguing andslinging wild expressions about; it was a stale subject altogetherwhen you were within earshot of that incessant booming of guns. All themorning that had gone on without break, and no doubt they would get newsof what had happened before they set out again that evening for anotherspell in the trenches. But in all probability nothing particular hadhappened. Probably the London papers would record it next day, a furthertediousness on their part. It would be much more interesting to hearwhat was going on there, whether there were any new plays, whether therehad been any fresh concerts, what the weather was like, or even who hadbeen lunching at Prince's, or dining at the Carlton. 

He put down his uninteresting paper, and strolled out into the farmyard, stepping over the legs of the junior officer who blocked the doorway, and did not attempt to move. On the doorstep was sitting a major of hisregiment, who, more politely, shifted his place a little so that Michaelshould pass. Outside the smell of manure was acrid but not unpleasant, the old sow grunted in her sleep, and one of the green shutters outsidethe upper windows slowly blew to. There was someone inside the roomapparently, for the moment after a hand and arm bare to the elbow wereprotruded, and fastened the latch of the shutter, so that it should notmove again. 

A little further on was a rail that separated the copse from theroadway, and here out of the wind Michael sat down, and lit a cigaretteto stop his yearning for the bubbling stewpot, which would not bebroached for half an hour yet. The day, he believed, was Wednesday, but the whole quiet of the place, apart from that drowsy booming onthe eastern horizon, made it feel like Sunday. Nobody but the fatFrenchwoman who bustled about had anything to do; there was a Sabbathleisure about everything, about the dozing sow, the buzzing flies, thelounging figures that read letters and papers. When last they were here, it is true, there were rather more of them. Eight officers had beenbilleted here last week, before they had been in the trenches and nowthere were but six. This evening they would set out again for anotherforty-eight hours in that hellish inferno, but to-morrow a fresh draftwas arriving, so that when next they foregathered here, whatever hadhappened in the interval, there would probably be at least six of them. 

It did not seem to matter much what six there would be, or whether therewould be more than six or less. All that mattered at this moment, as heinhaled the first incense of his cigarette, was that the rain wasover for the present, that the sun shone from a blue sky, that he feltextraordinarily well and tranquil, and that dinner would soon beready. But of all these agreeable things what pleased him most was thetranquillity; to be alive here with the manure heap steaming in thesun, and the sow asleep by the house wall, and swallows settling on theeaves, was "Paradise enow. " Somewhere deep down in him were streams ofyearning and of horror, flowing like an underground river in the dark. He yearned for Sylvia, he thought with horror of the two days in thetrenches that had preceded this rest in the white-washed farm-house, andwith horror he thought of the days and nights that would succeed it. Butboth horror and yearnings were stupefied by the content that flooded thepresent moment. No doubt it was reaction from what had gone before, butthe reaction was complete. Just now he asked for nothing but to sit inthe sun and smoke his cigarette, and wait for dinner. As far as he knewhe did not think of anything particular; he just existed in the sun. 

The wind must have shifted a little, for before long it came roundthe corner of the house, and slightly spoiled the mellow warmth of thesunshine. This would never do. The Epicurean in him revolted at the ideaof losing a moment of this complete well-being, and arguing that if thewind blew here, it must be dead calm below the kitchen window on theother side of the house, he got off his rail and walked along theslippery bank at the edge of the flooded road in order to go there. Itwas hard to keep his footing here, and his progress was slow, but hefelt he would take any amount of trouble to avoid getting his feet wetin the flooded road. Then there was a patch of kitchen-garden to cross, where the mud clung rather annoyingly to his instep, and, having gainedthe garden path, he very carefully wiped his boots and with a fallentwig dug away the clots of soil that stuck to the instep. 

He found that he had been quite right in supposing that the air wouldbe windless here, and full of great content he sat down with his backto the house wall. A tortoise-shell butterfly, encouraged by the warmth, was flitting about among the Michaelmas daisies that bordered the pathand settling on them, opening its wings to the genial sun. Two or threebees buzzed there also; the summer-like tranquillity inserted into themiddle of November squalls and rain, deluded them as well as Michaelinto living completely in the present hour. Gnats hovered about. Onesettled on Michael's hand, where he instantly killed it, and was sorryhe had done so. For the time the booming of guns which had soundedincessantly all the morning to the east, stopped altogether, andabsolute quiet reigned. Had he not been so hungry, and so unable to getthe idea of the stewpot out of his head, Michael would have been contentto sit with his back to the sun-warmed wall for ever. 

The high-road, raised and embanked above the low-lying fields, raneastwards in an undeviating straight line. Just opposite the farm werethe last outlying huts of the village, and from there onwards it layuntenanted. But before many minutes were passed, the quiet of the autumnnoon began to be overscored by distant humming, faint at first, and thenquickly growing louder, and he saw far away a little brown speck comingswiftly towards him. It turned out to be a dispatch-rider, mounted on amotor-bicycle, who with a hoot of his horn roared westward throughthe village. Immediately afterwards another humming, steadier andmore sonorous, grew louder, and Michael, recognising it, looked upinstinctively into the blue sky overhead, as an English aeroplane, flying low, came from somewhere behind, and passed directly over him, going eastwards. Before long it stopped its direct course, and began tomount in spirals, and when at a sufficient height, it resumed its onwardjourney towards the German lines. Then three or four privates, billetedin the village, and now resting after duty in the trenches, strolledalong the road, laughing and talking. They sat down not a hundred yardsfrom Michael and one began to whistle "Tipperary. " Another and anothertook it up until all four were engaged on it. It was not preciselyin tune nor were the performers in unison, but it produced a vaguelypleasant effect, and if not in tune with the notes as the composer wrotethem, the sight and sound of those four whistling and idle soldiers wasin tune with the air of security of Sunday morning. 

Something far down the road caught Michael's eye, some moving lineof brown wagons. As they came nearer he saw that they were themotor-ambulances of the Red Cross, moving slowly along the ruts andholes which the traffic had worn, so that the occupants should sufferas little jolting as was possible. They carried no doubt the wounded whohad been taken from the trenches last night, and now, after callingfor them at the first dressing station in the rear of the lines, wereremoving them to hospital. As they passed the four men sitting by theroadside, one of them shouted, "Cheer, oh, mates!" and then they fellto whistling "Tipperary" again. Then, oh, blessed moment! the fatFrenchwoman looked out of the kitchen window just above his head. 

"Diner, m'sieu, " she said, and Michael, without another thought ofambulance or aeroplane, scrambled to his feet. Somewhere in the middledistance of his mind he was sorry that this tranquil morning was over, just as below in the darkness of it there ran those streams of yearningand of horror, but all his ordinary work-a-day self was occupied withthe immediate prospect of the stewpot. It was some sort of a ragout, heknew, and he lusted for it. Red wine of the country would be there, and cheese and new brown bread. . . . It surprised him to find howcompletely his bodily needs and the pleasure of their gratification hadpossession of him. 

They were under orders to go back to the trenches shortly after sunset, and when their meal was over there remained but an hour or two beforethey had to start. The warmth and glory of the day was already gone, and streamers of cloud were beginning to form over the open sky. All afternoon these thickened till a dull layer of grey had thicklyoverspread the heavens and below that arch of vapour that cut offthe sun the wind was blowing chilly. With that change in the weather, Michael's mood changed also, and the horror of the return to thetrenches began to come to the surface. He was not as yet aware of anyphysical fear of death or of wound, rather, the feeling was one of somemental and spiritual shrinking from the whole of this vast business ofmurder, where hundreds and thousands of men along the battle front thatstretched half-way across Europe, were employed, day and night, withouthaving any quarrel with each other, in the unsleeping vigilant work ofkilling. Most of them in all probability, were quite decent fellows, like those four who had whistled "Tipperary" together, and yet they werespending months of young, sweet life up to the knees in water, in fouland ill-smelling trenches in order to kill others whom they had neverseen except as specks on the sights of their rifles. Somewhere behindthat gruesome business, as he knew, there stood the Cause, calm andserene, like some great statue, which made this insensate murderingnecessary; but just for an hour to-day, as he waited till they had to beon the move again, he found himself unable to make real to his own mindthe existence of that cause, and could not see beyond the bloody andhideous things that resulted from it. 

Then, in this inaction of waiting, an attack of mere physical cowardiceseized him, and he found himself imagining the mutilation and torturethat perhaps awaited him personally in those deathly ditches. He triedto busy himself with the preparation of the few things that he wouldtake with him, he tried to encourage himself by remembering that in hisprevious experiences there he had not been conscious of any fear, bytelling himself that these were only the unreal anticipations that werealways ready to pounce on one even before such mildly alarming affairsas a visit to the dentist; but in spite of his efforts, he found hishands growing clammy and cold at the thoughts which beset his brain. What if there happened to him what had happened to another juniorofficer who was close to him at the moment, when a fragment of shellturned him from a big gay boy into a writhing bundle at the bottom ofthe trench! He had lived for a couple of hours like that, moaning andcrying out, "For God's sake kill me!" What if, more mercifully, he waskilled outright, so that he would lie there in peace till next nightthey removed his body, or perhaps had to bury him in the trench itself, with a dozen handfuls of soil cast over him! At that he suddenlyrealised how passionately he wanted to live, to escape from thisinfernal butchery, to be safe again, gloriously or ingloriously, itmattered not which, to be with Sylvia once more. He told himself thathe had been an utter fool ever to re-enter the army again like this. He could certainly have got some appointment as dispatch-carrier or hadhimself attached to the headquarters staff, or even have shuffled out ofit altogether. . . . But, above all, he wanted Sylvia; he wanted to beallowed to lead the ordinary human life, safely and securely, with thegirl he loved, and with the musical pursuits that were his passion. He had hated soldiering in times of peace; he found now that he wasterrified of it in times of war. He felt physically sick, as with coldhands and trembling knees he stood and waited, lighting cigarettes andthrowing them away, in front of the kitchen fire, where the stewpotwas already bubbling again for those lucky devils who would return hereto-night. 

The Major of his company was sitting in the window watching him, thoughMichael was unaware of it. Suddenly he got up, and came across to thefire, and put his hand on his shoulder. 

"Don't mind it, Comber, " he said quietly. "We all get a touch of itsometimes. But you'll find it will pass all right. It's the waitingdoing nothing that does it. "

That touched Michael absolutely in the right place. 

"Thanks awfully, sir, " he said. 

"Not a bit. But it's damned beastly while it lasts. You'll be all rightwhen we move. Don't forget to take your fur coat up if you've got one. We shall have a cold night. "

Just after sunset they set out, marching in the gathering dusk down theroad eastwards, where in a mile or two they would strike the huge rabbitwarren of trenches that joined the French line to the north and south. Once or twice they had to open out and go by the margin of the road tolet ambulances or commissariat wagon go by, but there was but littletraffic here, as the main lines of communication lay on other roads. High above them, scarcely visible in the dusk, an English aeroplanedroned back from its reconnaissance, and once there was the order givento scatter over the fields as a German Taube passed across them. Thiscaused much laughter and chaff among the men, and Michael heard onesay, "Dove they call it, do they? I'd like to make a pigeon-pie ofthem doves. " Soon they scrambled back on to the road again, and theinterminable "Tipperary" was resumed, in whistle and song. Michaelremembered how Aunt Barbara had heard it at a music-hall, and had spokenof it as a new and catchy tune which you could carry away with you. Nowadays, it carried you away. It had become the audible soul of theBritish army. 

The trench which Michael's company were to occupy for the nextforty-eight hours was in the first firing-line, and to reach it they hadto pass in single file up a mile of communication trenches, fromwhich on all sides, like a vast rabbit warren, there opened out othergalleries and passages that led to different parts of this net-workof the lines. It ran not in a straight line but in short sections withangles intervening, so under no circumstances could any considerablelength of it be enfiladed, and was lit here and there by little oillamps placed in embrasures in one or other wall of it, or for somedistance at a time it was dark except for the vague twilight of thecloudy sky overhead. Then again, as they approached the firing-line, itwould suddenly become intensely bright, when from the English lines, orfrom those of the Germans which lay not more than two hundred yardsin front of them, a fireball or star-shell was sent up, that causedeverything it shone upon to leap into vivid illumination. Usually, whenthis happened, there came from one side or the other a volley of rifleshots, that sounded like the crack of stock-whips, and once or twice abullet passed over their heads with the buzz as of some vicious stinginginsect. Here and there, where the bottom lay in soft and clayey soil, they walked through mud that came half-way up to the knee, and each foothad to be lifted with an effort, and was set free with a smacking suck. Elsewhere, if the ground was gravelly, the rain which for two dayspreviously had been incessant, had drained off, and the going was easy. But whether the path lay over dry or soft places the air was sick withsome stale odour which the breeze that swept across the lines from thesouth-east could not carry away. There was a perpetual pervading reekthat flowed along from the entrance of trenches to right and left, thatreminded Michael of the smell of a football scrimmage on a wet day, laden with the odours of sweat and dripping clothes, and somethingdeadlier and more acrid. Sometimes they passed under a section coveredin with boards, over which the earth and clods of turf had beenreplaced, so that reconnoitring aeroplanes should not so easily spy itout, and here from dark excavations the smell hung overpoweringly. Nowand then the ground over which they passed yielded uneasily to the foot, where lay, only lightly covered over, some corpse which it had beenimpossible to remove, and from time to time they passed a huddled bundleof khaki not yet taken away. But except for the artillery duel thatday they had heard going on that morning, the last day or two had beenquiet, and the wounded had all been got out, and for the most part thedead also. 

After a long tramp in this communication trench they made a sharp turnto the right, and entered that which they were going to hold forthe next forty-eight hours. Here they relieved the regiment thathad occupied it till now, who filed out as they came in. Along it atintervals were excavations dug out in the side, some propped up withboards and posts, others, where the ground was of sufficiently holdingcharacter, just scooped out. In front, towards the German lines ran aparapet of excavated earth, with occasional peep-holes bored in it, sothat the sentry going his rounds could look out and see if there wasany sign of movement from opposite without showing his head above theentrenchment. But even this was a matter of some risk, since the enemyhad located these peep-holes, and from time to time fired a shot from afixed rifle that came straight through them and buried its bullet in thehinder wall of the trench. Other spy-holes were therefore being made, but these were not yet finished, and for the present till they were dug, it was necessary to use the old ones. The trench, like all the others, was excavated in short, zigzag lengths, so that no point, either toright or left, commanded more than a score of yards of it. 

In front, from just outside the parapet to a depth of some twenty yards, stretched the spider-web of wire entanglements, and a little fartherdown on the right there had been a copse of horn-beam saplings. Anattempt had been made by the enemy during the morning to capture andentrench this, thus advancing their lines, but the movement had beenseen, and the artillery fire, which had been so incessant all themorning, denoted the searching of this and the rendering of ituntenable. How thorough that searching had been was clear, for thatwhich had been an acre of wood was now but a heap of timber fit only forfaggots. Scarcely a tree was left standing, and Michael, looking outof one of the peep-holes by the light of a star-shell saw that the wireentanglements were thick with leaves that the wind and the firing haddetached from the broken branches. In turn, the wire entanglements hadcome in for some shelling by the enemy, and a squad of men were out nowunder cover of the darkness repairing these. There was a slight dip inthe ground here, and by crouching and lying they were out of sight ofthe trenches opposite; but there were some snipers in that which hadbeen a wood, from whom there came occasional shots. Then, from lowerdown to the right, there came a fusillade from the English linessuddenly breaking out, and after a few minutes as suddenly stoppingagain. But the sniping from the wood had ceased. 

Michael did not come on duty till six in the morning, and for thepresent he had nothing to do except eat his rations and sleep as well ashe could in his dug-out. He had plenty of room to stretch his legs if hesat half upright, and having taken his Major's advice in the matter ofbringing his fur coat with him, he found himself warm enough, in spiteof the rather bitter wind that, striking an angle in the trench wall, eddied sharply into his retreat, to sleep. But not less justified thanthe advice to bring his fur coat was his Major's assurance that theattack of the horrors which had seized him after dinner that day, wouldpass off when the waiting was over. Throughout the evening hisnerves had been perfectly steady, and, when in their progress up thecommunication trench they had passed a man half disembowelled by afragment of a shell, and screaming, or when, as he trod on one of theuneasy places an arm had stirred and jerked up suddenly through thehandful of earth that covered it, he had no first-hand sense of horror:he felt rather as if those things were happening not to him but tosomeone else, and that, at the most, they were strange and odd, but nolonger horrible. But now, when reinforced by food again and comfortablebeneath his fur cloak he let his mind do what it would, not checkingit, but allowing it its natural internal activity, he found that a moodtranscending any he had known yet was his. So far from these experiencesbeing terrifying, so far from their being strange and unreal, theysuddenly became intensely real and shone with a splendour that he hadnever suspected. Originally he had been pitchforked by his father intothe army, and had left it to seek music. Sense of duty had made it easyfor him to return to it at a time of national peril; but during all thebitter anxiety of that he had never, as in the light of the perceptionthat came to him now, as the wind whistled round him in the dim litdarkness, had a glimpse of the glory of service to his country. Here, out in this small, evil-smelling cavern, with the whole grim business ofwar going on round him, he for the first time fully realised the realityof it all. He had been in the trenches before, but until now that hadseemed some vague, evil dream, of which he was incredulous. Now in thedarkness the darkness cleared, and the knowledge that this was the verything itself, that a couple of hundred yards away were the lines of theenemy, whose power, for the honour of England and for the freedom ofEurope, had to be broken utterly, filled him with a sense of firm, indescribable joy. The minor problems which had worried him, the factof millions of treasure that might have fed the poor and needy over allBritain for a score of years, being outpoured in fire and steel, thefact of thousands of useful and happy lives being sacrificed, of widowsand orphans and childless mothers growing ever a greater company--allthese things, terrible to look at, if you looked at them alone, sankquietly into their sad appointed places when you looked at the thingentire. His own case sank there, too; music and life and love for whichhe would so rapturously have lived, were covered up now, and at thismoment he would as rapturously have died, if, by his death, he couldhave served in his own infinitesimal degree, the cause he fought for. 

The hours went on, whether swiftly or slowly he did not consider. The wind fell, and for some minutes a heavy shower of rain plumpedvertically into the trench. Once during it a sudden illumination blazedin the sky, and he saw the pebbles in the wall opposite shining withthe fresh-falling drops. There were a dozen rifle-shots and he sawthe sentry who had just passed brushing the edge of his coat againstMichael's hand, pause, and look out through the spy-hole close by, andsay something to himself. Occasionally he dozed for a little, and wokeagain from dreaming of Sylvia, into complete consciousness of where hewas, and of that superb joy that pervaded him. By and by these dozingsgrew longer, and the intervals of wakefulness less, and for a couple ofhours before he was roused he slept solidly and dreamlessly. 

His spell of duty began before dawn, and he got up to go his rounds, rather stiff and numb, and his sleep seemed to have wearied ratherthan refreshed him. In that hour of early morning, when vitality burnslowest, and the dying part their hold on life, the thrill that hadpossessed him during the earlier hours of the night, had died down. Heknew, having once felt it, that it was there, and believed that it wouldcome when called upon; but it had drowsed as he slept, and was overlaidby the sense of the grim, inexorable side of the whole business. Adisconcerting bullet was plugged through a spy-hole the second afterhe had passed it; it sounded not angry, but merely business-like, andMichael found himself thinking that shots "fired in anger, " as thephrase went, were much more likely to go wide than shots fired calmly. . . . That, in his sleepy brain, did not sound nonsense: it seemed tocontain some great truth, if he could bother to think it out. 

But for that, all was quiet again, and he had returned to his dug-out, just noticing that the dawn was beginning to break, for the cloudsoverhead were becoming visible in outline with the light that filteredthrough them, and on their thinner margin turning rose-grey, when thealarm of an attack came down the line. Instantly the huddled, sleepingbodies that lay at the side of the trench started into being, and in themoment's pause that followed, Michael found himself fumbling at the buttof his revolver, which he had drawn out of its case. For that one momenthe heard his heart thumping in his throat, and felt his mouth growdry with some sudden panic fear that came from he knew not where, andinvaded him. A qualm of sickness took him, something gurgled in histhroat, and he spat on the floor of the trench. All this passed in onesecond, for at once he was master of himself again, though not master ofa savage joy that thrilled him--the joy of this chance of killing thosewho fought against the peace and prosperity of the world. There was anattack coming out of the dark, and thank God, he was among those who hadto meet it. 

He gave the order that had been passed to him, and on the word, thissection of the trench was lined with men ready to pour a volley over thelow parapet. He was there, too, wildly excited, close to the spy-holethat now showed as a luminous disc against the blackness of the trench. He looked out of this, and in the breaking dawn he saw nothing butthe dark ground of the dip in front, and the level lines of the Germantrenches opposite. Then suddenly the grey emptiness was peopled; theresprang from the earth the advance line of the surprise, who began hewinga way through the entanglements, while behind the silhouette of thetrenches was broken into a huddled, heaving line of men. Then came theorder to fire, and he saw men dropping and falling out of sight, andothers coming on, and yet again others. These, again, fell, but others(and now he could see the gleam of bayonets) came nearer, bursting andcutting their way through the wires. Then, from opposite to right andleft sounded the crack of rifles, and the man next to Michael gave onegrunt, and fell back into the trench, moving no more. 

Just immediately opposite were the few dozen men whose part it was tocut through the entanglements. They kept falling and passing out ofsight, while others took their places. And then, for some reason, Michael found himself singling out just one of these, much in advance ofthe others, who was now close to the parapet. He was coming straight onhim, and with a leap he cleared the last line of wire and towered abovehim. Michael shot him with his revolver as he stood but three yards fromhim, and he fell right across the parapet with head and shoulders insidethe trench. And, as he dropped, Michael shouted, "Got him!" and then helooked. It was Hermann. 

Next moment he had scaled the side of the trench and, exerting allhis strength, was dragging him over into safety. The advance of thissection, who were to rush the trench, had been stopped, and again fromright and left the rifle-fire poured out on the heads that appearedabove the parapet. That did not seem to concern him; all he had to dothat moment was to get Hermann out of fire, and just as he dragged hislegs over the parapet, so that his weight fell firm and solid on tohim, he felt what seemed a sharp tap on his right arm, and could notunderstand why it had become suddenly powerless. It dangled loosely fromsomewhere above the elbow, and when he tried to move his hand he foundhe could not. 

Then came a stab of hideous pain, which was over almost as soon as hehad felt it, and he heard a man close to him say, "Are you hit, sir?"

It was evident that this surprise attack had failed, for five minutesafterwards all was quiet again. Out of the grey of dawn it had come, andbefore dawn was rosy it was over, and Michael with his right arm numbbut for an occasional twinge of violent agony that seemed to him morelike a scream or a colour than pain, was leaning over Hermann, who layon his back quite still, while on his tunic a splash of blood slowlygrew larger. Dawn was already rosy when he moved slightly and opened hiseyes. 

"Lieber Gott, Michael!" he whispered, his breath whistling in histhroat. "Good morning, old boy!"

CHAPTER XVII

Three weeks later, Michael was sitting in his rooms in Half Moon Street, where he had arrived last night, expecting Sylvia. Since that attack atdawn in the trenches, he had been in hospital in France while his armwas mending. The bone had not been broken, but the muscles had been sobadly torn that it was doubtful whether he would ever recover more thana very feeble power in it again. In any case, it would take many monthsbefore he recovered even the most elementary use of it. 

Those weeks had been a long-drawn continuous nightmare, not from theeffect of the injury he had undergone, nor from any nervous breakdown, but from the sense of that which inevitably hung over him. For he knew, by an inward compulsion of his mind that admitted of no argument, thathe had to tell Sylvia all that had happened in those ten minutes whilethe grey morning grew rosy. This sense of compulsion was deaf to allreasoning, however plausible. He knew perfectly well that unless he toldSylvia who it was whom he had shot at point-blank range, as he leapedthe last wire entanglement, no one else ever could. Hermann was buriednow in the same grave as others who had fallen that morning: his namewould be given out as missing from the Bavarian corps to which hebelonged, and in time, after the war was over, she would grow to believethat she would never see him again. 

But the sheer impossibility of letting this happen, though it entailednothing on him except the mere abstention from speech, took away theslightest temptation that silence offered. He knew that again and againSylvia would refer to Hermann, wondering where he was, praying for hissafety, hoping perhaps even that, like Michael, he would be wounded andthus escape from the inferno at the front, and it was so absolutelyout of the question that he should listen to this, try to offer littleencouragements, wonder with her whether he was not safe, that evenin his most depressed and shrinking hours he never for a momentcontemplated silence. Certainly he had to tell her that Hermann wasdead, and to account for the fact that he knew him to be dead. Andin the long watches of the wakeful night, when his mind moved in thetwilight of drowsiness and fever and pain, it was here that a certaintemptation entered. For it was easy to say (and no one could evercontradict him) that some man near him, that one perhaps who had fallenback with a grunt, had killed Hermann on the edge of the trench. Humanlyspeaking, there was no chance at all of that innocent falsehood beingdisproved. In the scurry and wild confusion of the attack none but hewould remember exactly what had happened, and as he thought of thattossing and turning, it seemed to one part of his mind that theinnocence of that falsehood would even be laudable, be heroic. It wouldsave Sylvia the horrible shock of knowing that her lover had killed herbrother; it would save her all that piercing of the iron into her soulthat must inevitably be suffered by her if she knew the truth. And whocould tell what effect the knowledge of the truth would have on her?Michael felt that it was at the least possible that she could never bearto see him again, still less sleep in the arms of the one who had killedher brother. That knowledge, even if she could put it out of mind inpity and sorrow for Michael, would surely return and return again, and tear her from him sobbing and trembling. There was all to riskin telling her the truth; sorrow and bitterness for her and for himseparation and a lifelong regret were piled up in the balance againstthe unknown weight of her love. Indeed, there was love on both sides ofthat balance. Who could tell how the gold weighed against the gold?

Yet, after those drowsy, pain-streaked nights, when the sober light ofdawn crept in at the windows, then, morning after morning, Michael knewthat the inward compulsion was in no way weakened by all the reasonsthat he had urged. It remained ruthless and tender, a still small voicethat was heard after the whirlwind and the fire. For the very reason whyhe longed to spare Sylvia this knowledge, namely, that they loved eachother, was precisely the reason why he could not spare her. Yet itseemed so wanton, so useless, so unreasonable to tell her, so laden witha risk both for him and her that no standard could measure. But he nomore contemplated--except in vain imagination--making up some ingeniousstory of this kind which would account for his knowledge of Hermann'sdeath than he contemplated keeping silence altogether. It was notpossible for him not to tell her everything, though, when he picturedhimself doing so, he found himself faced by what seemed an inevitableimpossibility. Though he did not see how his lips could frame the words, he knew they had to. Yet he could not but remember how mere reports inthe paper, stories of German cruelty and what not, had overclouded theserenity of their love. What would happen when this news, no report orhearsay, came to her?

He had not heard her foot on the stairs, nor did she wait for hisservant to announce her; but, a little before her appointed time, sheburst in upon him midway between smiles and tears, all tenderness. 

"Michael, my dear, my dear, " she cried, "what a morning for me! For thefirst time to-day when I woke, I forgot about the war. And your poorarm? How goes it? Oh, I will take care, but I must and will have you inmy arms. "

He had risen to greet her, and softly and gently she put her arms roundhis neck, drawing his head to her. 

"Oh, my Michael!" she whispered. "You've come back to me. Lieber Gott, how I have longed for you!"

"Lieber Gott!" When last had he heard those words? He had to tell her. He would tell her in a minute or two. Perhaps she would never hold himlike that again. He could not part with her at the very moment he hadgot her. 

"You look ever so well, Michael, " she said, "in spite of your wound. You're so brown and lean and strong. And oh, how I have wanted you! Inever knew how much till you went away. "

Looking at her, feeling her arms round him, Michael felt that what hehad to say was beyond the power of his lips to utter. And yet, here inher presence, the absolute necessity of telling her climbed like somepeak into the ample sunrise far above the darkness and the mists thathung low about it. 

"And what lots you must have to tell me, " she said. "I want to hearall--all. "

Suddenly Michael put up his left hand and took away from his neck thearm that encircled it. But he did not let go of it. He held it in hishand. 

"I have to tell you one thing at once, " he said. She looked at him, andthe smile that burned in her eyes was extinguished. From his gesture, from his tone, she knew that he spoke of something as serious as theirlove. 

"What is it?" she said. "Tell me, then. "

He did not falter, but looked her full in the face. There was nobreaking it to her, or letting her go through the gathering suspense ofguessing. 

"It concerns Hermann, " he said. "It concerns Hermann and me. The lastmorning that I was in the trenches, there was an attack at dawn fromthe German lines. They tried to rush our trench in the dark. Hermannled them. He got right up to the trench. And I shot him. I did not know, thank God!"

Suddenly Michael could not bear to look at her any more. He put his armon the table by him and, leaning his head on it, covering his eyes hewent on. But his voice, up till now quite steady, faltered and failed, as the sobs gathered in his throat. 

"He fell across the parapet close to me, " he said. . . . "I lifted himsomehow into our trench. . . . I was wounded, then. . . . He lay at thebottom of the trench, Sylvia. . . . And I would to God it had been I wholay there. . . . Because I loved him. . . . Just at the end he openedhis eyes, and saw me, and knew me. And he said--oh, Sylvia, Sylvia!--hesaid 'Lieber Gott, Michael. Good morning, old boy. ' And then hedied. . . . I have told you. "

And at that Michael broke down utterly and completely for the first timesince the morning of which he spoke, and sobbed his heart out, while, unseen to him, Sylvia sat with hands clasped together and stretchedtowards him. Just for a little she let him weep his fill, but heryearning for him would not be withstood. She knew why he had told her, her whole heart spoke of the hugeness of it. 

Then once more she laid her arm on his neck. 

"Michael, my heart!" she said.