Michael .................................................................................................................................................................1

Though there was nothing visibly graceful about Michael Comber, he apparently had the art of giving

gracefully. He had already told his cousin Francis, who sat on the arm of the sofa by his table, that there was

no earthly excuse for his having run into debt; but now when the moment came for giving, he wrote the

cheque quickly and eagerly, as if thoroughly enjoying it, and passed it over to him with a smile that was

"There you are, then, Francis," he said; "and I take it from you that that 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. And for the

rest, I'm delighted that you told me about it. In fact, I should have been rather hurt if you hadn't."

Francis apparently had the art of accepting gracefully, which is more difficult than the feat which Michael

"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 the bell by the fireplace. As long as he

was sitting down his big arms and broad shoulders gave the impression of strength, and you would have

expected to find when he got up that he was tall and largely made. But when he rose the extreme shortness of

his legs manifested itself, and he appeared almost deformed. His hands hung nearly to his knees; he was

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

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

"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 a reason for your doing it again. You'll have tea, won't you?"

"Why, yes," said Francis, getting up, also, and leaning his elbow on the chimneypiece, which was nearly on

a level with the top of Michael's head. And if Michael had gracefulness only in the art of giving, Francis's

gracefulness in receiving was clearly of a piece with the rest of him. He was tall, slim and alert, with the

quick, soft movements of some wild animal. His face, brown with sunburn and pink with briskgoing blood,

was exceedingly handsome in a boyish and almost effeminate manner, 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 hand on his cousin's shoulder. "I can't help

The room where they sat was in Michael's flat in Half Moon Street, and high up in one of those tall,

discreetlooking houses. The windows were wide open on this hot July afternoon, and the bourdon hum of

London, where Piccadilly poured by at the street end, came in blended and blunted by distance, but with the

suggestion of heat, of movement, of hurrying affairs. The room was very empty of furniture; there was a rug

or two on the parquet floor, a long, low bookcase taking up the end near the door, a table, a sofa, three or four

chairs, and a piano. Everything was plain, but equally obviously everything was expensive, and the general

impression given was that the owner had no desire to be surrounded by things he did not want, but insisted on

the superlative quality of the things he did. The rugs, for instance, happened to be of silk, the bookcase

happened to be Hepplewhite, the piano bore the most eminent of makers' names. There were three mezzotints

on the walls, a dragon'sblood vase on the high, carved chimneypiece; the whole bore the unmistakable

"But there's something else I want to talk to you about, Francis," said Michael, as presently afterwards they

sat over their tea. "I can't say that I exactly want your advice, but I should like your opinion. I've done

something, in fact, without asking anybody, but now that it's done I should like to know what you think about

"That's you all over, Michael," he said. "You always do a thing first, if you really mean to do itwhich I

suppose is moral courageand then you go anxiously round afterwards to see if other people approve, which

I am afraid looks like moral cowardice. I go on a different plan altogether. I ascertain the opinion of so many

people before I do anything that I end by forgetting what I wanted to do. At least, that seems a reasonable

Michael looked affectionately at the handsome boy who lounged long legged in the chair opposite him. Like

many very shy persons, he had one friend with whom he was completely unreserved, and that was this cousin

of his, for whose charm and insouciant brilliance he had so adoring an admiration.

"Yes, but when you are like that," he said, "you can just float along. Other people float you. But I should sink

"Well, you are in the army," said Francis. "That's as much swimming as anyone expects of a fellow who has

expectations. In fact, it's I who have to swim all the time, if you come to think of it. You are somebody; I'm

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

"I mean that I wrote and resigned my commission yesterday," said Michael. "If you had dined with me last

Francis got up and leaned against the chimneypiece. He was conscious of not thinking this abrupt news as

important as he felt he ought to think it. That was characteristic of him; he floated, as Michael had lately told

him, finding the world an extremely pleasant place, full of warm currents that took you gently forward

without entailing the slightest exertion. But Michael's grave and expectant facethat Michael who had been

so eagerly kind about meeting his debts for himwarned him that, however gossamerlike his own emotions

"And that is what you want my opinion about?" he asked. "If so, you must tell me more, Mike. I can't have an

opinion unless you give me the reasons why you did it. The thing itselfwell, the thing itself doesn't seem to

Michael's big, heavybrowed face lightened a moment. "For a fellow who never thinks," he said, "you think

uncommonly well. But the reasons are obvious enough. You can guess sufficient reasons to account for it."

"Surely they are obvious," he said. "No one knows better than me, unless it is you, that I'm not like the rest of

you. My mind isn't the build of a 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 shuffle through my task. I'm

not popular, I'm not liked. It's no earthly use saying I am. I don't like the life; it seems to me senseless. And

those who live it don't like me. They think me heavyjust heavy. And I have enough sensitiveness to know

Michael need not have stated his reasons, for his cousin could certainly have guessed them; he could, too,

have confessed to the truth of them. Michael had not the light hand, which is so necessary when young men

work together in a companionship of which the cordiality is an essential part of the work; neither had he in

the social side of life that particular and inimitable sort of easy selfconfidence which, as he had said just

now, enables its owner to float. Except in years he was not young; he could not manage to be "clubable"; he

was serious and awkward at a supper party; he was altogether without the effervescence which is necessary in

order to avoid flatness. He did his work also in the same conscientious but leaden way; officers and men alike

felt it. All this Francis knew perfectly well; but instead of acknowledging it, he tried quite fruitlessly to

"Oh, don't tone it down, Francis!" he said. "Even if I was exaggeratingwhich I don't for a moment

admitthe effect on my general efficiency would be the same. I think what I say is true."

"But you've only been in the regiment three years," he said. "It won't be very popular resigning after only

"Yes; I wrote to father this morning, and I'm going down to Ashbridge tomorrow. I shall be very sorry if he

"I know, but it won't make any difference to my action. After all, I'm twentyfive; if I can't begin to manage

my life now, you may be sure I never shall. But I know I'm right. I would bet on my infallibility. At present

I've only told you half my reasons for resigning, and already you agree with me."

"Well, it's this," said Michael. "I'm twentyfive, and it is time that I began trying to be what perhaps I may be

able to be, instead of not trying very muchbecause it's hopelessto be what I can't be. I'm going 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 a thing, you have certainly a better chance of succeeding in it than in something that you

don't love at all. I was stuck into the army for no reason except that soldiering is among the few employments

which it is considered proper for fellows in my positiongood Lord! how awful it sounds!proper for me

to adopt. The other things that were open were that I should be a sailor or a member of Parliament. But the

soldier was what father chose. I looked round the picture gallery at home the other day; there are twelve Lord

Ashbridges in uniform. So, as I shall be Lord Ashbridge when father dies, I was stuck into uniform too, to be

the illstarred thirteenth. But what has it all come to? If you think of it, when did the majority of them wear

their smart uniforms? Chiefly when they went on peaceful parades or to court balls, or to the Sir Joshua

Reynolds 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 which I mean

standing up and being shot at because I am English, I would not dream of throwing it up. But there's no such

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

"Anyhow the chance is too remote," he said. "All the nations with armies and navies are too much afraid of

each other to do more than growl. Also I happen to want to do something different with my life, and you can't

do anything unless you believe in what you are doing. I want to leave behind me something more than the

portrait of a tin soldier in the diningroom at Ashbridge. After all, isn't an artistic profession the greatest there

is? For what counts, what is of value in the world today? Greek statues, the Italian pictures, the symphonies

of Beethoven, the plays of Shakespeare. The people who have made beautiful things are they who are the

benefactors of mankind. At least, so the people who love beautiful things think."

Francis glanced at his cousin. He knew this interesting vital side of Michael; he was aware, too, that had

anybody except himself been in the room, Michael could not have shown it. Perhaps there might be people to

whom he could show it but certainly they were not those among whom Michael's life was passed.

"Well, the nuisance of it is that the things I am ripping about appear to 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 if there aren't any

pheasants to shoot. In fact, he will think that my wanting to become a musician is much the same thing as if I

wanted to become a billiardmarker. And if he and I talked about it till we were a hundred years old, he

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," he said. "You are exactly the son father

would like to have, and I should so much prefer being his nephew. However, you come next; that's one

"You see, the fact is that he doesn't like me," he said. "He has no sympathy whatever with my tastes, nor with

what I am. I'm an awful trial to him, and I don't see how to help it. It's pure waste of time, my going on in the

Guards. I do it badly, and I hate it. Now, you're made for it; you're that sort, and that sort is my father's sort.

But I'm not; no one knows that better than myself. Then there's the question of marriage, too."

"I'm twentyfive, you see," he said, "and it's the family custom for the eldest son to marry at twentyfive, just

as he's baptised when he's a certain number of weeks old, and confirmed when he is fifteen. It's part of the

family plan, and the Medes and Persians aren't in it when the family plan is in question. Then, again, the

lucky young woman has to be suitable; 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, and they come down to Ashbridge in gloomy

succession, and she and I are sent out to play golf together or go on the river. And when, to our unutterable

relief, that is over, we hurry back to the house, and I escape 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 the lastat least, I am."

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

"But you're so confoundedly hard to please, Mike," he said. "There was an awfully nice girl down at

Ashbridge at Easter when I was there, who was simply pining to take you. I've forgotten her name."

"There you are!" he said. "You and she flirted all the time, and three months afterwards you don't even

remember her name. If you had only been me, you would have married her. As it was, she and I bored each

other stiff. There's an irony for you! But as for pining, I ask you whether any girl in her senses could pine for

me. Look at me, and tell me! Or rather, don't look at me; I can't bear to be looked at."

Here was one of Michael's morbid sensitivenesses. He seldom forgot his own physical appearance, the fact of

which was to him appalling. His stumpy figure with its big body, his broad, blunt featured face, his long

arms, his large hands and feet, his clumsiness in movement were to him of the nature of a constant nightmare,

and it was only with Francis and the ease that his solitary presence gave, or when he was occupied with music

that he wholly lost his selfconsciousness in this respect. It seemed to him that he must be as repulsive to

others as he was to himself, which was a distorted view of the case. Plain without doubt he was, and of heavy

and ungainly build; but his belief in the finality of his uncouthness was morbid and imaginary, and half his

inability to get on with his fellows, no less than with the maidens who were brought down in single file to

Ashbridge, was due to this. He knew very well how lightheartedly they escaped to the geniality and

attractiveness of Francis, and in the clutch of his own introspective temperament he could not free himself

from the handicap of his own sensitiveness, and, like others, take himself for granted. He crushed his own

"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 must be a certain kind of girl, with whom I have

nothing in common. So I say that if only we could have changed places, you would have filled my niche so

perfectly, and I should have been free to bury myself in Leipzig or Munich, and lived like the grub I certainly

am, and have drowned myself in a sea of music. As it is, goodness knows what my father will say to the letter

I wrote him yesterday, which he will have received this morning. However, that will soon be patent, for I go

down there tomorrow. I wish you were coming with me. Can't you manage to for a day or two, and help

"Can't tomorrow," he said, "nor yet the day after. But perhaps I could get a few days' leave next week."

"Oh, but I've heard of him," he said. "They're rather long tunes, aren't they? 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 shall come back and settle down in town

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

"No doubt that will come into it," he said. "But it's rather as if you told somebody you were a soldier, and he

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

"But you play so rippingly already," said Francis cordially. "You played all those songs the other night which

you had never seen before. If you can do that, there is nothing more you want to learn with the piano, is

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

"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 going

to face unpleasantnesses with Uncle Robert about it. Now, I wouldn't face unpleasantnesses with anybody

about anything I wanted to do, and I suppose the reason must be that I don't want to do anything enough."

"Yes, I've got that malady. The ordinary things that one naturally does are all so pleasant, and take all the

time there is, that I don't want anything particular, especially now that you've been such a brick"

"Right; I got it in rather cleverly. I was saying that it must be rather nice to want a thing so much that you'll

"I suppose so. I'm one, you know. I drift and float. But I don't think I sting. What are you doing tonight, by

"Only that two fellows are dining with me, and I thought perhaps you would 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 rather looking forward to an evening alone."

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

"I must go," he said. "I ought to have gone long ago, but I didn't want to. The malady came in again. Most of

"I think we English have got it," he said. "At least, the English you and I know have got it. But I don't believe

the Germans, for instance, have. They're in deadly earnest about all sorts of thingsmusic among them,

which is the point that concerns me. The music of the world is German, you know!"

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

Michael resisted this chance of revising his opinion about the German origin of music, and Francis drifted out

into Piccadilly. It was already getting on for seven o'clock, and the roadway and pavements were full of

people who seemed rather to contradict Michael's theory that the nation generally suffered from the malady

of not wanting, so eagerly and numerously were they on the quest for amusement. Already the street was a

mass of taxicabs and private motors containing, each one of them, men and women in evening dress, hurrying

out to dine before the theatre or the opera. Bright, eager faces peered out, with sheen of silk and glitter of

gems; they all seemed alert and prosperous and keen for the daily hours of evening entertainment. A crowd

similar in spirit pervaded the pavements, whiteshirted men with coat on arm stepped in and out of swinging

club doors and the example set by the leisured class seemed copiously copied by those whom desks and

shops had made prisoners all day. The air of the whole town, swarming with the nation that is supposed to

make so grave an affair of its amusements, was indescribably gay and lighthearted; the whole city seemed set

on enjoying itself. The buses that boomed along were packed inside and out, and each was placarded with

advertisement of some popular piece at theatre or musichall. Inside the Green Park the grass was populous

with lounging figures, who, unable to pay for indoor entertainment, were making the most of what the

coolness of sunset and grass supplied them with gratis; the newsboards of itinerant sellers contained nothing

of more serious import than the result of cricket matches; and, as the dusk began to fall, street lamps and

signs were lit, like early rising stars, so that no hint of the gathering night should be permitted to intrude on

the perpetually illuminated city. All that was sordid and sad, all that was busy (except on these gay errands of

pleasure) was shuffled away out of sight, so that the pleasure seekers might be excused for believing that

there was nothing in the world that could demand their attention except the need of amusing themselves

successfully. The workers toiled in order that when the working day was over the fruits of their labour might

yield a harvest of a few hours' enjoyment; silkworms had spun so that from carriage windows might glimmer

the wrappings made from their cocoons; divers had been imperilled in deep seas so that the pearls they had

To Francis this all seemed very natural and proper, part of the recognised order of things that made up the

series of sensations known to him as life. He did not, as he had said, very particularly care about anything,

and it was undoubtedly true that there was no motive or conscious purpose in his life for which he would

voluntarily have undergone any important stress of discomfort or annoyance. It was true that in pursuance of

his profession there was a certain amount of "quick marching" and drill to be done in the heat, but that was

incidental to the fact that he was in the Guards, and more than compensated for by the pleasures that were

also naturally incidental to it. He would have been quite unable to think of anything that he would sooner do

than what he did; and he had sufficient of the ingrained human tendency to do something of the sort, which

was a matter of routine rather than effort, than have nothing whatever, except the gratification of momentary

whims, to fill his day. Besides, it was one of the conventions or even conditions of life that every boy on

leaving school "did" something for a certain number of years. Some went into business in order to acquire the

wealth that should procure them leisure; some, like himself, became soldiers or sailors, not because they liked

guns and ships, but because to boys of a certain class these professions supplied honourable employment and

a pleasant time. Without being in any way slack in his regimental duties, he performed them as many others

did, without the smallest grain of passion, and without any imaginative forecast as to what fruit, if any, there

might be to these hours spent in drill and discipline. He was but one of a very large number who do their

work without seriously bothering their heads about its possible meaning or application. His particular job

gave a young man a pleasant position and an easy path to general popularity, given that he was willing to be

sociable and amused. He was extremely ready to be both the one and the other, and there his philosophy of

And, indeed, it seemed on this hot July evening that the streets were populated by philosophers like unto

himself. Never had England generally been more prosperous, more secure, more comfortable. The heavens of

international politics were as serene as the evening sky; not yet was the stormcloud that hung over Ireland

bigger than a man's hand; east, west, north and south there brooded the peace of the close of a halcyon day,

and the amazing doings of the Suffragettes but added a slight incentive to the perusal of the morning paper.

The arts flourished, harvests prospered; the world like a newlywound clock seemed to be in for a spell of

serene and orderly ticking, with an occasional chime just to 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 many others, but a very moderate amount of work was necessary to win him an

approved place in the scheme of things, a seat in the slow wheeling sunshine. It really was not necessary to

want, above all to undergo annoyances for the sake of what you wanted, since so many pleasurable

distractions, enough to fill day and night twice over, were so richly spread around.

Some day he supposed he would marry, settle down and become in time one of those men who presented a

bald head in a club window to the gaze of passersby. It was difficult, perhaps, to see how you could enjoy

yourself or lead a life that paid its own way in pleasure at the age of forty, but that he trusted that he would

learn in time. At present it was sufficient to know that in half an hour two excellent friends would come to

dinner, and that they would proceed in a spirit of amiable content to the Gaiety. After that there was a ball

somewhere (he had forgotten where, but one of the others would be sure to know), and tomorrow and

tomorrow would be like unto today. It was idle to ask questions of oneself when all went so well; the time

for asking questions was when there was matter for complaint, and with him assuredly there was none. The

advantages of being twentythree years old, gay and good looking, without a care in the world, now that he

had Michael's cheque in his pocket, needed no comment, still less complaint. He, like the crowd who had

sufficient to pay for a sixpenny seat at a musichall, was perfectly content with life in general; tomorrow

It was indeed an admirable England, where it was not necessary even to desire, for there were so many

things, bright, cheerful things to distract the mind from desire. It was a day of dozing in the sun, like the

submerged, scattered units or duets on the grass of the Green Park, of behaving like the lilies of the field. . . .

Francis found he was rather late, and proceeded hastily to his mother's house in Savile Row to array himself,

if not "like one of these," like an exceedingly welldressed young man, who demanded of his tailor the

utmost of his art; with the prospect, owing to Michael's generosity, of being paid tomorrow.

Michael, when his cousin had left him, did not at once proceed to his evening by himself with his piano,

though an hour before he had longed to 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 now that Francis's departure took him even farther away from his designed evening.

Francis, with his good looks and his gay spirits, his easy friendships and perfect content (except when a small

matter of deficit and dunning letters obscured the sunlight for a moment), was exactly all that he would have

wished to be himself. But the moment he formulated that wish in his mind, he knew that he would not

voluntarily have parted with one atom of his own individuality in order to be Francis or anybody else. He was

aware how easy and pleasant life would become if he could look on it with Francis's eyes, and if the world

would look on him as it looked on his cousin. There would be no more bother. . . . In a moment, he would, by

this exchange, have parted with his own unhappy temperament, his own deplorable body, and have stepped

into an amiable and prosperous little neutral kingdom that had no desires and no regrets. He would have been

free from all wants, except such as could be gratified so easily by a little work and a great capacity for being

amused; he would have found himself excellently fitting the niche into which the rulers of birth and death had

placed him: an eldest son of a great territorial magnate, who had what was called a stake in the country, and

Willingly, as he had said, would he have changed circumstances with Francis, but he knew that he would not,

for any bait the world could draw in front of him, have changed natures with him, even when, to all

appearance, the gain would so vastly have been on his side. It was better 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 getting rid of them he would also have been

obliged to get rid of his own temperament, unhappy as it was, but yet capable of strong desire. He did not

want to be content; he wanted to see always ahead of him a golden mist, through which the shadows of

unconjecturable shapes appeared. He was willing and eager to get lost, if only he might go wandering on,

There are the indications of a path visible to all who desire. Michael knew that his path, the way that seemed

to lead in the direction of the ultimate goal, was music. There, somehow, in that direction lay his destiny; that

was the route. He was not like the majority of his sex and years, who weave their physical and mental dreams

in the loom of a girl'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 young man in this regard. He had seen too often the facility with which others, more fortunate than he,

get delightedly lost in that golden haze; he had experienced too often the absence of attractiveness in himself.

How could any girl of the London ballroom, he had so frequently asked himself, tolerate dancing or sitting

out with him when there was Francis, 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 easy laughter. By nature he was monkish, he was celibate. He could but cease to burn

incense at such ineffectual altars, and help, as he had helped this afternoon, to replenish the censers of more

This was all familiar to him; it passed through his head unbidden, when Francis had left him, like the refrain

of some wellknown song, occurring spontaneously without need of an effort of memory. It was a possession

of his, known by heart, and it no longer, except for momentary twinges, had any bitterness for him. This

afternoon, it is true, there had been one such, when Francis, gleeful with his cheque, had gone out to his

dinner and his theatre and his dance, inviting him cheerfully to all of them. In just that had been the

bitternessnamely, that Francis had so overflowing a wellspring of content that he could be cordial in

bidding him cast a certain gloom over these entertainments. Michael knew, quite unerringly, that Francis and

his friends would not enjoy themselves quite so much if he was with them; there would be the restraint of

polite conversation at dinner instead of completely idle babble, there would be less outspoken normality at

the Gaiety, a little more decorum about the whole of the boyish proceedings. He knew all that so well, so

His servant had come in with the evening paper, and the implied suggestion 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 the Meistersingers and, mechanically at first, with the ragged

cloudfleeces of his reverie hanging about his brain, banged away at the overture. He had extraordinary

dexterity of finger for one who had had so little training, and his hands, with their great stretch, made light

work of octaves and even tenths. His knowledge of the music enabled him to wake the singing bird of

memory in his head, and before long flute and horn and 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, but Michael had no

heed for anything but the sounds which his flying fingers suggested to him. Francis, his father, his own

failure in the life that had been thrust on him were all gone; he was with the singers of Nuremberg.

The River Ashe, after a drowsy and meandering childhood, passed peacefully among the sedges and

marigolds of its water meadows, suddenly and somewhat disconcertingly grows up and, without any period

of transition and adolescence, becomes, from being a mere girl of a rivulet, a male and fullblooded estuary

of the sea. At Coton, for instance, the tips of the sculls of a sauntering pleasureboat will almost span its

entire width, while, but a mile farther down, you will see stoneladen barges and tall, redwinged sailing

craft coming up with the tide, and making fast to the grey wooden quay wall of Ashbridge, rough with

barnacles. For the reeds and meadowsweet of its margin are exchanged the brown and green growths of the

sea, with their sharp, acrid odour instead of the damp, fresh smell of meadow flowers, and at low tide the

podded bladders of brown weed and long strings of marine macaroni, among which peevish crabs scuttle

sideways, take the place of the grass and spires of loosestrife; and over the water, instead of singing larks,

hang white companies of chiding seagulls. Here at high tide extends a sheet of water large enough, when the

wind blows up the estuary, 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 boats lean slanting till the flood lifts them again and makes

A year before the flame of war went roaring through Europe in unquenchable conflagration it would have

seemed that nothing could possibly rouse Ashbridge from its redbrick Georgian repose. There was never a

town so inimitably drowsy or so sternly uncompetitive. A hundred years ago it must have presented almost

precisely the same appearance as it did in the summer of 1913, if we leave out of reckoning a few dozen of

modern upstart villas that line its outskirts, and the very inconspicuous railway station that hides itself behind

the warehouses near the river's bank. Most of the trains, too, quite ignore its existence, and pass through it on

their way to more rewarding stoppingplaces, hardly recognising it even by a spurt of steam from their

whistles, and it is only if you travel by those that require the most frequent pauses in their progress that you

Just outside the station there perennially waits a lowroofed and sanguine omnibus that under daily

discouragement continues to hope that in the longdelayed fulness of time somebody will want to be driven

somewhere. (This nobody ever does, since the distance to any house is so small, and a porter follows with

luggage on a barrow.) It carries on its floor a quantity of fresh straw, in the manner of the stage coaches, in

which the problematic passenger, should he ever appear, will no doubt bury his feet. On its side, just below

the window that is not made to open, it carries the legend that shows that it belongs to the Comber Arms, a

hostelry so selfeffacing that it is discoverable only by the sharpesteyed of pilgrims. Narrow roadways,

flanked by proportionately narrower pavements, lie ribbonlike between huddled shops and squarely

spacious Georgian houses; and an air of leisure and content, amounting almost to stupefaction, is the moral

On the outskirts of the town, crowning the gentle hills that lie to the north and west, villas in acre plots,

belonging to business men in the county town some ten miles distant, "prick their Cockney ears" and are

strangely at variance with the sober gravity of the indigenous houses. So, too, are the manners and customs of

their owners, who go to Stoneborough every morning to their work, and return by the train that brings them

home in time for dinner. They do other exotic and unsuitable things also, like driving swiftly about in motors,

in playing golf on the other side of the river at Coton, and in having parties at each other's houses. But apart

from them nobody ever seems to leave Ashbridge (though a stroll to the station about the time that the

evening train arrives is a recognised diversion) or, in consequence, ever to come back. Ashbridge, in fact, is

selfcontained, and desires neither to meddle with others nor to be meddled with.

The estuary opposite the town is some quarter of a mile broad at high tide, and in order to cross to the other

side, where lie the woods and park of Ashbridge House, it is necessary to shout and make staccato prancings

in order to attract the attention of the antique ferryman, who is invariably at the other side of the river and

generally asleep at the bottom of his boat. If you are strong lunged and can prance and shout for a long time,

he may eventually stagger to his feet, come across for you and row you over. Otherwise you will stand but

little chance of arousing him from his slumbers, and you will stop where you are, unless you choose to walk

Periodical attempts are made by the brisker inhabitants of Ashbridge, who do not understand its spirit, to

substitute for this aged and ineffectual Charon someone who is occasionally awake, but nothing ever results

from these revolutionary moves, and the requests addressed to the town council on the subject are never

heard of again. "Old George" was ferryman there before any members of the town council were born, and he

seems to have established a right to go to sleep on the other side of the river which is now inalienable from

him. Besides, asleep or awake, he is always perfectly sober, which, after all, is really one of the first

requirements for a suitable ferryman. Even the representations of Lord Ashbridge himself who, when in

residence, frequently has occasion to use the ferry when crossing from his house to the town, failed to

produce the smallest effect, and he was compelled to build a boathouse of his own on the farther bank, and be

paddled across by himself or one of the servants. Often he rowed himself, for he used to be a fine oarsman,

and it was good for the lounger on the quay to see the foaming prow of his vigorous progress and the dignity

In all other respects, except in this case of "Old George," Lord Ashbridge's wishes were law to the local

authorities, for in this tranquil Eastcoast district the spirit of the feudal system with a beneficent lord and

contented tenants strongly survived. It had triumphed even over such modern innovations as railroads, for

Lord Ashbridge had the undoubted right to stop any train he pleased by signal at Ashbridge station. This he

certainly enjoyed doing; it fed his sense of the fitness of things to progress along the platform with his genial,

important tiptoe walk, and elbows squarely stuck out, to the carriage that was at once reserved for him, to

touch the brim of his grey tophat (if travelling up to town) to the obsequious guard, and to observe the heads

of passengers who wondered why their express was arrested, thrust out of carriage windows to look at him. A

livened footman, as well as a valet, followed him, bearing a coat and a rug and a morning or evening paper

and a dispatchbox with a large gilt coronet on it, and bestowed these solaces to a railway journey on the

empty seats near him. And not only his sense of fitness was hereby fed, but that also of the stationmaster

and the solitary porter and the newsboy, and such inhabitants of Ashbridge as happened to have strolled on to

the platform. For he was THEIR Earl of Ashbridge, kind, courteous and dominant, a local king; it was all

But this arrest of express trains was a strictly personal privilege; when Lady Ashbridge or Michael travelled

they always went in the slow train to Stoneborough, changed there and abided their time on the platform like

ordinary mortals. Though he could undoubtedly have extended his rights to the stopping of a train for his

wife or son, he wisely reserved this for himself, lest it should lose prestige. There was sufficient glory already

(to probe his mind to the bottom) for Lady Ashbridge in being his wife; it was sufficient also for Michael that

It may be inferred that there was a touch of pomposity about this admirable gentleman, who was so excellent

a landlord and so hard working a member of the British aristocracy. But pomposity would be far too

superficial a word to apply to him; it would not adequately connote his deepabiding and essential conviction

that on one of the days of Creation (that, probably, on which the decree was made that there should be Light)

But Lord Ashbridge, though himself a peer, by no means accepted the peerage en bloc as representing the

English aristocracy; to be, in his phrase, "one of us" implied that you belonged to certain well ascertained

families where brewers and distinguished soldiers had no place, unless it was theirs already. He was ready to

pay all reasonable homage to those who were distinguished by their abilities, their riches, their exalted

positions in Church and State, but his homage to such was transfused with a courteous condescension, and he

only treated as his equals and really revered those who belonged to the families that were "one of us."

His wife, of course, was "one of us," since he would never have permitted himself to be allied to a woman

who was not, though for beauty and wisdom she might have been Aphrodite and Athene rolled compactly

into one peerless identity. As a matter of fact, Lady Ashbridge had not the faintest resemblance to either of

these effulgent goddesses. In person she resembled a camel, long and lean, with a drooping mouth and tired,

patient eyes, while in mind she was stunned. No idea other than an obvious one ever had birth behind her

high, smooth forehead, and she habitually brought conversation to a close by the dry enunciation of

something indubitably true, which had no direct relation to the point under discussion. But she had faint,

ineradicable prejudices, and instincts not quite dormant. There was a large quantity of mild affection in her

nature, the quality of which may be illustrated by the fact that when her father died she cried a little every day

after breakfast for about six weeks. Then she did not cry any more. It was impossible not to like what there

was of her, but there was really very little to like, for she belonged heart and soul to the generation and the

breeding among which it is enough for a woman to be a lady, and visit the keeper's wife when she has a baby.

But though there was so little of her, the balance was made up for by the fact that there was so much of her

husband. His large, rather flamboyant person, his big white face and curling brown beard, his loud voice and

his falsetto laugh, his absolutely certain opinions, above all the fervency of his consciousness of being Lord

Ashbridge and all which that implied, completely filled any place he happened to be in, so that a room empty

except for him gave the impression of being almost uncomfortably crowded. This keen consciousness of his

identity was naturally sufficient to make him very good humoured, since he was himself a fine example of the

type that he admired most. Probably only two persons in the world had the power of causing him annoyance,

but both of these, by an irony of fate that it seemed scarcely possible to consider accidental, were closely

The grounds of their potentiality in this respect can be easily stated. Barbara Comber, his sister (and so "one

of us"), had married an extremely wealthy American, who, in Lord Ashbridge's view, could not be considered

one of anybody at all; in other words, his imagination failed to picture a whole class of people who resembled

Anthony Jerome. He had hoped when his sister announced her intention of taking this deplorable step that his

future brotherinlaw would at any rate prove to be a snobhe had a vague notion that all Americans were

snobsand that thus Mr. 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 him with an austere and distant politeness that Lord

Ashbridge could not construe as being founded on admiration and a sense of his own inferiority, 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 she shown herself a renegade in

marrying a man who was not "one of us," but with all the advantages she had enjoyed since birth of knowing

what "we" were, she gloried in her new relations, saying, without any proper reticence about the matter, that

they were Real People, whose character and wits vastly transcended anything that Combers had to show.

Michael was an even more vexatious case, and in moments of depression his father thought that he would

really turn in his grave at the dismal idea of Michael having stepped into his honourable shoes. Physically he

was utterly unlike a Comber, and his mind, his general attitude towards life seemed to have diverged even

farther from that healthy and unreflective pattern. Only this morning his father had received a letter from him

that summed Michael up, that fulfilled all the doubts and fears that had hung about him; for after three years

in the Guards he had, without consultation with anybody, resigned his commission on the inexplicable

grounds that he wanted to do something with his life. To begin with that was rankly heretical; if you were a

Comber there was no need to do anything with your life; life did everything for you. . . . And what this

unComberish young man wanted to do with his life was to be a musician. That musicians, artists, actors, had

a right to exist Lord Ashbridge did not question. They were no doubt (or might be) very excellent people in

their way, and as a matter of fact he often recognised their existence by going to the opera, to the private view

of the Academy, or to the play, and he took a very considerable pride of proprietorship in his own admirable

collection of family portraits. But then those were pictures of Combers; Reynolds and Romney and the rest of

them had enjoyed the privilege of perpetuating on their canvases these big, fine men and charming women.

But that a Comberand that one positively the next Lord Ashbridgeshould intend to devote his energies

to an artistic calling, and allude to that scheme as doing something with his life, was a thing as unthinkable as

The blow was a recent one; Michael's letter had only reached his father this morning, and at the present

moment Lord Ashbridge was attempting over a cup of tea on the long south terrace overlooking the estuary to

conveynot very successfullyto his wife something of his feelings on the subject. She, according to her

custom, was drinking a little hot water herself, and providing her Chinese pug with a mixture of cream and

crumbled rusks. Though the dog was of undoubtedly high lineage, Lord Ashbridge rather detested her.

"A musical career!" he exclaimed, referring to Michael's letter. "What sort of a career for a Comber is a

musical career? I shall tell Michael pretty roundly when he arrives this evening what I think of it all. We shall

"Dear me, Robert, I hope not," she said. "I do not think it the least likely that Francis would do anything of

the kind. Look, Petsy is better; she has drunk her cream and rusks quite up. I think it was only the heat."

"I wish, Marion," he said, "that you could manage to take your mind off your dog for a moment and attend to

me. And I must really ask you not to give your Petsy any more cream, or she will certainly be sick."

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

"Yes, poor Michael!" she said. "He is coming tonight, is he not? But just now you were speaking of Francis,

"Well, I am now speaking of Michael's wanting to be a musician. Of course that is utterly out of the question.

If, as he says, he has sent in his resignation, he will just have to beg them to cancel it. Michael seems not to

have the slightest idea of the duties which his birth and position entail on him. Unfitted for the life he now

leads . . . waste of time. . . . Instead he proposes to go to Baireuth in August, and then to settle down in

"That will be in September, then," she said. "I do not think I was ever in London in September. I did not

"The point, my dear, is not how or where you have been accustomed to spend your Septembers," said her

"Yes, dear, I know quite well what we are talking about," said she. "We are talking about Michael not

Lord Ashbridge got up and began walking across the terrace opposite the teatable with his elbows stuck out

"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 how little

sense he has of his responsibilities. Amusements are all very well; it is not that I want to cut him off his

Lady Ashbridge was surreptitiously engaged in pouring out a little more cream for Petsy, and her husband,

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

"But I am attending to you very well, Robert," said she, "and I understand you perfectly. You do not want

Michael to be a musician in September and wear long hair and perhaps play at concerts. I am sure I quite

agree with you, for such a thing would be as unheard of in my family as in yours. But how do you propose to

"Yes, dear, I am sure you will. But what will happen if Michael doesn't pay 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 intends to

do, but when he doesn't agree it is difficult to do anything with him. And, you see, he is quite independent of

"It was a most extraordinary disposition of her property for your mother to make," he observed. "It has given

Michael an independence which I much deplore. And she did it in direct opposition to my wishes."

This touched on one of the questions about which Lady Ashbridge had her convictions. She had a mild but

unalterable opinion that when anybody died, all that they had previously done became absolutely flawless

"Mamma did as she thought right with her property," she said, "and it is not for us to question it. She was

conscientiousness itself. You will have to excuse my listening to any criticism you may feel inclined to make

"Certainly, my dear. I only want you to listen to me about Michael. You agree with me on the impossibility

of his adopting a musical career. I cannot, at present, think so ill of Michael as to suppose that he will defy

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

The futility of further discussion with his wife began to dawn on Lord Ashbridge, as it dawned on everybody

who had the privilege of conversing with her. Her mind was a blind alley that led nowhere; it was clear that

she had no idea to contribute to the subject except slightly pessimistic forebodings with which, unfortunately,

he found himself secretly disposed to agree. He had always felt that Michael was an uncomfortable sort of

boy; in other words, that he had the inconvenient habit of thinking things out for himself, instead of blindly

Much as Lord Ashbridge valued the sturdy independence of character which he himself enjoyed displaying,

he appreciated it rather less highly when it was manifested by people who were not sensible enough to agree

with him. He looked forward to Michael's arrival that evening with the feeling that there was a rebellious

standard hoisted against the calm blue of the evening sky, and remembering the advent of his sister he

wondered whether she would not join the insurgent. Barbara Jerome, as has been remarked, often annoyed

her brother; she also genially laughed at him; but Lord Ashbridge, partly from affection, partly from a loyal

family sense of clanship, always expected his sister to spend a fortnight with him in August, and would have

been much hurt had she refused to do so. Her husband, however, so far from spending a fortnight with his

brotherinlaw, never spent a minute in his presence if it could possibly be avoided, an arrangement which

"And Barbara comes this evening as well as Michael, does she not?" he said. "I hope she will not take

"I have given Barbara the blue room," said Lady Ashbridge, after a little thought. "I am afraid she may bring

her great dog with her. I hope he will not quarrel with Petsy. Petsy does not like other dogs."

The day had been very hot, and Lord Ashbridge, not having taken any exercise, went off to have a round of

golf with the professional of the links that lay not half a mile from the house. He considered exercise an

essential part of the true Englishman's daily curriculum, and as necessary a contribution to the traditional

mode of life which made them all what they wereor should beas a bath in the morning or attendance at

church on Sunday. He did not care so much about playing golf with a casual friend, because the casual friend,

as a rule, casually beat himthus putting him in an un English positionand preferred a game with this

firstclass professional whose duty it wasin complete violation of his capacitiesto play just badly

enough to be beaten towards the end of the round after an exciting match. It required a good deal of

cleverness and selfcontrol to accomplish this, for Lord Ashbridge was a notably puerile performer, but he

generally managed it with tact and success, by dint of missing absurdly easy putts, and (here his skill came

in) by pulling and slicing his ball into fardistant bunkers. Throughout the game it was his business to keep

up a running fire of admiring ejaculations such as "Well driven, my lord," or "A fine putt, my lord. Ah! dear

me, I wish I could putt like that," though occasionally his chorus of praise betrayed him into error, and from

habit he found himself saying: "Good shot, my lord," when my lord had just made an egregious mess of

things. But on the whole he devised so pleasantly sycophantic an atmosphere as to procure a substantial tip

for himself, and to make Lord Ashbridge conscious of being a very superior performer. Whether at the

bottom of his heart he knew he could not play at all, he probably did not inquire; the result of his matches and

his opponent's skilfullyshowered praise was sufficient for him. So now he left the discouraging

companionship of his wife and Petsy and walked swingingly across the garden and the park to the links, there

to seek in Macpherson's applause the selfconfidence that would enable him to encounter his republican

His spirits mounted rapidly as he went. It pleased him to go jauntily across the lawn and reflect that all this

smooth turf was his, to look at the wealth of welltended flowers in his garden and know that all this

polychromatic loveliness was bred in Lord Ashbridge's borders (and was graciously thrown open to the gaze

of the admiring public on Sunday afternoon, when they were begged to keep off the grass), and that Lord

Ashbridge was himself. He liked reminding himself that the towering elms drew their leafy verdure from

Lord Ashbridge's soil; that the rows of hencoops in the park, populous and cheeping with infant pheasants,

belonged to the same fortunate gentleman who in November would so unerringly shoot them down as they

rocketted swiftly over the highest of his treetops; that to him also appertained the longfronted Jacobean

house which stood so commandingly upon the hilltop, and glowed with all the mellowness of its

threehundredyearsold bricks. And his satisfaction was not wholly fatuous nor entirely personal; all these

spacious dignities were insignia (temporarily conferred on him, like some order, and permanently conferred

on his family) of the splendid political constitution under which England had made herself mistress of an

empire and the seas that guarded it. Probably he would have been proud of belonging to that even if he had

not been "one of us"; as it was, the high position which he occupied in it caused that pride to be slightly

mixed with the pride that was concerned with the notion of the Empire belonging to him and his peers.

But though he was the most profound of Tories, he would truthfully have professed (as indeed he practised in

the management of his estates) the most Liberal opinions as to schemes for the amelioration of the lower

classes. Only, just as the music he was good enough to listen to had to be played for him, so the tenants and

farmers had to be his dependents. He looked after them very well indeed, conceiving this to be the prime duty

of a great landlord, but his interest in them was really proprietary. It was of his bounty, and of his complete

knowledge of what his duties as "one of us" were, that he did so, and any legislation which compelled him to

part with one pennyworth of his property for the sake of others less fortunate he resisted to the best of his

ability as a 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 most

emphatically not "of us," forced him and others like him to recognise the rights of dependents instead of

trusting to their instinctive fitness to dispense benefits not as rights but as acts of grace. If England trusted to

her aristocracy (to put the matter in a nutshell) all would be well with her in the future even as it had been in

the past, but any attempt to curtail their splendours must inevitably detract from the prestige and

magnificence of the Empire. . . . And he responded suitably to the obsequious salute of the professional, and

remembered that the entire golf links were his property, and that the Club paid a merely nominal rental to

For the next hour or two after her husband had left her, Lady Ashbridge occupied herself in the thoroughly

ladylike pursuit of doing nothing whatever; she just existed in her comfortable chair, since Barbara might

come any moment, and she would have to entertain her, which she frequently did unawares. But as Barbara

continued not to come, she took up her perennial piece of needlework, feeling rather busy and pressed, and

She was preceded by an enormous staghound, who, having been shut up in her motor all the way from

London, bounded delightedly, with the sense of young limbs released, on to the terrace, and made wild leaps

in a circle round the horrified Petsy, who had just received a second saucerful of cream. Once he dashed in

close, and with a single lick of his tongue swept the saucer dry of nutriment, and with hoarse barkings

proceeded again to dance corybantically about, while Lady Ashbridge with faint cries of dismay waved her

embroidery at him. Then, seeing his mistress coming out of the French window from the drawingroom, he

bounded calflike towards her, and Petsy, nearly sick with cream and horror, was gathered to Lady

"My dear Barbara," she said, "how upsetting your dog is! Poor Petsy's heart is beating terribly; she does not

like dogs. But I am very pleased to 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 a pleasant, highcoloured face, was very tall, enormously stout, and moved with

great briskness and vigour. She had something to say on any subject that came on the board; and, what was

less usual in these days of universal 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

humourous kindliness. She saw with acute vividness the ludicrous side of everybody, herself included, and to

her mind the archhumourist of all was her brother, whom she was quite unable to take seriously. She

dressed as if she had looted a milliner's shop and had put on in a great hurry anything that came to hand. She

towered over her sisterinlaw as she kissed her, and Petsy, safe in her citadel, barked shrilly.

"My dear, which is the blue room?" she said. "I hope it is big enough for Og and me. Yes, that is Og, which is

short for dog. He takes two muttonchops for dinner, and a little something during the night if he feels

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 will drink with

the blinds down, and then drive back to town again. He has been made American ambassador, by the way,

and will go in to dinner before Robert. My dear, I can think of few things which Robert is less fitted to bear

than that. However, we all have our crosses, even those of us who have our coronets also."

Lady Ashbridge's hospitable instincts asserted themselves. "But your husband must come in," she said. "I will

"I am quite sure Tony won't come in," she said. "I promised him he shouldn't, and he only drove down with

me on the express stipulation that no risks were to be run about his seeing Robert. We must take no chances,

so let him have his tea quietly in the motor and then drive away again. And who else is there? Anybody?

"I am glad; I am particularly fond of Michael. Also he will play to us after dinner, and though I don't know

one note from another, it will relieve me of sitting in a stately circle watching Robert cheat at patience. I

always find the evenings here rather trying; they remind me of being in church. I feel as if I were part of a

corporate body, which leads to misplaced decorum. Ah! there is the sound of Tony's retreating motor; 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 across the lawn. What a mercy that Tony did not leave the motor. Robert always walks

as if he was dancing a minuet. Look, there is Og imitating him! Or is he stalking him, thinking he is an

She whistled shrilly on her fingers, and rose to greet her brother, whom Og was still menacing, as he

advanced towards her with staccato steps. Barbara, however, got between Og and his prey, and threw her

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

"An excellent match," he said, "and Macpherson tells me I played a very sound game. I am delighted to see

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

"And you are well, and Mr. Jerome?" he asked. He always called his brotherinlaw Mr. Jerome, to indicate

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

"Considering that Tony began as an officeboy. How richly rewarding you are, my dear. And shan't I make

an odd ambassadress! I haven't been to a Court since the dark ages, when I went to those beloved States. We

will practise after dinner, dear, and you and Marion shall be the King and Queen, and I will try to walk

backwards without tumbling on my head. You will 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 before you."

He gave his treble little giggle, for on the whole it answered better not to be dignified with Barbara, whenever

he could remember not to be; and Lady Ashbridge, still nursing Petsy, threw a bombshell of the obvious to

"Og has two muttonchops for his dinner," she said, "and he is growing still. Fancy!"

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

"I am rather glad to have this opportunity of talking to you, my dear Barbara," he said, "before Michael

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

"Quite so. I heard from Michael this morning, saying that he has resigned his commission in the Guards, and

"But how perfectly splendid!" she said. "Fancy a Comber doing anything original! Michael and I are the only

Combers who ever have, since Combers 'arose from out the azure main' in the year one. I married an

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

"My dear, get on with your sacred carpet," said he. "I am talking to Barbara. I have already ascertained

youryour lack of views on the subject. I was saying, Barbara, that mere originality is not a merit."

"I should have if you had allowed me to. And as for your saying that he has done it, Barbara, that is very wide

"Dear great Bashaw, that is just what you said to me when I told you I was going to marry his Excellency.

But I did. And I think it is a glorious move on Michael's part. It requires brain to find out what you like, and

character to go and do it. Combers haven't got brains as a rule, you see. If they ever had any, they have

He again refreshed himself with the landscape. The roofs of Ashbridge were visible in the clear sunset. . . .

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

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

"Yes, dear," she said. "I allow that Combers have had for many generations a sort of acquisitive cunning, for

all we possess has come to us by exceedingly prudent marriages. They have alsoI am an exception

herethe gift of not saying very much, which certainly has an impressive effect, even when it arises from

not having very much to say. They are sticky; they attract wealth, and they have the force called vis inertiae,

which means that they invest their money prudently. You should hear Tonywell, perhaps you had better

not hear Tony. But now here is Michael showing that he has got tastes. Can you wonder that I'm delighted?

And not only has he got tastes, but he has the strength of character to back them. Michael, in the Guards too!

It was a perfect farce, and he's had the sense to see it. He hated his duties, and he hated his diversions. Now

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

"If you really think that, my dear," she said, "you have the distinction of being the worst possible judge of

character that the world has ever known. Michael might be jealous of anybody else, for the poor boy feels his

physical awkwardness most sensitively, but Francis is just the one person he really worships. He would do

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

"My dear, he won't need backing up. He's a match for you by himself. But if Michael, after thoroughly

worsting you, asks me my opinion, I shall certainly give it him. But he won't ask my opinion first. He will

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

"But don't think, Robert," she said, "that because Michael resists your wishes and authority, he will be

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

Michael meantime had been travelling down from London without perturbing himself over the scene with his

father which he knew lay before him. This was quite characteristic of him; he had a singular command over

his imagination when he had made up his mind to anything, and never indulged in the gratuitous pain of

anticipation. Today he had an additional bulwark against such selfinflicted worries, for he had spent his last

two hours in town at the vocal recital of a singer who a month before had stirred the critics into rhapsody over

her gift of lyric song. Up till now he had had no opportunity of hearing her; and, with the panegyrics that had

been showered on her in his mind, he had gone with the expectation of disappointment. But now, an hour

afterwards, the wheels of the train sang her songs, and in the inward ear he could recapture, with the

vividness of an hallucination, the timbre of that wonderful voice and also the sweet harmonies of the pianist

The hall had been packed from end to end, and he had barely got to his seat, the only one vacant in the whole

room, when Miss Sylvia Falbe appeared, followed at once by her accompanist, whose name occurred

nowhere on the programme. Two neighbours, however, who chatted shrilly during the applause that greeted

them, informed him that this was Hermann, "dear Hermann; there is no one like him!" But it occurred to

Michael 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 come to 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 top of the piano, which, again

unusually, was open. Then without pause they began the set of German songsBrahms, Schubert,

Schumannwith which the recital opened. And for one moment, before he lost himself in the ecstasy of

hearing, Michael found himself registering the fact that Sylvia Falbe had one of the most charming faces he

She had the ease of the consummate artist, and each note, like the gates of the New Jerusalem, was a pearl,

round and smooth and luminous almost, so that it was as if manycoloured light came from her lips. Nor was

that 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 was impossible to believe that one mind directed the singer and another the pianist,

and if the voice was an example of art in excelsis, not less exalted was the perfection of the player. Not for a

moment through the song did he take his eyes off her; he looked at her with an intensity of gaze that seemed

to be reading the emotion with which the lovely melody filled her. For herself, she looked straight out over

the hall, with grey eyes halfclosed, and mouth that in the pauses of her song was large and fulllipped,

generously curving, and face that seemed lit with the light of the morning she sang of. She was the song;

Michael thought of her as just that, and the pianist who watched and understood her so unerringly was the

song, too. They had for him no identity of their own; they were as remote from everyday life as the mind of

The last song of the group she sang in English, for it was "Who is Sylvia?" There was a buzz of smiles and

whispers among the front row in the pause before it, and regaining her own identity for a moment, she smiled

at a group of her friends among whom clearly it was a cliche species of joke that she should ask who Sylvia

was, and enumerate her merits, when all the time she was Sylvia. Michael felt rather impatient at this; she

was not anybody just now but a singer. And then came the divine inevitable simplicity of perfect words and

the melody preordained for them. The singer, as he knew, was German, but she had no trace of foreign

accent. It seemed to him that this was just one miracle the more; she had become English because she was

The next group, consisting of modern French songs, appeared to Michael utterly unworthy of the singer and

the echoing piano. If you had it in you to give reality to great and simple things, it was surely a waste to

concern yourself with these little morbid, melancholy manikins, these marionettes. But his emotions being

unoccupied he attended more to the manner of the performance, and in especial to the marvellous technique,

not so much of the singer, but of the pianist who caused the rain to fall and the waters reflect the toneless grey

skies. He had never, even when listening to the great masters, heard so flawless a comprehension as this

anonymous player, incidentally known as Hermann, exhibited. As far as mere manipulation went, it was, as

might perhaps be expected, entirely effortless, but effortless no less was the understanding of the music. It

All of this so filled Michael's mind as he travelled down that evening to Ashbridge, that he scarcely

remembered the errand on which he went, and when it occurred to him it instantly sank out of sight again,

lost in the recollection of the music which he had heard today and which belonged to the art that claimed the

allegiance of his soul. The rattle of the wheels was alchemised into song, and as with halfclosed eyes he

listened 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 intent against the dark panelling behind his head. He had gleaned one fact at the box office as

he hurried out to catch his train: this Hermann was the singer's brother, a teacher of the piano in London, and

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 dress quickly, in order not to add to his crimes the additional one of unpunctuality, for

unpunctuality, so Lord Ashbridge held, was the politeness not only of kings, but of all who had any pretence

to decent breeding. His father gave him a carefullyiced welcome, his mother the tip of her long, camellike

lips, and they waited solemnly for the appearance of Aunt Barbara, who, it would seem, had forfeited her

claims to family by her marriage. A manservant and a half looked after each of them at dinner, and the

twelve Lord Ashbridges in uniform looked down from their illuminated frames on their degenerate

The only bright spot in this portentous banquet was Aunt Barbara, who had chosen that evening, with what

intention may possibly be guessed, to put on an immense diamond tiara and a breastplate of rubies, while Og,

after one futile attempt to play with the footmen, yielded himself up to the chilling atmosphere of good

breeding, and ate his muttonchops with great composure. But Aunt Barbara, fortified by her gems, ate an

excellent dinner, and talked all the time with occasional bursts of unexplained laughter.

Afterwards, when Michael was left alone with his father, he found that his best efforts at conversation elicited

only monosyllabic replies, and at last, in the despairing desire to bring things to a head, he asked him if he

had received his letter. An affirmative monosyllable, followed by the hissing of Lord Ashbridge's cigarette

end as he dropped it into his coffee cup, answered him, and he perceived that the approaching storm was to

be rendered duly impressive by the thundery stillness that preceded it. Then his father rose, and as he passed

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

That was not very long delayed; Michael imagined that Aunt Barbara must have had a hint, for before

halfpast ten she announced with a skilfully suppressed laugh that she was about to retire, and kissed Michael

affectionately. Both her laugh and her salute were encouraging; he felt that he was being backed up. Then a

procession of footmen came into the room bearing lemonade and soda water and whiskey and a plate of plain

Lord Ashbridge rose and walked, very tall and majestic, to the fireplace, where he stood for a moment with

"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 tell you. If, as you have informed me, you have actually sent it in, you will

write tomorrow with due apologies and ask that it may be withdrawn. I will see your letter before you send

Michael had intended to be as quiet and respectful as possible, consistent with firmness, but a sentence here

"I don't know what you mean, sir," he said, "by saying 'if I have sent it in.' You have received my letter in

Already, even at the first words, there was bad blood between them. Michael's face had clouded with that

gloom which his father would certainly call sulky, and for himself he resented the tone of Michael's reply. To

make matters worse he gave his little falsetto cackle, which no doubt was intended to convey the impression

of confident good humour. But there was, it must be confessed, very little good humour about it, though he

"I'm afraid, perhaps, then, that I did not take your letter quite seriously, my dear Michael," he said, in the

bantering tone that froze Michael's cordiality completely up. "I glanced through it; I saw a lot of

nonsenseor so it struck meabout your resigning your commission and studying music; I think you

"Yes. I said all that," said Michael. "But you make a mistake if you do not see that it was written seriously."

His father glanced across at him, where he sat with his heavy, plain face, his long arms and short legs, and the

sight merely irritated him. With his passion for convention (and one of the most important conventions 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 his person. Again, very

"Yes, but I can't take that rubbish seriously," he said. "I am asking your permission now to inquire, without

Michael frowned. He felt the insincerity of his father's laugh, and rebelled against the unfairness of it. The

question, he knew well, was sarcastically asked, the flavour of irony in the "permission to inquire" was not

there by accident. To speak like that implied contempt of his opposition; he felt that he was being treated like

a child over some nursery rebellion, in which, subsequently, there is no real possibility of disobedience. He

"You mistake me," said Michael. "There is the end of the matter, because I won't discuss it any more, if you

treat me like this. I will say good night, if you intend to persist in the idea that you can just brush my resolves

This clearly took his father aback; it was a perfectly dignified and proper attitude to take in the face of

ridicule, and Lord Ashbridge, though somewhat an adept at the art of selfdeception as, for instance, when

he habitually beat the golf professional could not disguise from himself that his policy had been to laugh

and blow away Michael's absurd ideas. But it was abundantly clear at this moment that this apparently easy

He got up with more amenity in his manner than he had yet shown, and laid his hand on Michael's shoulder

"Come, my dear Michael. This won't do," he said. "I thought it best to treat your absurd schemes with a

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

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

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

Michael made a great effort with himself. He desired, in the secret, real Michael, to be reasonable and cordial,

to behave filially, while all the time his nerves were on edge with his father's ridicule, and with his instinctive

"Well, it's like this, father," he said. "I'm doing no good as I am. I went 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'm not good

"My heart isn't in it," he said, "and I dislike it. It seems to me useless. We're for show. And my heart is quite

Again he paused; all that came so easily to his tongue when he was speaking to Francis was congealed now

when he felt the contempt with which, though unexpressed, he knew he inspired his father.

Lord Ashbridge waited with careful politeness, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his large person completely

filling his chair, just as his atmosphere filled the room. He said nothing at all until the silence rang in

Lord Ashbridge carefully conveyed the ash from his cigarette to the fireplace before he spoke. He felt that the

"Very well, then, listen to me," he said. "What you suffer from, Michael, is a mere want of selfconfidence

and from modesty. You don't seem to graspI have often noticed thiswho you are and what your

importance isan importance which everybody is willing to recognise if you will only assume it. You have

the privileges of your position, which you don't sufficiently value, but you have, also, the responsibilities of

it, which I am afraid you are inclined to shirk. You haven't got the large view; you haven't the sense of

patriotism. There are a great many things in my position the position into which you will stepwhich I

would much sooner be without. But we have received a tradition, and we are bound to hand it on intact. You

may think that this has nothing to do with your being in the Guards, but it has. We"and he seemed to swell

a little"we are bound in honour to take the lead in the service of our country, and we must do it whether we

like it or not. We have to till, with our own efforts, 'our goodly heritage.' You have to learn the meaning of

Lord Ashbridge thought that he was really putting this very well indeed, and he had the sustaining

consciousness of sincerity. He entirely believed what he said, and felt that it must carry conviction to anyone

who listened to it with anything like an open mind. The only thing that he did not allow for was that he

personally immensely enjoyed his social and dominant position, thinking it indeed the only position which

was really worth having. This naturally gave an aid to comprehension, and he did not take into account that

Michael was not so blessed as he, and indeed lacked this very superior individual enlightenment. But his own

words kindled the flame of this illumination, and without noticing the blank stolidity of Michael's face he

"I am sure you are highminded, my dear Michael," he said. "And it is to your highmindedness that Iyes,

I don't mind saying it that I appeal. In a moment of unreflectiveness you have thrown overboard what I am

sure is real to you, the sense, broadly speaking, that you are English and of the highest English class, and

have intended to devote yourself to more selfish and pleasure loving aims, and to dwell in a tinkle of

pleasant sounds that please your ear; and I'm sure I don't wonder, because, as your mother and I both know,

you play charmingly. But I feel confident that your better mind does not really confuse the mere diversions of

"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

Lord Ashbridge's eloquence was suddenly arrested. He had been cantering gleefully along, and had the very

distinct impression of having run up against a stone wall. He dismounted, hurt, but in no way broken.

"Yes, father, but you don't," said he. "You have been explaining me all wrong. For instance, I don't regard

"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 when the 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. That only recognises the authority of my own

That seemed to Lord Ashbridge both tragic and ludicrous. Completely subservient himself to the conventions

which he so much enjoyed, it was like the defiance of a child to say such things. He only just checked himself

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

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

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

"Then, father, I can only say that I should be perfectly satisfied with anything you may do," said Michael. "I

wish you could leave everything you have to Francis. I tell you in all sincerity that I wish he had been my

Lord Ashbridge's anger rose. He was naturally so selfcomplacent as to be seldom disposed to anger, but its

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

There was a dead silence. Lord Ashbridge stood there in swollen and speechless indignation, and Michael

faced him undismayed. . . . And then suddenly to the boy there came an impulse of pure pity for his father's

disappointment in having a son like himself. He saw with the candour which was so real a part of him how

hopeless it must be, to a man of his father's mind, to have a millstone like himself unalterably bound round

"Indeed, I am not jealous of Francis, father," he said, "and I speak quite truthfully when I say how I

sympathise with you in having a son like 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 place at Ashbridge.

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

Michael paused a moment as if waiting for more. It did not seem to him possible that his appeal should bear

no further fruit than that. But it was soon clear that there was no more to come.

Sunday was a day on which Lord Ashbridge was almost more himself than during the week, so shining and

public an example did he become of the British nobleman. Instead of having breakfast, according to the

middleclass custom, rather later than usual, that solid sausagy meal was half an hour earlier, so that all the

servants, except those whose presence in the house was imperatively necessary for purposes of lunch, should

go to church. Thus "Old George" and Lord Ashbridge's private boat were exceedingly busy for the halfhour

preceding church time, the last boatload holding the family, whose arrival was the signal for service to

begin. Lady Ashbridge, however, always went on earlier, for she presided at the organ with the long,

camellike back turned towards the congregation, and started playing a slow, melancholy voluntary when the

boy who blew the bellows said to her in an ecclesiastical whisper: "His lordship has arrived, my lady." Those

of the household who could sing (singing being construed in the sense of making a loud and cheerful noise in

the throat) clustered in the choirpews near the organ, while the family sat in a large, square box, with a stove

in the centre, amply supplied with prayerbooks of the time when even Protestants might pray for Queen

Caroline. Behind them, separated from the rest of the church by an ornamental ironwork grille, was the

Comber chapel, in which antiquarians took nearly as much pleasure as Lord Ashbridge himself. Here reclined

a glorious company of sixteenth century knights, with their honourable ladies at their sides, unyielding

marble bolsters at their heads, and grotesque dogs at their feet. Later, when their peerage was conferred, they

lost a little of their yeoman simplicity, and became peruked and robed and breeched; one, indeed, in the age

of George III., who was blessed with poetical aspirations, appeared in bare feet and a Roman toga with a

scroll of manuscript in his hand; while later again, mere tablets on the walls commemorated their almost

And just on the other side of the grille, but a step away, sat the presentday representatives of the line, while

Lady Ashbridge finished the 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 cared to understand. According to his invariable custom, Lord Ashbridge read the lessons in a loud,

sonorous voice, his large, white hands grasping the wingfeathers of the brass eagle, and a great carnation in

his buttonhole; and when the time came for the offertory he put a sovereign in the open plate himself, and

proceeded with his minuetlike step to go round the church and collect the gifts of the encouraged

congregation. He followed all the prayers in his book, he made the responses in a voice nearly as loud as that

in which he read the lessons; he sang the hymns with a curious buzzing sound, and never for a moment did he

lose sight of the fact that he was the head of the Comber family, doing his duty as the custom of the Combers

was, and setting an example of godly piety. Afterwards, as usual, he would change his black coat, eat a good

lunch, stroll round the gardens (for he had nothing to say to golf on Sunday), and in the evening the

clergyman would dine with him, and would be requested to say grace both before and after the meal. He

knew exactly the proper mode of passing the Sunday for the landlord on his country estate, and when Lord

Michael, of course, was in disgrace; his father, pending some further course of action, neither spoke to him

nor looked at him; indeed, it seemed doubtful whether he would hand him the offertory plate, and it was

perhaps a pity that he unbent even to this extent, for Michael happened to have none of the symbols of

thankfulness about his person, and he saw a slight quiver pass through Aunt Barbara's hymnbook. After a

rather portentous lunch, however, there came some relief, for his father did not ask his company on the usual

Sunday afternoon stroll, and Aunt Barbara never walked at all unless she was obliged. In consequence, when

the thunderstorm had stepped airily away across the park, Michael joined her on the terrace, with the

Aunt Barbara was perfectly willing to do this, and she opened the discussion very pleasantly with peals of

"My dear, I delight in you," she said; "and altogether this is the most entertaining day I have ever spent here.

Combers are supposed to be very serious, solid people, but for unconscious humour there isn't a family in

England or even in the States to compare with them. Our lunch just now; if you could put it into a satirical

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

"My dear, what is there to be wretched about? You might have been wretched if you had found you couldn't

stand up to your father, but I gather, though I know nothing directly, that you did. At least, your mother has

said to me three times, twice on the way to church and once coming back: 'Michael has vexed his father very

much.' And the offertory plate, 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; and there we were at lunch, with your father apparently

unable to see either you or me, and unconscious of our presence. Fancy pretending not to see me! You can't

help seeing me, a large, bright object like me! And what will happen next? That's what tickles me to death, as

they say on my side of the Atlantic. Will he gradually begin to perceive us again, like objects looming

through a fog, or shall we come into view suddenly, as if going round a corner? And you are just as funny,

my dear, with your long face, and air of depressed determination. Why be heavy, Michael? So many people

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

"Perhaps they can't help it, Aunt Barbara," he said. "At least, I know I can't. I really wish I could learn how

to. II don't see the funny side of things till it is pointed out. I thought lunch a sort of hell, you know. Of

course, it was funny, his appearing not to see either of us. But it stands for more than that; it stands for his

Aunt Barbara had the sense to see that the real Michael was speaking. When people were being unreal, when

they were pompous or adopting attitudes, she could attend to nothing but their absurdity, which engrossed her

altogether. But she never laughed at real things; real things were not funny, but were facts.

"He quite misunderstands," went on Michael, with the eagerness with which the shy welcome

comprehension. "He thinks I can make my mind like his if I choose; and if I don't choose, or rather can't

choose, he thinks that his wishes, his authority, should be sufficient to make me act as if it was. Well, I won't

do that. He may go on,"and that pleasant smile lit up Michael's plain face "he may go on being unaware

of 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,

"I wish it was. Oh, Francis is a friend, I know. He thinks me an odd old thing, but he likes me. Other people

don't. And I can't see why they should. I'm sure it's my fault. It's because I'm heavy. You said I was,

"Then I was a great ass," remarked Aunt Barbara. "You wouldn't be heavy with 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."

"Three things," she said. "Firstly, get away from people who don't understand 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 ugly I am. I'm not ugly, really; you needn't be foolish and tell me so. I should spoil my life by

trying to be young, and only eating devilled codfish and drinking hot plum juice, or whatever is the accepted

remedy for what we call obesity. We're all odd old things, as you say. We can only get away from that

depressing fact by doing something, and not thinking about ourselves. We can all try not to be egoists.

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

"There!" she said, pointing, "if your dog had done that, you would be submerged in depression at the thought

of how vexed your father would be. That would be because you are thinking of the effect on yourself. As it's

my dog that has done itdear me, they do look squashed now he has got upyou don't really mind about

your father's vexation, because you won't have to think about yourself. That is wise of you; if you were a little

wiser still, you would picture to yourself how ridiculous I shall look apologising for Og. Kindly kick him,

Michael; he will understand. Naughty! And as for your not having any friends, that would be exceedingly

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 be your friends. Your friends, broadly speaking, must like the same sort of things as you.

There must be a common basis. You can't even argue with somebody, or disagree with somebody unless you

have a common ground to start from. If I say that black is white, and you think it is blue, we can't get on. It

"Yes. You don't know it, or else probably, since you are a very decent fellow, you wouldn't be. You expect

not to be liked, and that is cross of you. A goodhumoured person expects to be liked, and almost always is.

You expect not to be understood, and that's dreadfully cross. You think your father doesn't understand you;

no more he does, but don't go on thinking about it. You think it is a great bore to be your father's only son,

and wish Francis was instead. That's cross; you may think it's fine, but it isn't, and it is also ungrateful. You

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

"Don't interrupt. It is sufficiently accurate. And you think about your appearance, my dear. It will do quite

well. You might have had two noses, or only one eye, whereas you have two rather jolly ones. And do try to

see the joke in other people, Michael. You didn't see the joke in your interview last night with your father. It

must have been excruciatingly funny. I don't say it wasn't sad and serious as well. But it was funny too; there

"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's dignity. But your father knew he was being dignified, and you knew you

"But is nothing serious, then?" he asked. "Surely it was serious enough last night. There was I in rank

rebellion to my father, and it vexed him horribly; it did more, it grieved him."

"As if I didn't know that!" she said. "We're all sorry for that, though I should have been much sorrier if you

had given in and ceased to vex him. But there it is! Accept that, and then, my dear, swiftly apply yourself to

"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 a yachtingcap, and asks if there's a bit of a sea on. It proves to be the case,

and he is excessively unwell. I must look out for him next time I cross. And then?"

Lord Ashbridge approached down the terrace. He stopped for a moment at the desecrated geranium bed, saw

the two sitting together, and turned at right angles and went into the house. Almost immediately a footman

came out with a long doglead and advanced hesitatingly to Og. Og was convinced that he had come to play

with him, and crouched and growled and retreated and advanced with engaging affability. Out of the

windows of the library looked Lord Ashbridge's baleful face. . . . Aunt Barbara swayed out of her chair, and

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

Michael practised a certain mature and rather elderly precision in the ordinary affairs of daily life. His habits

were almost unduly tidy and punctual; he answered letters by return of post, he never mislaid things nor tore

up documents which he particularly desired should be preserved; he kept his gold in a purse and his change in

a trouserspocket, and in matters of travelling he always arrived at stations with plenty of time to spare, and

had such creature comforts as he desired for his journey in a neat Gladstone bag above his head. He never

travelled firstclass, for the very simple and adequate reason that, though very well off, he preferred to spend

his money in ways that were more productive of usefulness or pleasure; and thus, when he took his place in

the corner of a secondclass compartment of the DoverOstend express on the Wednesday morning

Probably he had never felt so fully at liberty, nor enjoyed a keener zest for life and the future. For the first

time he had asserted his own indisputable right to stand on his own feet, and though he was genuinely sorry

for his father's chagrin at not being able to tuck him up in the family coach, his own sense of independence

could not but wave its banners. There had been a second interview, no less fruitless than the first, and Lord

Ashbridge had told him that when next his presence was desired at home, he would be informed of the fact.

His mother had cried in a mild, trickling fashion, but it was quite obvious that in her heart of hearts she was

more concerned with a bilious attack of peculiar intensity that had assailed Petsy. She wished Michael would

not be so disobedient and vex his father, but she was quite sure that before long some formula, in diplomatic

phrase, would be found on which reconciliation could be based; whereas it was highly uncertain whether any

formula could be found that would produce the desired effect on Petsy, whose illness she attributed to the

shock of Og's sudden and disconcerting appearance on Saturday, when all Petsy's nervous force was required

to digest the copious cream. Consequently, though she threw reproachful glances at Michael, those directed at

Barbara, who was the cause of the acuter tragedy, were pointed with more penetrating blame. Indeed, it is

questionable whether Lady Ashbridge would have cried at all over Michael's affairs had not Petsy's also been

Just as the train began to move out of the station a young man rushed across the platform, eluded the embrace

of the guard who attempted to stop him with amazing agility, and jumped into Michael's compartment. He

slammed the door after him, and leaned out, apparently looking for someone, 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

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

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

Michael had recognised him at once as he rushed across the platform; his shouting to Sylvia had but

confirmed the recognition; and here on the day of his entering into his new kingdom of liberty was one of its

citizens almost thrown into his arms. But for the moment his old invincible habit of shyness and sensitiveness

forbade any responsive lightness of welcome, and he was merely formal, merely courteous.

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

"Uncomfortable? Why?" asked Falbe. "I shall buy a handkerchief and a collar every day, and a shirt and a

Michael felt a sudden, daring impulse. He remembered Aunt Barbara's salutary remarks about crossness

being the equivalent of thinking about oneself. And the effort that it cost him may be taken as the measure of

"But you needn't do that," he said, "ifif you will be good enough to borrow of me till your things come."

He blurted it out awkwardly, almost brusquely, and Falbe looked slightly amused at this wholly surprising

"But that's awfully good of you," he said, laughing and saying nothing direct about his acceptance. "It

implies, too, that you are going to Baireuth. We travel together, then, I hope, for it is dismal work travelling

alone, isn't it? My sister tells me that half my friends were picked up in railway carriages. Been there before?"

Michael felt himself lured from the ordinary aloofness of attitude and demeanour, which had been somewhat

accustomed to view all strangers with suspicion. 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 say on the piano what his sister

understood by the songs of Brahms and Schubert. He could not help glancing at Falbe's hands, as they busied

themselves with the filling and lighting of a pipe, and felt that he knew something of those long,

broadtipped fingers, smooth and white and strong. The man himself he found to be quite different to what

he had expected; he had seen him before, eager and intent and anxiousfaced, absorbed in the task of

"No, it's my first visit to Baireuth," he said, "and I can't tell you how excited I am about it. I've been looking

"Oh, you're safe enough," he said. "Baireuth never disappoints. It's one of the factsa reliable fact. And

"Lucky fellow," he said. "How I wish I was. But I've got to get back again after my week. You'll spend the

mornings in the galleries, and the afternoons 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

"Talk of Munich," he said. "I was born in Munich, and I happen to know that it's the heavenly Jerusalem,

"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 unalloyed bliss between me now and the

desolation of London in August. What is so maddening is to think of all the people who could go to Munich

Michael held debate within himself. He felt that he ought to tell his new acquaintance that he knew who he

was, that, however trivial their conversation might be, it somehow resembled eavesdropping to talk to a

chance fellowpassenger as if he were a complete stranger. But it required again a certain effort to make the

"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

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

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

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

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 so complete

that it was impossible to believe that a foreigner was speaking, was explained, for it came out that his mother

was English, and that from infancy they had spoken German and English indiscriminately. His father, who

had died some dozen years before, had been a singer of some note in his native land, but was distinguished

more for his teaching than his practice, and it was he who had taught his daughter. Hermann Falbe himself

had always intended to be a pianist, but the poverty in which they were left at his father's death had obliged

him to give lessons rather than devote himself to his own career; but now at the age of thirty he found himself

within sight of the competence that would allow him to cut down his pupils, and begin to be a pupil again

His sister, moreover, for whom he had slaved for years in order that she might continue her own singing

education unchecked, was now more than able, especially after these last three months in London, where she

had suddenly leaped into eminence, to support herself and contributed to the expenses of their common

home. But there was still, so Michael gathered, no great superabundance of money, and he guessed that

All this came out by inference and allusion rather than by direct information, while Michael, naturally

reticent and feeling that his own uneventful affairs could have no interest for anybody, was less

communicative. And, indeed, while shunning the appearance of inquisitiveness, he was far too eager to get

hold of his new acquaintance to think of volunteering much himself. Here to him was this citizen of the new

country who all his life had lived in the palace of art, and that in no dilettante fashion, but with set aim and

serious purpose. And Falbe abounded in such topics; he knew the singers and the musicians of the world, and,

which was much more than that, he was himself of them; humble, no doubt, in circumstances and

achievement as yet, but clearly to Michael of the blood royal of artistry. That was the essential thing about

him as regards his relations with his fellowtraveller, though, when next morning the spires of Cologne and

the swift river of his Fatherland came into sight, he burst out into a sort of rhapsody of patriotism that

"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 he turned

"I am sufficiently English to know how ridiculous that must seem to you," he said, "for I love England also,

and the passengers on the boat would merely think me mad if I apostrophised the cliffs of Dover and the mud

of the English roads. But here I am a German again, and I would willingly kiss the soil. You Englishwe

English, I may say, for I am as much English as GermanI believe have got the same feeling somewhere in

our hearts, but we lock it up and hide it away. Pray God I shall never have to choose to which nation I belong,

though for that matter there in no 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 German coffee, though the French coffee is undeniably

pleasanter to the mere superficial palate. But it doesn't touch the heart, as everything German touches my

"And to think that tonight we shall sleep in true German beds," he said. "I allow that the duvet is not so

convenient as blankets, and that there is a watershed always up the middle of your bed, so that during the

night your person descends to one side while the duvet rolls down the other; but it is German, which makes

up for any trifling inconvenience. Baireuth, too; perhaps it will strike you as a dull and stinking little town,

and so I dare say it is. But after lunch we shall go up the hillside to where the theatre stands, at the edge of the

pinewoods, and from the porch the trumpets will give out the motif of the Grail, and we shall pass out of the

heat into the cool darkness of the theatre. Aren't you thrilled, Comber? Doesn't a holy awe pervade you! Are

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

ashamed of expressing itself. Living, as he had always done, in the rather formal and reticent atmosphere of

his class and environment, he would have thought this fervour of patriotism in an English mouth ridiculous,

or, if persevered in, merely bad form. Yet when Falbe hailed the Rhine and the spires of Cologne, it was clear

that there was no bad form about it at all. He felt like that; and, indeed, as Michael was beginning to perceive,

he felt with a similar intensity on all subjects about which he felt at all. There was something of the same

vivid quality about Aunt Barbara, but Aunt Barbara's vividness was chiefly devoted to the hunt of the

absurdities of her friends, and it was always the concretely ridiculous that she pursued. But this handsome,

vital young man, with his eagerness and his welcome for the world, who had fallen with so delightful a

cordiality into Michael's company, had already an attraction for him of a sort he had never felt before.

Dimly, as the days went by, he began to conjecture that he who had never had a friend was being hailed and

halloed to, was being ordered, if not by precept, at any rate by example, to come out of the shell of his

reserve, and let himself feel and let himself express. He could see how utterly different was Falbe's general

conception and practice of life from his own; to Michael it had always been a congregation of

strangersFrancis exceptedwho moved about, busy with each other and with affairs that had no allure for

him, and were, though not uncivil, wholly alien to him. He was willing to grant that this alienation, this

absence of comradeship which he had missed all his life, was of his own making, 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 yet taken

his shutters down, so to speak, or thrown his front door open. He had peeped out through chinks, and felt how

Falbe, on the other hand, lived at his window, ready to hail the passerby, even as he had hailed Michael,

with cheerful words. There he lounged in his shirtsleeves, you might say, with elbows on the windowsill;

and not from politeness, but from good fellowship, from the fact 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 capable of

liking people, had up till now given them no sign of it. It really was not their fault if they had not guessed it.

Two days passed, on the first of which Parsifal was given, and on the second Meistersinger. On the third

there was no performance, and the two young men had agreed to meet in the morning and drive out of the

town to a neighbouring village among the hills, and spend the day there in the woods. Michael had looked

forward to this day with extraordinary pleasure, but there was mingled with it a sort of agony of apprehension

that Falbe would find him a very boring companion. But the precepts of Aunt Barbara came to his mind, and

he reflected that the certain and sure way of proving a bore was to be taken up with the idea that he might be.

They lunched in a little restaurant near a forestenclosed lake, and since the day was very hot, did no more

than stroll up the hill for a hundred yards, where they would get some hint of breeze, and disposed themselves

at length on the carpet of pineneedles. Through the thick boughs overhead the sunlight reached them only in

specks and flakes, the wind was but as a distant sea in the branches, and Falbe rolled over on to his face, and

sniffed at the aromatic leaves with the gusto with which 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 a smell and put it on your handkerchief; it takes the life out of it. Do you like smells,

"Think now, then, and tell me," said Falbe. "If you consider, you know such a lot about me, and, as a matter

of fact, I know nothing whatever about you. I know you like musicI know you like blue trout, because you

ate so many of them at lunch today. But what else do I know about you ? I don't even know what you

thought of Parsifal. No, perhaps I'm wrong there, because the fact that you've never mentioned it probably

shows that you couldn't. The symptom of not understanding anything about Parsifal is to talk about it, and say

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

"That's true. It becomes part of you, and you can't talk of it any more than you can talk about your elbows and

"That's part of the glory of it all," he said; "that art and its emotions become part of you like the food you eat

and the wine you drink. Art is always making us; it enters into our character and destiny. As long as you go

on growing you assimilate, and thank God one's mind or soul, or whatever you like to call it, goes on growing

for a long time. I suppose the moment comes to most people when they cease to grow, when they become

fixed and hard; and that is what we mean by being old. But till then you weave your destiny, or, rather,

people and beauty weave it for you, as you'll see the Norns weaving, and yet you never know what you are

making. You make what you are, and you never are because you are always becoming. You must excuse me;

"Lieber Gott! As if I could be anything else," said Falbe, laughing. "We are the only nation which makes a

science of experimentalism; we try everything, just as a puppy tries everything. It tries mutton bones, and

matchboxes, and soap and boots; it tries to find out what its tail is for, and bites it till it hurts, on which it

draws the conclusion that it is not meant to eat. Like all metaphysicians, too, and dealers in the abstract, we

are intensely practical. Our passion for experimentalism is dictated by the firm object of using the knowledge

we acquire. We are tremendously thorough; we waste nothing, not even time, whereas the English have an

absolute genius for wasting time. Look at all your games, your sports, your athleticsI am being quite

German now, and forgetting my mother, bless her!they are merely devices for getting rid of the hours, and

so not having to think. You hate thought as a nation, and we live for it. Music is thought; all art is thought;

"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 are a nation of children who are always having a perpetual holiday. You go

straying all over the world for fun, and annex it generally, so that you can have tigershooting in India, and

lots of gold to pay for your tigershooting in Africa, and fur from Canada for your coats. But it's all a game;

"Oh, I think you are wrong there," said Michael. "You believe that only because we don't talk about it.

It'sit's like what we agreed about Parsifal. We don't talk about it because it is so much part of us."

"I deny it; I deny it flatly," he said. "I know where I get my power of foolish, unthinking enjoyment from, and

it's from my English blood. I rejoice in my English blood, because you are the happiest people on the face of

the earth. But you are happy because you don't think, whereas the joy of being German is that you do think.

England is lying in the shade, like us, with a cigarette and a drinkI wish I had oneand a golf ball or the

world with which she has been playing her game. But Germany is sitting up all night thinking, and every

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

"Because you don't think," he interrupted. "I can tell you that the thought of war is never absent for a single

day from the average German mind. We are all soldiers, you see. We start with that. You start by being

golfers and cricketers. But 'der Tag' is never quite absent from the German mind. I don't say that all you

golfers and cricketers wouldn't make good soldiers, but you've got to be made. You can't be a golfer one day

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

"Ah, then at last I know two things about you," he said. "You were a soldier and you can't play golf. I have

never known so little about anybody after threefour days. However, what is our proverb? 'Live and learn.'

He spoke with a sudden irritation, and the laugh at the end of his speech was not one of amusement, but

rather of mockery. To Michael this mood was quite inexplicable, but, characteristically, he looked about in

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

"No, you've not annoyed me," he said. "I've annoyed myself. But that's the 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 a collection is

made, as happens at meetings, and you pay with your nerves. You must cancel my annoyance, please. If I

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

"No, my dear chap," he said. "You may believe it to be unthinkable, and I may believe it to be inevitable; but

what does it matter what either of us believes? Che sara sara. It was quite another thing that caused me to

"Well, then, as it is not private, and as you insist," he said, "I will certainly tell you. Does it not strike you that

you are behaving like an absolute stranger to me? We have talked of me and my home and my plans all the

time since we met at Victoria Station, and you have kept complete 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 no identity. You

may be a crossing sweeper, or a grocer, or a marquis for all I know. Of course, that matters very little; but

what does matter is that 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, that there's a real 'you' in your inside. But you don't let me

see it. You send a polite servant to the door when I knock. Probably this sounds very weird and unEnglish to

you. But to my mind it is much more weird to behave as you are behaving. Come out, can't you. Let's look at

It was exactly thatthat brusque, unsentimental appealthat Michael needed. He saw himself at that

moment, as Falbe saw him, a shelled and muffled figure, intangible and withdrawn, but observing, as it were,

"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

Falbe ceased digging his excavation in the pineneedles and looked up on Michael.

"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 secretiveness of oneself. How can they care, unless you let them know what there is to care

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 on he became conscious of the welcome that his story received, though that

welcome only expressed itself in perfectly unemotional monosyllables. He might be undressing, but he was

undressing in front of a fire. He knew that he uncovered himself to no icy blast or contemptuous rain, as he

had felt when, so few days before, he had spoken of himself and what he was to his father. There was here the

common land of music to build upon, whereas to Lord Ashbridge that same soil had been, so to speak, the

territory of the enemy. And even more than that, there was the instinct, the certain conviction that he was

telling his tale to sympathetic ears, to which the mere fact that he was speaking of himself presupposed a

friendly hearing. Falbe, he felt, wanted to know about him, regardless of the nature of his confessions. Had he

said that he was an undetected kleptomaniac, Falbe would have liked to know, have been pleased at any

tidings, provided only they were authentic. This seemed to reveal itself to him even as he spoke; it had been

there waiting for him to claim it, lying there as in a poste restante, only ready for its owner.

"Well, then, you are amazingly wrong. Good Lord, it's about the most interesting thing I've ever heard. I

didn't know anybody could escape from that awful sort of prisonhouse in which ourI'm English nowin

which our upper class immures itself. Yet you've done it. I take it that the thing is done now?"

"I'm not going back into the prisonhouse again, if you mean that," said Michael.

"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 sort of pride, I suppose. He will do as he thinks proper, and when he has thought, perhaps

"Oh, I forgot to tell you that. I've got some money, quite a lot, I mean, from my grandmother. In some ways I

rather wish I hadn't. It would have been a proof of sincerity to have become poor. That wouldn't have made

"And so you are rich, and yet go secondclass," he said. "If I were rich I would make myself exceedingly

comfortable. I like things that are good to eat and soft to touch. But I'm bound to say that I get on quite

excellently without them. Being poor does not make the smallest difference to one's happiness, but only to

Michael paused a moment, and then found courage to say what for the last two days he had been longing to

"I know; but pleasures are very nice things," he said. "And doesn't it seem obvious now that you are coming

to Munich with me? It's a purely selfish suggestion on my part. After being with you it will be very stupid to

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

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

The heat of the day was passing off, and over the sunbleached plain the coolness of evening was beginning

to steal. Overhead the wind stirred more resonantly in the pines, and in the bushes birds called to each other.

Presently after, they rose from where they had lain all the afternoon and strolled along the needled slope to

where, through a vista in the trees, they looked down on the lake and the hamlet that clustered near it. Down

the road that wound through the trees towards it passed labourers going homeward from their work, with

cheerful guttural cries to each other and a herd of cows sauntered by with bells melodiously chiming, taking

leisurely mouthfuls from the herbage of the wayside. In the village, lying low in the clear dusk, scattered

lights began to appear, the smoke of evening fires to ascend, and the aromatic odour of the burning wood

Falbe, whose hand lay in the crook of Michael's arm, pointed downwards to the village that lay there

"That's Germany," he said; "it's that which lies at the back of every German heart. There lie the springs of the

Rhine. It's out of that originally that there came all that Germany stands for, its music, its poetry, its

philosophy, its kultur. All flowed from these quiet uplands. It was here that the nation began to think and to

"And then next week when we go to Munich, you will find me saying that this, this Athens of a town, with its

museums and its galleries and its music, is Germany. I shall be right, too. Out of much dreaming comes the

need to make. It is when the artist's head and heart are full of his 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 meadow by the

Pegnitz where the Meistersingers held their contest of song and the wooden, gabled house where Albrecht

Durer lived? That will teach you Germany, too. The bud of their dream was opening then; and what flower,

even in the magnificence of its fullblowing, is so lovely? Albrecht Durer, with his deep, patient eyes, and

his patient hands with their unerring stroke; or Bach, with the fugue flowing from his brain through his quick

fingers, making starsstars fixed forever in the heaven of harmony! Don't tell me that there is anything in

the world more wonderful! We may have invented a few more instruments, we may have experimented with

a few more combinations of notes, but in the B minor Mass, or in the music of the Passion, all is said. And all

that came from the woods and the country and the quiet life in little towns, when the artist did his work

because he loved it, and cared not one jot about what anybody else thought about it. We are a nation of

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

"And who would not willingly give himself for such a Fatherland?" said Falbe. "If need be, we will lay our

lives down for that, and die more willingly than we have lived. God grant that the need comes not. But should

it come we are ready. We are bound to be ready; it would be a crime not to be readya crime against the

Fatherland. We love peace, but the peacelovers are just those who in war are most terrible. For who are the

backbone of war when war comes? The women of the country, my friend, not the ministers, not the generals

and the admirals. I don'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 woman in Germany who will not send forth brother and husband

and father and child, should the day come. But it will not come from our seeking."

"Germany will rise as one man if she's told to," he said, "for that is what her unity and her discipline mean.

"It is from there, from Prussia, from Berlin," he said, "that the word will come, if they who rule and govern

us, and in whose hands are all organisation and equipment, tell us that our national existence compels us to

fight. They rule. The Prussians rule; there is no doubt of that. From Germany have come the arts, the

sciences, the philosophies of the world, and not from there. But they guard our national life. It is they who

watch by the Rhine for us, patient and awake. Should they beckon us one night, on some peaceful August

night like this, when all seems so tranquil, so secure, we shall go. The silent beckoning finger will be obeyed

from one end of the land to the other, from Poland on the east to France on the west."

"It does not bear thinking of," he said; "and yet there are many, oh, so many, who night and day concern

themselves with nothing else. Let us be English 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 the horizon line of the stale, weary old earth and turns it into rosy

He stood for a moment bareheaded to the breeze, and made a great florid salutation to the sun, now only

"There! I have said my evensong," he remarked, "like a good German, who always and always is ridiculous

to the whole world, except those who are German 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 the other hand, perhaps, fingering

a revolver. How unreal it must seem to you, how affected, and yet how, in truth, you miss it all. Scratch a

Russian, they say, and you find a Tartar; but scratch a German and you find two thingsa sentimentalist and

a soldier. Lieber Gott! No, I will say, Good God! I am English again, and if you scratch me you will find a

"Well, we've spent one day together," he said, "and now we know something of who we are. I put this day in

the bank; it's mine or yours or both of ours. I won't tell you how I've enjoyed it, or you will say that I have

enjoyed it because I have talked almost all the time. But since it's the sentimental hour I will tell you that you

Hermann Falbe had just gone back to his lodgings at the end of the Richard 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 hour of

their train's departure the next morning, turned back into the room to begin his packing. That was not an

affair that would take much time, but since, on this sweltering August night, it would certainly be a process

that involved the production of much heat, he made ready for bed first, and went about his preparations in

pyjamas. The work of dropping things into a bag was soon over, and finding it impossible to entertain the

idea of sleep, he drew one of the stiff, plushcovered armchairs to the window and slipped the rein from his

In all his life he had never experienced so much sheer emotion as the last 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 one of

these would have been sufficient to saturate him, and they had all, in the decrees of Fate, come together. His

life hitherto had been like some dry sponge, dusty and crackling; now it was plunged in the waters of three

He had gained his liberty, and in that process he had forgotten about himself, the self which up till now had

been so intolerable a burden. At school, and even before, when first the age of self consciousness dawned

upon him, he had seen himself as he believed others saw hima queer, awkward, illmade boy, slow at his

work, shy with his fellows, incapable at games. Walled up in this fortress of himself, this gloomy and

forbidding fastness, he had altogether failed to find the means of access to others, both to the normal English

boys among whom his path lay, and also to his teachers, who, not unnaturally, found him sullen and

unresponsive. There was no key among the rather limited bunches at their command which unlocked him, nor

at home had anything been found which could fit his wards. It had been the business of school to turn out

boys of certain received types. There was the clever boy, the athletic boy, the merely pleasant boy; these and

the combinations arrived at from these types were the output. There was no use for others.

Then had succeeded those three nightmare years in the Guards, where, with his more mature power of

observation, he had become more actively conscious of his inability to take his place on any of the recognised

platforms. And all the time, like an owl on his solitary perch, he had gazed out lonelily, while the other birds

of day, too polite to mock him, had merely passed him by. One such, it is truehis cousinhad sat by 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 him without repugnance, had been fond of him as a queer sort of kind elder cousin.

Then there was Aunt Barbara. Aunt Barbara, Michael allowed, had understood a good deal; she had pointed

But could Aunt Barbara understand the rapture of living which this one week of liberty had given him? That

Michael doubted. She had only pointed out the disabilities he made for himself. She did not know what he

was capable of in the way of happiness. But he thought, though without selfconsciousness, how delightful it

A laughing couple went tapping down the street below his window, boy and girl, with arms and waists

interlaced. They were laughing at nothing at all, except that they were boy and girl together and it was all

glorious fun. But the sight of them gave Michael a sudden spasm of envy. With all this enlightenment that

had come to him during this last week, there had come no gleam of what that simplest and commonest aspect

of human nature meant. He had never felt towards a girl what that roundfaced German boy felt. He was not

sure, but he thought he disliked girls; they meant nothing to him, anyhow, and the mere thought of his arm

round a girl's waist only suggested a very embarrassing attitude. He had nothing to say to them, and the

knowledge of his inability filled him with an uncomfortable sense of his want of normality, just as did the

There was a night he remembered when Francis had insisted that he should go with him to a discreet little

supper party after an evening at the musichall. There were just four of themhe, Francis, and two

companionsand he played the role of sour gooseberry to his cousin, who, with the utmost gaiety, had

proved himself completely equal to the inauspicious occasion, and had drank indiscriminately out of both the

girls' glasses, and lit cigarettes for them; and, after seeing them both home, had looked in on Michael, and

The steps and conversation passed round the corner, and Michael, stretching his bare toes on to the cool

balcony, resumed his researchesthose joyful, unegoistic researches into himself. His liberty was bound up

with his music; the first gave the key to the second. Often as he had rested, so to speak, in oases of music in

London, they were but a pause from the desert of his uncongenial life into the desert again. But now the

desert was vanished, and the oasis stretched illimitable to the horizon in front of him. That was where, for the

future, his life was to be passed, not idly, sitting under trees, but in the eager pursuit of its unnumbered paths.

It was that aspect of it which, as he knew so well, his father, for instance, would never be able to understand.

To Lord Ashbridge's mind, music was vaguely connected with white waistcoats and opera glasses and large

pink carnations; he was congenitally incapable of viewing it in any other light than a diversion, something

that took place between nine and eleven o'clock in the evening, and in smaller quantities at church on Sunday

morning. He would undoubtedly have said that Handel's Messiah was the noblest example of music in the

world, because of its subject; music did not exist for him as a separate, definite and infinite factor of life; and

since it did not so exist for himself, he could not imagine it existing for anybody else. That Michael correctly

knew to be his father's general demeanour towards life; he wanted everybody in their respective spheres to be

like what he was in his. They must take their part, as he undoubtedly did, in the Creationscheme when the

A fresh factor had come into Michael's conception of music during these last seven days. He had become

aware that Germany was music. He had naturally known before that the vast proportion of music came from

Germany, that almost all of that which meant "music" to him was of German origin; but that was a very

different affair from the conviction now borne in on his mind that there was not only no music apart from

But every moment he spent in this wayside puddle of a town (for so Baireuth seemed to an unbiased view),

he became more and more aware that music beat in the German blood even as sport beat in the blood of his

own people. During this festival week Baireuth existed only because of that; at other times Baireuth was

probably as non existent as any dull and minor town in the English Midlands. But, owing to the fact of

music being for these weeks resident in Baireuth, the sordid little townlet became the capital of the huge,

patient Empire. It existed just now simply for that reason; to night, with the curtain of the last act of Parsifal,

it had ceased to exist again. It was not that a patriotic desire to honour one of the national heroes in the home

where he had been 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 a hundred towns those who were most typically German, whether high or low, rich or poor,

made their joyous pilgrimage. Joy and solemnity, exultation and the yearning that could never be satisfied

drew them here. And even as music was in Michael's heart, so Germany was there also. They were the people

who understood; they did not go to the opera as a bediamonded interlude between a dinner and a dance;

they came to this dreadful little town, the discomforts of which, the utter provinciality of which was

transformed into the air of the heavenly Jerusalem, as Hermann Falbe had said, because their souls were fed

here with wine and manna. He would find the same thing at Munich, so Falbe had told him, the next week.

The loves and the tragedies of the great titanic forces that saw the making of the world; the dreams and the

deeds of the masters of Nuremberg; above all, sacrifice and enlightenment and redemption of the soul; how,

except by music, could these be made manifest? It was the first and only and final alchemy that could by its

magic transformation give an answer to the tremendous riddles of consciousness; that could lift you, though

tearing and making mincemeat of you, to the serenity of the Pisgahtop, whence was seen the promised land.

It, in itself, was reality; and the door keeper who admitted you into that enchanted realm was the spirit of

Germany. Not France, with its little, morbid shiverings, and its meatmarket called love; not Italy, with its

melodious declamations and tawdry tunes; not Russia even, with the wind of its impenetrable winters, its

sense of joys snatched from its eternal frosts gave admittance there; but Germany, "deep, patient Germany,"

that sprang from upland hamlets, and flowed down with ever broadening stream into the illimitable ocean.

Here, then, were two of the initiations that had come, with the swiftness of the spate in Alpine valleys at the

melting of the snow, upon Michael; his own liberty, namely, and this new sense of music. He had groped, he

felt now, like a blind man in that direction, guided only by 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 less epochmaking had been the

dawn of friendship. Throughout the week his intimacy with Hermann Falbe had developed, shooting up like

an aloe flower, and rising into sunlight above the mists of his own selfoccupied shyness, which had so

darkly beset him all life long. He had given the best that he knew of himself to his cousin, but all the time

there had never quite been absent from his mind his sense of inferiority, a sort of aching wonder why he

could not be more like Francis, more careless, more capable of enjoyment, more of a normal type. But with

Falbe he was able for the first time to forget himself altogether; he had met a man who did not recall him to

himself, but took 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 morbid selfconsciousness; his anchor had been taken up from its

dragging in the sand, and he rode free, buoyed on waters and taken by tides. It did not occur to him to wonder

whether Falbe thought him uncouth and awkward; it did not occur to him to try to be pleasant, a job over

which poor Michael had so often found himself dishearteningly incapable; he let himself be himself in the

They had spent the morning together before this second performance of Parsifal that closed their series, in the

woods above the theatre, and Michael, no longer blurting out his speeches, but speaking in the quiet, orderly

"I shall come back to London with you after Munich," he said, "and settle 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 do something

as well as learn something, and, as I told you, I'm going to take up the piano seriously."

"A fine instrument, the piano," he remarked. "There is certainly something to be done with a piano, if you

know how to do it. I can strum a bit myself. Some keys are harder than othersthe black notes."

"Then it was impolite of you, but you haven't any manners. I was talking about my career. I want to do

something, and these large hands are really rather nimble. But I must be taught. The question is whether you

"I can't tell you," he said, "till I have heard you play. It's like this: I can't teach you to play unless you know

how, and I can't tell if you know how until I have heard you. If you have got that particular sort of

temperament that can put itself into the notes out of the ends of your fingers, I can teach you, and I will. But

if you haven't, I shall feel bound to advise you to try the Jew's harp, and see if you can get 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

bring their feelings out through their fingers. Others can; it is a special gift. If you haven't got it, I can't teach

you anything, and there is no use in wasting your time and mine. You can teach yourself to be frightfully

nimble with your fingers, and all the people who don't know will say: 'How divinely Lord Comber plays!

That sweet thing; is it Brahms or Mendelssohn?' But I can't really help you towards that; you can do that for

yourself. But if you've got the other, I can and will teach you all that you really know already."

"That's just the devil with the piano," said Falbe. "It's the easiest instrument of all to make a show on, and it is

the rarest sort of person who can play on it. That's why, all those years, I have hated giving lessons. If one has

to, as I have had to, one must take any awful miss with 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 be made a sham pianist,

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

"Yes, if you wish. I can tell at once if you are capable of playingat least, whether I think you are capable of

Michael had not been prevented by the economy that made him travel secondclass from engaging a carriage

by the day at Baireuth, since that clearly was worth while, and they found it waiting for them by the theatre.

There was still time to drive to Falbe's lodging and get through this crucial ordeal before the opera, and they

went straight there. A very venerable instrument, which Falbe had not yet opened, stood against the wall, and

He sat down at the far end of the room, put his long legs up on to another chair and waited. Michael sent a

despairing glance at that gay face, suddenly grown grim, and took his seat. He felt a paralysing conviction

that Falbe's judgment, whatever that might turn out to be, would be right, and the knowledge turned his

fingers stiff. From the few notes that Falbe had struck he guessed on what sort of instrument his ordeal was to

take place, and yet he knew that Falbe himself would have been able to convey to him the sense that he could

play, though the piano was all out of tune, and there might be dumb, disconcerting notes in it. There was

justice in Falbe's dictum about the temperament that lay behind the player, which would assert itself through

any faultiness of instrument, and through, so he suspected, any faultiness of execution.

In spite of Germany there occurred to Michael a Chopin prelude, at which he had worked a little during the

last two months in London. The notes he knew perfectly; he had believed also that he had found a certain

conception of it as a whole, so that he could make something coherent out of it, not merely adding bar to

correct bar. And he began the soft repetition of chordquavers with which it opened.

Then after stumbling wretchedly through two lines of it, he suddenly forgot himself and Falbe, and the

squealing unresponsive notes. He heard them no more, absorbed in the knowledge of what he meant by them,

of the mood which they produced in him. His great, ungainly hands had all the gentleness and selfcontrol

that strength gives, and the fingerfilling chords were as light and as fine as the settling of some poised bird

on a bough. In the last few lines of the prelude a deep bass note had to be struck at the beginning of each bar;

this Michael found was completely dumb, but so clear and vivid was the effect of it in his mind that he

scarcely noticed that it returned no answer to his finger. . . . At the end he sat without moving, his hands

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

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

"Yes; I'll teach you," he said. "All the technique you have got, you know, is wrong from beginning to end,

and you mustn't mind unlearning all that. But you've got the thing that matters."

All this stewed and seethed in Michael's mind as he sat that night by the window looking out on to the silent

and empty street. His thoughts flowed without check or guide from his will, wandering wherever their course

happened to take them, now lingering, like the water of a river in some deep, still pool, when he thought of

the friendship that had come into his life, now excitedly plunging down the foam of swiftflowing rapids in

the exhilaration of his newlyfound liberty, now proceeding with steady current at the thought of the weeks

of unremitting industry at a beloved task that lay in front of him. He could form no definite image out of

these which should represent his ordinary day; it was all lost in a bright haze through which its shape was but

faintly discernible; but life lay in front of him with promise, a thing to be embraced and greeted with

welcome and eager hands, instead of 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 its being worth while.

He wondered for a moment, as he rose to go to bed, what his feelings would have been if, at the end of his

performance on the sorethroated and voiceless piano, Falbe had said: "I'm sorry, but I can't do anything with

you." As he knew, Falbe intended for the future only to take a few pupils, and chiefly devote himself to his

own practice with a view to emerging as a concertgiver the next winter; and as Michael had sat down, he

remembered telling himself that there was really not the slightest chance of his friend accepting him as a

pupil. He did not intend that this rejection should make the smallest difference to his aim, but he knew that he

would start his work under the tremendous handicap of Falbe not believing that he had it in him to play, and

under the disappointment of not enjoying the added intimacy which work with and for Falbe would give him.

Then he had engaged in this tussle with refractory 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 the melody meant to him. But at the end, when

he came to himself again, and sat with dropped hands waiting for Falbe's verdict, he remembered how his

heart seemed to hang poised until it came. He had rehearsed again to himself his fixed determination that he

would play and could play, whatever his friend might think about it; but there was no doubt that he waited

with a greater suspense than he had ever known in his life before for that verdict to be made known to him.

Next day came their journey to Munich, and the installation in the best hotel in Europe. Here Michael was

host, and the economy which he practised when he had only himself to provide for, and which made him go

secondclass when travelling, was, as usual, completely abandoned now that the pleasure of hospitality was

his. He engaged at once the best double suite of rooms that the hotel contained, two bedrooms with

bathrooms, and an admirable sittingroom, looking spaciously out on to the square, and with brusque

decision silenced Falbe's attempted remonstrance. "Don't interfere with my show, please," he had said, and

proceeded to inquire about a piano to be sent in for the week. Then he turned to his friend again. "Oh, we are

Tristan und Isolde was given on the third day of their stay there, and Falbe, reading the morning German

"The Kaiser has arrived," he said. "There's a truce in the army manoeuvres for a couple of days, and he has

come to be present at Tristan this evening. He's travelled three hundred miles to get here, and will go back

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

"Has he? But I don't suppose it matters. The visit is a widely advertised incognito. That's his way. God be

"Well, I shan't" said Michael. "But it would shock my father dreadfully if he knew. The Kaiser looks on him

"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 a pheasant shoot from eleven till three; then the Emperor had out a steam

launch and careered up and down the river till six, asking a thousand questions about the tides and the

currents and the navigable channels. Then he lectured us on the family portraits till dinner; after dinner there

was a concert, at which he conducted the 'Song to Aegir,' and then there was a torch light fandango by the

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

"I waserluckier," said Michael politely, "because on that occasion I heard it twice. It was encored."

The advent of the Emperor had put the whole town in a ferment. Though the visit was quite incognito, an

enormous military staff which had been poured into the town might have led the thoughtful to suspect the

Kaiser's presence, even if it had not been announced in the largest type in the papers, and marchings and

counter marchings of troops and sudden bursts of national airs proclaimed the august presence. He held an

informal review of certain Bavarian troops not out for manoeuvres in the morning, visited the sculpture

gallery and pinacothek in the afternoon, and when Hermann and Michael went up to the theatre they found

rows of soldiers drawn up, and inside unusual decorations over a section of stalls which had been removed

and was converted into an enormous box. This was in the centre of the first tier, nearly at right angles to

where they sat, in the front row of the same tier; and when, with military punctuality, the procession of

uniforms, headed by the Emperor, filed in, the whole of the crowded house stood up and broke into a roar of

For a minute, or perhaps more, the Emperor stood facing the house with his hand raised in salute, a figure the

uprightness of which made him look tall. His brilliant uniform was ablaze with decorations; he seemed every

inch a soldier and a leader of men. For that minute he stood looking neither to the right nor left, stern and

almost frowning, with no shadow of a smile playing on the tightlydrawn lips, above which his moustache

was brushed upwards in two stiff protuberances towards his eyes. He was there just then not to see, but to be

seen, his incognito was momentarily in abeyance, and he stood forth the supreme head of his people, the

Allhighest War Lord, who had come that day from the field, to which he would return across half Germany

tomorrow. It was an impressive and dignified moment, and Michael heard Falbe say to himself: "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, and with one on each side he looked about the house and chatted to them. He

had taken out his operaglass, which he adjusted, using his right hand only, and looked this way and that, as

if, incognito again, he was looking for friends in the house. Once Michael thought that he looked rather long

and fixedly in his direction, and then, putting down his glass, he said something to one of the officers, this

time clearly pointing towards Michael. Then he gave some signal, just raising his hand towards the orchestra,

and immediately the lights were put down, the whole house plunged in darkness, except where the lamps in

the sunk orchestra faintly illuminated the base of the curtain, and the first longing, unsatisfied notes of the

The next hour passed for Michael in one unbroken mood of absorption. The supreme moment of knowing the

music intimately and of never having seen the opera before was his, and all that he had dreamed of or

imagined as to the possibilities of music was flooded and drowned in the thing itself. You could not say that

it was more gigantic than The Ring, more human than the Meistersingers, more emotional than Parsifal, but it

was utterly and wholly different to anything else he had ever seen or conjectured. Falbe, he himself, the

thronged and silent theatre, the Emperor, Munich, Germany, were all blotted out of his consciousness. He just

watched, as if discarnate, the unrolling of the decrees of Fate which were to bring so simple and

overpowering a tragedy on the two who drained the lovepotion together. And at the end he fell back in his

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

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

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

"Allow me to introduce myself as Count von Bergmann," he said, "and one of His Majesty's aidesdecamp.

The Kaiser always speaks with great pleasure of the visits he has paid to your father, and he saw you

immediately he came into the theatre. If you will permit me, I would advise 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 gives you

some speech of dismissal. Forgive me for going in front of you here. I have to introduce you to His Majesty's

The Emperor rose and held out his hand, and Michael, bowing over it as he took it, felt himself seized in the

famous grip of steel, of which its owner as well as its recipient was so conscious.

"I am much pleased to see you, Lord Comber," said he. "I could not resist the pleasure of a little chat with

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

"Ah! I am glad to hear it. I desire you to convey to him my friendliest greetings, and to your mother also. I

well remember my last visit to his house above the tidal estuary at Ashbridge, and I hope it may not be very

He spoke in a voice that seemed rather hoarse and tired, but his manner expressed the most courteous

cordiality. His face, which had been as still as a statue's when he showed himself to the house, was now never

in repose for a moment. He kept turning his head, which he carried very upright, this way and that as he

spoke; now he would catch sight of someone in the audience to whom he directed his glance, now he would

peer over the edge of the low balustrade, now look at the group of officers who stood apart at the back of the

His whole demeanour suggested a nervous, highlystrung condition; the restlessness of it was that of a man

overstrained, who had lost the capability of being tranquil. Now he frowned, now he smiled, but never for a

moment was he quiet. Then he launched a perfect hailstorm of questions at Michael, to the answers to which

(there was scarcely time for more than a monosyllable in reply) he listened with an eager and a suspicious

attention. They were concerned at first with all sorts of subjects: inquired if Michael had been at Baireuth,

what he was going to do after the Munich festival was over, if he had English friends here. He inquired

Falbe's name, looked at him for a moment through his glasses, and desired to know more about him. Then,

learning he was a teacher of the piano in England, and had a sister who sang, he expressed great satisfaction.

"I like to see my subjects, when there is no need for their services at home," he said, "learning about other

lands, and bringing also to other lands the culture of the Fatherland, even as it always gives me pleasure to

see the English here, strengthening by the study of the arts the bonds that bind our two great nations together.

You English must learn to understand us and our great mission, just as we must learn to understand you."

Then the questions became more specialised, and concerned the state of things in England. He laughed over

the disturbances created by the Suffragettes, was eager to hear what politicians thought about the state of

things in Ireland, made specific inquiries about the Territorial Force, asked about the Navy, the state of the

drama in London, the coal strike which was threatened in Yorkshire. Then suddenly he put a series of

"I am glad to see you came to Germany to do it. Berlin? You ought to spend a couple of months in Berlin.

"The HerrDirector," he said, "humbly craves to know whether it is Your Majesty's pleasure that the opera

"There, Lord Comber," he said, "you see how I am ordered about. They wish to cut short my conversation

with you. Yes, Bergmann, we will go on. You will remain with me, Lord Comber, for this act."

Immediately after the lights were lowered again, the curtain rose, and a most distracting hour began for

Michael. His neighbour was never still for a single moment. Now he would shift in his chair, now with his

hand he would beat time on the red velvet balustrade in front of him, and a stream of whispered appreciation

"They are taking the opening scene a little too slow," he said. "I shall call the director's attention to that. But

that crescendo is well done; yes, that is most effective. The shawlobserve the beautiful lines into which the

shawl falls as she waves it. That is wonderfula very impressive entry. Ah, but they should not cross the

stage yet; it is more effective if they remain longer there. Brangane sings finely; she warns them that the

"Brangane is playing gooseberry, as you say in England," he said. "A big gooseberry, is she not? Ah, bravo!

bravo! Wunderschon! Yes, enter King Mark from his hunting. Very fine. Say I was particularly pleased with

the entry of King Mark, Bergmann. A wonderful act! Wagner never touched greater heights."

"I am pleased to have seen you, Lord Comber," he said. "Do not forget my message to your father; and take

my advice and come to Berlin in the winter. We are always pleased to see the English in Germany."

As Michael left the box he ran into the HerrDirector, who had been summoned to get a few hints.

He went back to join Falbe in a state of republican irritation, which the honour that had been done him did

not at all assuage. There was an hour's interval before the third act, and the two drove back to their hotel to

dine there. But Michael found his friend wholly unsympathetic with his chagrin. To him, it was quite clear,

the disappointment of not having been able to attend very closely to the second act of Tristan was negligible

compared to the cause that had occasioned it. It was possible for the ordinary mortal to see Tristan over and

over again, but to converse with the Kaiser was a thing outside the range of the average man. And again in

this interval, as during the act itself, Michael was bombarded with questions. What did the Kaiser say? Did he

remember Ashbridge? Did Michael twice receive the iron grip? Did the All highest say anything about the

manoeuvres? Did he look tired, or was it only the light above his head that made him appear so haggard?

"My dear Hermann," he said, "we alluded very cautiously to the 'Song to Aegir' this morning, and delicately

remarked that you had heard it once and I twice. How can you care what his opinion of this opera is?"

"You don't understand," he said. "You have just been talking to him himself. I long to hear his every word

and intonation. There is the personality, which to us means so much, in which is summed up all Germany. It

is as if I had spoken to Rule Britannia herself. Would you not be interested? There is no one in the world who

is to his country what the Kaiser is to us. When you told me he had stayed at Ashbridge I was thrilled, but I

was ashamed lest you should think me snobbish, which indeed I am not. But now I am past being ashamed."

"In his hand lies peace and war," he said. "It is as he pleases. The Emperor and his Chancellor can make

Germany do exactly what they choose, and if the Chancellor does not agree with the Emperor, the Emperor

can appoint one who does. That is what it comes to; that is why he is as vast as Germany itself. The Reichstag

but advises where he is concerned. Have you no imagination, Michael? Europe lies in the hand that shook

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

"But for him," he said, "England and Germany would have been at each other's throats over the business at

"Naturally. It is his business to be ready for any attack on the part of those who are jealous at our power. The

whole Fatherland is a sword in his hand, which he sheathes. It would long ago have leaped from the scabbard

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

Suddenly the whole subject tasted bitter to Michael. He recalled, instinctively, the Emperor's great curiosity

to be informed on English topics by the ordinary Englishman with whom he had acquaintance.

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

"That is what I have said to you before," he remarked. "You are the most happygolucky of the nations. Did

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

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

"But I didn't commit myself," said Michael, smiling back; "though I can say 'beloved Germany' with equal

During the next day or two Michael often found himself chipping at the bedrock, so to speak, of this

conversation, and Falbe's revealed attitude towards his country and, in particular, towards its supreme head. It

seemed to him a wonderful and an enviable thing that anyone could be so thoroughly English as Falbe

certainly was in his ordinary, everyday life, and that yet, at the back of this there should lie so profound a

patriotism towards another country, and so profound a reverence to its ruler. In his general outlook on life, his

friend appeared to be entirely of one blood with himself, yet now on two or three occasions a chance spark

had lit up this Teutonic beacon. To Michael this mixture of nationalities seemed to be a wonderful gift; it

implied a widening of one's sympathies and outlook, a larger comprehension of life than was possible to any

For himself, like most young Englishmen of his day, he was not conscious of any tremendous sense of

patriotism like this. Somewhere, deep down in 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, look forward to such a bouleversement as being a possible contingency. But

with Falbe it was different; quite a small cause, like the sight of the Rhine at Cologne, or a Bavarian village at

sunset, or the fact of a friend having talked with the Emperor, was sufficient to make his innate patriotism

find outlet in impassioned speech. He wondered vaguely whether Falbe's explanation of thisnamely, that

nationally the English were prosperous, comfortable and insouciantwas perhaps sound. It seemed that the

Michael had been practising all the morning of a dark November day, had eaten a couple of sandwiches

standing in front of his fire, and observed with some secret satisfaction that the fog which had lifted for an

hour had come down on the town again in earnest, and that it was only reasonable to dismiss the possibility

of going out, and spend the afternoon as he had spent the morning. But he permitted himself a few minutes'

relaxation as he smoked his cigarette, and sat down by the window, looking out, in Lucretian mood, on to the

Though it was still only between one and two in the afternoon, the densest gloom prevailed, so that it was

impossible to see the outlines even of the houses across the street, and the only evidence that he was not in

some desert spot lay in the fact of a few twinkling lights, looking incredibly remote, from the windows

opposite and the gaslamps below. Traffic seemed to be at a standstill; the accustomed roar from Piccadilly

was dumb, and he looked out on to a silent and vapourswathed world. This isolation from all his fellows and

from the chances of being disturbed, it may be added, gave him a sense of extreme satisfaction. He wanted

his piano, but no intrusive presence. He liked the sensation of being shut up in his own industrious citadel,

During the last two months and a half since his return from Munich he had experienced greater happiness,

had burned with a stronger zest for life than during the whole of his previous existence. Not only had he been

working at that which he believed he was fitted for, and which gave him the stimulus which, one way or

another, is essential to all good work, but he had been thrown among people who were similarly employed,

with whom he had this great common ground of kinship in ambition and aim. No more were the days too

long from being but halffilled with work with 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 in this busy atmosphere, where

his own studies took so much of his time and energy, and where everybody else was in some way similarly

employed, that dismal selfconsciousness which so drearily looked on himself shuffling along through

fruitless, uncongenial days was cracking off him as the chestnut husk cracks when the kernel within swells

Apart from his work, the centre of his life was certainly the household of the Falbes, where the brother and

sister lived with their mother. She turned out to be in a rather remote manner "one of us," and had about her,

very faint and dim, like an antique lavender bag, the odour of Ashbridge. She lived like the lilies of the field,

without toiling or spinning, 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, as with drugs, she had sapped it away by a practically

unremitting perusal of all the fiction that makes the average reader wonder why it was written. In fact, she

supplied the answer to that perplexing question, since it was clearly written for her. She was not in the least

excited by these tales, any more than the human race are excited by the oxygen in the air, but she could not

live without them. She subscribed to three lending libraries, which, by this time had probably learned her

tastes, for if she ever by illchance embarked on a volume which ever so faintly adumbrated the realities of

life, she instantly returned it, as she found it painful; and, naturally, she did not wish to be pained. This did

not, however, prevent her reading those that dealt with amiable young men who fell in love with amiable

young women, and were for the moment sundered by red haired adventuresses or blackhaired

moneylenders, for those she found not painful but powerful, and could often remember where she had got to

in them, which otherwise was not usually 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" some quarter of a century ago. She drank hot

Sylvia and Hermann certainly did all that could be done for her; in other words, they invariably saw that her

water was hot, and her stock of novels replenished. But when that was accomplished, there really appeared to

be little more that could be done for her. Her presence in a room 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 furnished exactly in accordance with her twilight

existence. There was a writingtable there, which she never used, several low armchairs (one of which she

was always using), by each of which was a small table, on to 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 the chimneypiece, plushrimmed plates on the

walls, and a couple of easels, draped with chiffon, on which stood enlarged photographs of her husband and

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. In fact, from the standpoint of commonsense, hers was the most successful existence;

for, knowing what she liked, she passed her entire life in its accomplishment. The only thing that caused her

emotion was the energy and vitality of her two children, and even then that emotion was but a mild surprise

when she recollected how tremendous a worker and boisterous a gourmand of life was her late husband, on

the anniversary of 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 nothing at all. She had married him because, for some inscrutable

reason, he insisted on it; and she had been resigned to his death, as to everything else that had ever happened

All her life, in fact, she had been of that unchangeable, drab quality in emotional affairs which is

characteristic of advanced middleage, when there are no great joys or sorrows to look back on, and no

expectation for the future. She had always had something of the indestructible quality of frail things like

thistledown or cottonwool; violence and explosion that would blow strong and distinct organisms to atoms

only puffed her a yard or two away where she alighted again without shock, instead of injuring or

annihilating her. . . . Yet, in the inexplicable ways of love, Sylvia and her brother not only did what could be

done for her, but regarded her with the tenderest affection. What that love lived on, what was its daily food

The rest of the house, apart from the vacuum of Mrs. Falbe's rooms, conducted itself, so it seemed to

Michael, at the highest possible pressure. Sylvia and her brother were both far too busy to be restless, and if,

on the one hand, Mrs. Falbe's remote, impenetrable life was inexplicable, not less inexplicable was the rage

for living that possessed the other two. From morning till night, and on Sundays from night till morning, life

As regards household arrangements, which were all in Sylvia's hands, there were three fixed points in the

day. That is to say, that there was lunch for Mrs. Falbe and anybody else who happened to be there at

halfpast one; tea in Mrs. Falbe's wellliked sittingroom at five, and dinner at eight. These mealsMrs.

Falbe always breakfasted in her bedroomwere served with quiet decorum. Apart from them, anybody who

required anything consulted the cook personally. Hermann, for instance, would have spent the morning at his

piano in the vast studio at the back of their house in Maidstone Crescent, and not arrived at the fact that it was

lunch time till perhaps three in the afternoon. Unless then he settled to do without lunch altogether, he must

forage for himself; or Sylvia, having to sing at a concert at eight, would return famished and exultant about

ten; she would then proceed to provide herself, unless she supped elsewhere, with a plate of eggs and bacon,

or anything else that was easily accessible. It was not from preference that these haphazard methods were

adopted; but since they only kept two servants, it was clear that a couple of women, however willing, could

not possibly cope with so irregular a commissariat in addition to the series of fixed hours and the rest of the

household work. As it was, two splendidly efficient persons, one German, the other English, had filled the

posts of parlourmaid and cook for the last eight years, and regarded themselves, and were regarded, as

members of the family. Lucas, the parlourmaid, indeed, from the intense interest she took in the conversation

at table, could not always resist joining in it, and was apt to correct Hermann or his sister if she detected an

inaccuracy in their statements. "No, Miss Sylvia," she would say, "it was on Thursday, not Wednesday," and

In this milieu, as new to Michael as some suddenly discovered country, he found himself at once plunged and

treated with instant friendly intimacy. Hermann, so he supposed, must have given him a good character, for

he was made welcome before he could have had time to make any impression for himself, as Hermann's

friend. On the first occasion of his visiting the house, for the purpose of his music lesson, he had stopped to

lunch afterwards, where he met Sylvia, and was in the presence of (you could hardly call it more than that)

Mrs. Falbe had faded away in some mistlike fashion soon after, but it was evident that he was intended to do

no such thing, and they had gone into the studio, already comrades, and Michael had chiefly listened while

the other two had violent and friendly discussions on every subject under the sun. Then Hermann happened to

sit down at the piano, and played a Chopin etude pianissimo prestissimo with fingertips that just made the

notes to sound and no more, and Sylvia told him that he was getting it better; and then Sylvia sang "Who is

Sylvia?" and Hermann told her that she shouldn't have eaten so much lunch, or shouldn't have sung; and then,

by transitions that Michael could not recollect, they played 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 dropped in, and though these were all intimate with their hosts, Michael had

no impression of being out in the cold or among strangers. And when he left he felt as if he had been

stretching out chilly hands to the fire, and that the fire was always burning there, ready for him to heat

himself at, with its welcoming flames and core of sincere warmth, whenever he felt so disposed.

At first he had let himself do this much less often than he would have liked, for the shyness of years, his

oversensitive modesty at his own want of charm and lightness, was a selferected barrier in his way. He

was, in spite of his intimacy with Hermann, desperately afraid of being tiresome, of checking by his presence,

as he had so often felt himself do before, the ease and high spirits of others. But by degrees this broke down;

he realised that he was now among those with whom he had that kinship of the mind and of tastes which

makes the foundation on which friendship, and whatever friendship may ripen into, is securely built. Never

did the simplicity and sincerity of their welcome fail; the cordiality which greeted him was always his; he felt

that it was intended 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 both for the Falbes and for Michael to do

more than have, apart from the music lessons, flying glimpses of each other; for the day was taken up with

work, concerts and opera occurred often in the evening, and the shuttles of London took their threads in

divergent directions. But on Sunday the house at Maidstone Crescent ceased, as Hermann said, to be a

"We burst from our chrysalis, in fact," he said. "If you find it clearer to understand this way, we burst from

our chrysalis and become a caterpillar. Do chrysalides become caterpillars! We do, anyhow. If you come

about eight you will find food; if you come later you will also find food of a sketchier kind. People have a

habit of dropping in on Sunday evening. There's music if anyone feels inclined to make any, and if they don't

they are made to. Some people come early, others late, and they stop to breakfast if they wish. It's a

"Oh, I'm so bad at that sort of thing," he said. "I am a frightful killjoy, Hermann."

"That's the most conceited thing I've heard you say yet," he remarked. "Nobody will pay any attention to you;

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

"That's right. You might even find yourself enjoying it by accident, you know. If you don't, you can go away.

There's music; Sylvia sings quite seriously sometimes, and other people sing or bring violins, and those who

don't like it, talkand then we get less serious. Have a try, Michael. See if you can't be less serious, too."

"If only I knew how!" he said. "I believe my nurse never taught me to play, only to remember that I was a

little gentleman. All the same, when I am with you, or with my cousin Francis, I can manage it to a certain

"Oh, you're getting on," he said. "You take yourself more for granted than 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 play the

"Yes, of course. So come on Sunday, and forget all about it, except coming. And now, do you mind going

away? I want to put in a couple of hours before lunch. You know what to practise till Tuesday, don't you?"

That was the first Sunday evening that Michael had spent with his friends; after that, up till this present date

in November, he had not missed a single one of those gatherings. They consisted almost entirely of men, and

of the men there were many types, and many ages. Actors and artists, musicians and authors were

indiscriminately mingled; it was the strangest conglomeration of diverse interests. But one interest, so it

seemed to Michael, bound them all together; they were all doing in their different lives the things they most

delighted in doing. There was the key that unlocked all the locksnamely, the enjoyment that inspired their

work. The freemasonry of art and the freemasonry of the eager mind that looks out without verdict, but with

only expectation and delight in experiment, passed like an open secret among them, secret because none

spoke of it, open because it was so transparently obvious. And since this was so, every member of that

heterogeneous community had a respect for his companions; the fact that they were there together showed

Very soon after dinner all sitting accommodation, other than the floor, was occupied; but then the floor held

the later comers, and the smoke from many cigarettes and the babble of many voices made a

constantlyascending incense before the altar dedicated to the gods that inspire all enjoyable endeavour.

Then Sylvia sang, and both those who cared 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 was pleased to parody another eminent actor

who was also present. This led to a scene in which each caricatured the other, and a French poet did

gymnastic feats on the floor and upset a tray of sodawater, and a German conductor fluffed out his hair and

died like Marguerite. And when in the earlier hours of the morning part of the guests had gone away, and part

were broiling ham in the kitchen, Sylvia sang again, quite seriously, and Michael, in Hermann's absence,

volunteered to play her accompaniment for her. She stood behind him, and by a finger on his shoulder

directed him in the way she would have him go. Michael found himself suddenly and inexplicably

understanding this; her finger, by its pressure or its light tapping, seemed to him to speak in a language that

he found himself familiar with, and he slowed down stroking the notes, or quickened with staccato touch, as

Out of all these things, which were but trivialities, pleasant, unthinking hours for all else concerned, several

points stood out for Michael, points new and illuminating. The first was the simplicity of it all, the

spontaneousness with which pleasure was born if only you took off your clothes, so to speak, and left them

on the bank while you jumped in. All his life he had buttoned his jacket and crammed his hat on to his head.

The second was the sense, indefinable but certain, that Hermann and Sylvia between them were the high

He himself had met, at dreadful, solemn evenings when Lady Ashbridge and his father stood at the head of

the stairs, the two eminent actors who had romped tonight, and found them exceedingly stately personages,

just as 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 their environment. Perhaps if his father and mother came here . . . but

The third point, which gradually through these weeks began to haunt him more and more, was the personality

of Sylvia. He had never come across a girl who in the least resembled her, probably because he had not

attempted even to find in a girl, or to display in himself, the signals, winked across from one to the other, of

human companionship. Always he had found a difficulty in talking to a girl, because he had, in his

selfconsciousness, thought about what he should say. There had been the cabalistic question of sex ever in

front of him, a thing that troubled and deterred him. But Sylvia, with her hand on his shoulder, absorbed in

her singing, and directing him only as she would have pressed the pedal of the piano if she had been playing

to herself, was no more agitating than if she had been a man; she was just singing, just using him to help her

singing. And even while Michael registered to himself this charming annihilation of sex, which allowed her

to be to him no more than her brother wasless, in fact, but on the same plane she had come to the end of

her song, patted him on the back, as she would have patted anybody else, with a word of thanks, and, for him,

suddenly leaped into significance. It was not only a singer who had sung, but an individual one called Sylvia

Falbe. She took her place, at present a most inconspicuous one, on the backcloth before which Michael's life

was acted, 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 and their meetings multiplied, she

became bigger, walked into a nearer perspective. It did not occur to Michael, rightly, to imagine himself at all

in love with her, for he was not. Only she had asserted herself on his consciousness.

Not yet had she begun to trouble him, and there was no sign, either external or intimate, in his mind that he

was sickening with the splendid malady. Indeed, the significance she held for him was rather that, though she

was a girl, she presented none of the embarrassments which that sex had always held for him. She grew in

comradeship; he found himself as much at ease with her as with her brother, and her charm was just that

which had so quickly and strongly attracted Michael to Hermann. She was vivid in the same way as he was;

she had the same warm, welcoming kindlinessthe same complete absence of pose. You knew where you

were with her, and hitherto, when Michael was with one of the young ladies brought down to Ashbridge to be

looked at, he only wished that wherever he was he was somewhere else. But with Sylvia he had none of this

selfconsciousness; she was bonne camarade for him in exactly the same way as she was bonne camarade to

the rest of the multitude which thronged the Sunday evenings, perfectly at ease with them, as they with her, in

But through these weeks, up to this foggy November afternoon, Michael's most conscious preoccupation was

his music. Falbe's principles in teaching were entirely heretical according to the traditional school; he gave

"What is the good of them?" he asked. "They can only give you nimbleness and strength. Well, you shall

acquire your nimbleness and strength by playing what is worth playing. Take good music, take Chopin or

Bach or Beethoven, and practise one particular etude or fugue or sonata; you may choose anything you like,

and learn your nimbleness and strength that way. Read, too; read for a couple of hours every day. The written

language of music must become so familiar to you that it is to you precisely what a book or a newspaper is,

so that whether you read it aloudwhich is playingor sit in your armchair with your feet on the fender,

reading it not aloud on the piano, but to yourself, it conveys its definite meaning to you. At your lessons you

will have to read aloud to me. But when you are reading to yourself, never pass over a bar that you don't

understand. It has got to sound in your head, just as the words you read in a printed book really sound in your

head if you read carefully and listen for them. You know exactly what they would be like if you said them

"That's just what you mustn't do. Go ahead, and don't pause till you get to the bottom of the page. Count; start

This was a dismal experience. Michael hitherto had gone on the painstaking and thorough plan of spelling out

his notes with laborious care. Now Falbe's inexorable voice counted for him, until it was lost in

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

Michael, flushed and determined, with grave, set mouth, ploughed his way through amazing dissonances, and

"And what was it?" he said. "I declare it was the fourth fugue. An entirely different conception of it! A

thoroughly original view! Now, what you've got to do, is to repeat thatnot the same murder I mean, but

other murdersfor a couple of hours a day. . . . By degreesyou won't believe ityou will find you are not

murdering any longer, but only mortally wounding. After six months I dare say you won't even be hurting

In this way Michael's musical horizons were infinitely extended. Not only did this system of Falbe's of flying

at new music, and going recklessly and regardlessly on, give quickness to his brain and finger, make his wits

alert to pick up the new language he was learning, but it gloriously extended his vision and his range of

country. He ran joyfully, though with a thousand falls and tumbles, through these new and wonderful vistas;

he worshipped at the grave, Gothic sanctuaries of Beethoven, he roamed through the enchanted garden of

Chopin, he felt the icy and eternal frosts of Russia, and saw in the northern sky the great auroras spread

themselves in spear and sword of fire; he listened to the wisdom of Brahms, and passed through the noble and

smiling country of Bach. All this, so to speak, was holiday travel, and between his journeys he applied

himself with the same eager industry to the learning of his art, so that he might reproduce for himself and

others true pictures of the scenes through which he scampered. Here Falbe was not so easily moved to

laughter; he was as severe with Michael as he was with himself, when it was the question of learning some

piece with a view to really playing it. There was no lighthearted hurrying on through blurred runs and false

notes, slurred phrases and incomplete chords. Among these pieces which had to be properly learned was the

17th Prelude of Chopin, on hearing which at Baireuth on the tuneless and catarrhed piano Falbe had agreed to

take Michael as a pupil. But when it was played again on Falbe's great Steinway, as a professed performance,

"This won't do, Michael," he said. "You played it before for me to see whether you could play. You can. But

it won't do to sketch it. Every note has got to be there; Chopin didn't write them by accident. He knew quite

This time Michael got not quite so far, when he was stopped again. He was playing without notes, and Falbe

This was discouraging; Michael believed that he remembered easily; he also believed that he had long known

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

"You left out that F sharp," he said. "Go on. . . . Now you are leaving out that E natural. Try to get it better by

Thursday, and remember this, that playing, and all that differentiates playing from strumming, only begins

when you can play all the notes that are put down for you to play without fail. You're beginning at the wrong

end; you have admirable feeling about that prelude, but you needn't think about feeling till you'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.

Michael felt somewhat squashed and discouraged. He had thought he had really worked successfully at the

"Look here, Michael," he said, "you're vexed with me. Now, there's nothing to be vexed at. You know quite

well you were leaving out lots of notes 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 but the best you can do. You're not doing your

best when you don't even play what 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 and disappointed that Hermann should

have sent him back like a schoolboy with his exercise torn over. Not immediately did he confess to himself

He moved his big shoulders slightly, as if to indicate that Hermann's hand was not wanted there. Hermann

"I'm wrong," he said, turning round with the smile that made his ugly face so pleasant. "And I'm sorry both

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

This was a vastly different affair. Michael had shown both ingenuity and a great sense of harmonic beauty in

the arrangement of the very simple little tune that Falbe had made him exercise his ear over, and the

halfdozen variations that followed showed a wonderfully mature handling. The air which he dealt with

haunted them as a sort of unseen presence. It moved in a tiny gavotte, or looked on at a minuet measure; it

wailed, yet without being positively heard, in a little dirge of itself; it broadened into a march, it shouted in a

bravura of rapid octaves, and finally asserted itself, heard once more, over a great scale base of bells.

Falbe, as was his habit when interested, sat absolutely still, but receptive and alert, instead of jerking and

fidgeting as he had done over Michael's fiasco in the Chopin prelude, and at the end he jumped up with a

"Do you know what you've done?" he said. "You've done something that's really good. Faults? Yes, millions;

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

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

The last one was taxing to the fingers, but Michael's big hands banged out the octave scale in the bass with

wonderful ease, and Falbe gave a great guffaw of pleasure at the rollicking conclusion.

"Write them all down," he said, "and try if you can hear it singing half a dozen more. If you can, write them

It was with these variations, now on the point of completion that Michael meant to spend his solitary and

rapturous evening. The spirits of the airwhatever those melodious sprites may behad for the last month

made themselves very audible to him, and the halfdozen further variations 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 expressed himself, and they haunted him no longer. At present he

had but jotted down the skeleton of bars that could be filled in afterwards, and it gave him enormous pleasure

to see the roles reversed and himself out of his own brain, setting Falbe his task.

But he felt much more than this. He had done something. Michael, the dumb, awkward Michael, was

somehow revealed on those eight pages of music. All his twentyfive 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 know how passionately he had desired it, nor how immensely, in the

process of so doing, his desire had grown. He must find out more ways, other channels of projecting himself.

The need for that, as of a diver throwing himself into the empty air and the laughing waters below him,

He took a clean sheet of music paper, into which he placed his pages, and with a pleasurable sense of pomp

Michael had been so engrossingly employed since his return to London in the autumn that the existence of

other ties and other people apart from those immediately connected with his work had worn a very

shadowlike aspect. He had, it is true, written with some regularity to his mother, finding, somewhat to his

dismay, how very slight the common ground between them was for purposes of correspondence. He could

outline the facts that he had been to several concerts, that he had seen much of his musicmaster, that he had

been diligent at his work, but he realised that there was nothing in detail about those things that could

possibly interest her, and that nothing except them really interested him. She on her side had little to say

except to record the welfare of Petsy, to remark on the beauty of October, and tell him how many shooting

His correspondence with his father had been less frequent, and absolutely onesided, since Lord Ashbridge

took no notice at all of his letters. Michael regretted this, as showing that he was still outcast, but it cannot be

said to have come between him and the sunshine, for he had begun to manufacture the sunshine within, that

internal happiness which his environment and way of life produced, which seemed to be independent of all

that was not directly connected with it. But a letter which he received next morning from his mother stated, in

addition to the fact that Petsy had another of her tiresome bilious attacks (poor lamb), that his father and she

thought it right that he should come down to Ashbridge for Christmas. It conveyed the sense that at this

joyful season a truce, probably limited in duration, and, even while it lasted, of the nature of a

stronglyarmed neutrality, was proclaimed, but the prospect was not wholly encouraging, for Lady

Ashbridge added that she hoped Michael would not "go on" vexing his father. What precisely Michael was

expected to do in order to fulfil that wish was not further stated, but he wrote dutifully enough to say that he

But the letter rekindled his dormant sense of there being other people in the world beside his immediate

circle; also, indefinably, it gave him the sense that his mother wanted him. That should be so then, and

sequentially he remembered with a pang of self reproach that he had not as much as indicated his presence

in London to Aunt Barbara, or set eyes on her since their meeting in August. He knew she was in London,

since he had seen her name in some paragraph in the papers not long before, and instantly wrote to ask her to

"Of course I'll dine with you, my dear," she wrote; "it will be delightful. And what has happened to you?

Your letter actually conveyed a sense of cordiality. You never used to be cordial. And I wish to meet some of

your nice friends. Ask one or two, please a prima donna of some kind and a pianist, I think. I want them

weird and originalthe prima donna with short hair, and the pianist with long. In Tony's new station in life I

never see anybody except the sort of people whom your father likes. Are you forgiven yet, by the way?"

Michael found himself on the grin at the thought of Aunt Barbara suddenly encountering the two magnificent

Falbes (prima donna and pianist exactly as she had desired) as representing the weird sort of people whom

she pictured his living among, and the result quite came up to his expectations. As usual, Aunt Barbara was

late, and came in talking rapidly about the various causes that had detained her, which her fruitful

imagination had suggested to her as she dressed. In order, perhaps, to suit herself to the circle in which she

would pass the evening, she had put on (or, rather, it looked as if her maid had thrown at her) a very awful

sort of teagown, brown and pricklylooking, and adapted to Bohemian circles. She, with the same lively

imagination, had pictured Michael in a velveteen coat and soft shirt, the pianist as very small, with spectacles

and long hair, and the prima donna a fullblown kind of barmaid with Roman pearls. . . .

"Yes, my dear, I know I am late," she began before she was inside the door, "but Og had so much to say, and

She came round the corner of the screen and the Falbes burst upon her, Hermann and Sylvia standing by the

fire. For the short, spectacled pianist there was this very tall, Englishlooking young man, upright and

soldierly, with his handsome, boyish face and wellfitting clothes. That was bad enough, but infinitely worse

was she who was to have been the fullblown barmaid. Instead was this magnificent girl, nearly as tall as her

brother, with her small oval face crowning the column of her neck, her eyes merry, her mouth laughing at

some brotherly retort that Hermann had just made. Aunt Barbara took her in with one second's surveyher

face, her neck, her beautiful dress, her whole air of ease and good breeding, and gave a despairing glance at

her own prickly teagown. For the moment, amiably accustomed as she was to laugh at herself, she did not

"Miss Sylvia Falbe, Aunt Barbara," said Michael with a little tremor in his voice; "and Mr. Hermann Falbe,

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

"Michael, I could slay you," she said; "but before I do that I must tell your friends all about it. This horrible

nephew of mine, Miss Falbe, promised me two weird musicians, and I expectedI really can't tell you what

I expectedbut there were to be spectacles and velveteen coats and the general air of an afternoon concert at

Clapham Junction. But it is nice to be made such a fool of. I feel precisely like an elderly and sour governess

who has been ordered to come down to dinner so that there shan't be thirteen. Give me your arm, Mr. Falbe,

and take me in to dinner at once, where I may drown my embarrassment in soup. Or does Michael go in first?

Presently they were seated at dinner, and Aunt Barbara could not help enlarging a little on her own

"It is all your fault, Michael," she said. "You have been in London all these weeks without letting me know

anything about you or your friends, or what you were doing; so naturally I supposed you were leading some

obscure 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 to leave you. But bachelors always have the best of everything. Now tell me about

your visit to Germany. Which was the point where we partedBaireuth, wasn't it? I would not go to

"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 the train was moving; and my luggage was

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

"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 upon Lord Comber."

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

"Yes, two days ago. Variations are all the things you think about on the piano, Aunt Barbara, when you are

"It certainly depends on who makes it," said Aunt Barbara. "I don't like ordinary 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 different

Sylvia looked at him with her candid friendly eyes. Her brother always told her that she never looked at

anybody except her friends; if she was engaged in conversation with a man she did not like, she looked at his

"Then, of course, I give in," she said. "I must give you leave if otherwise I shan't know what you have done.

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

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 she looked at. She knew and was secretly amused at the fiasco that always

attended the introduction of amiable young ladies to Ashbridge, and had warned her sisterinlaw that

Michael, when he chose the girl he wanted, would certainly do it on his own initiative. Now she felt sure that

Michael, though he might not be aware of it himself, was, even if he had not chosen, beginning to choose.

There was that in his eyes which none of the importations to Ashbridge had ever seen there, that eager

deferential attention, which shows that a young man is interested because it is a girl he is talking to. That, she

knew, had never been characteristic of Michael; indeed, it would not have been far from the truth to say that

the fact that he was talking to a girl was sufficient to make his countenance wear an expression of polite

boredom. Then for a while, as dinner progressed, she doubted the validity of her conclusion, for the Michael

who was entertaining her tonight was wholly different from the Michael she had known and liked and

pitied. She felt that she did 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 his place, 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 it was only general joy, so to

speak, that kindled that pleasant fire in his face. And then once more she went back to her first conclusion, for

talking to Michael herself she saw, as a woman so infallibly sees, that he gave her but the most superficial

attentionsufficient, indeed, to allow him to answer intelligently and laugh at the proper places, but his

mind was not in the least occupied with her. If Sylvia moved his glance flickered across in her direction: it

was she who gave him his alertness. Aunt Barbara felt that she could have told him truthfully that he was in

love with her, and she rather thought that it would be news to him; probably he did not know it yet himself.

"And then Munich," she said, violently recalling Michael's attention towards her. "Munich I could have borne

better than Baireuth, and when Mr. Falbe asks me there I shall probably go. Your Uncle Tony was in

Germany then, by the way; he went over at the invitation of the Emperor to the manoeuvres."

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

"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

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

"Towards us?towards England? Immensely friendly, and most inquisitive. I was never asked so many

"Do you wonder I ask, with your talking English so perfectly?" she said. "You should hear me talking French

when we are entertaining Ambassadors and that sort of persons. I talk it so fast that nobody can understand a

word I say. That is a defensive measure, you must observe, because even if I talked it quite slowly they would

understand just as little. But they think it is the pace that stupefies them, and they leave me in a curious,

dazed condition. And now Miss Falbe and I are going to leave you two. Be rather a long time, dear Michael,

so that Mr. Falbe can tell you what he thinks of me, and his sister shall tell me what she thinks of you.

This did not express quite accurately Lady Barbara's intentions, for she chiefly wanted to find out what she

"And you are great friends, you three?" she said as they settled themselves for the prolonged absence of the

Sylvia smiled; she smiled, Aunt Barbara noticed, almost entirely with her eyes, using her mouth only when it

"That's always rather a rash thing to pronounce on," she said. "I can tell you for certain that Hermann and I

are both very fond of him, but it 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. "Between youfor I imagine it is you who

have done itbetween you you have made a perfectly different creature of the boy. You've made him

"And you've had the good sense to find that out," she said. "It's astonishing how few people knew it. But

then, as I said, Michael hadn't flowered. No one understood him, or was interested. Then he suddenly made

up his mind last summer what he wanted to do and be, and immediately did and was it."

"Approve? My dear, if you knew my brother you would know that the only things he approves of are those

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

"Ah, but don't let him know I called him Michael," said Sylvia in some horror. "There is nothing so awful as

to speak of people formally to their faces, and intimately behind their backs. But Hermann is always talking

"Oh, yes; he always seems to me to have been part of us, of Hermann and me, for years. He's THERE, if you

know what I mean, and so few people are there. They walk about your life, and go in and out, so to speak, but

Aunt Barbara had been a diplomatist long before her husband, and fearful of appearing inquisitive about

Sylvia's impression of Michael, which she really 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 in the glass and pose. And I feel sure that you have definite things to do and

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

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

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

"If there are any more shocks coming for me tonight," she said, "I think I had better go home. I have

encountered a perfectly new nephew Michael. I have dressed myself like a suburban housekeeper to meet a

Poiret, so don't deny it, and having humourously told Michael I wished to see a prima donna and a pianist, he

takes me at my word and produces THE Miss Falbe. I'm glad I knew that in time; I should infallibly have

asked you to sing, and if you had done so you are probably goodnatured enough to have done even

thatI should have given the drawingroom gasp at the end, and told your brother that I thought you sang

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

"No, my dear; but I think you ought, somehow, to have conveyed the impression that you were a tremendous

swell. You didn't. I have been thinking of you as a charming girl, and nothing more."

The two young men joined them after this, and Hermann speedily became engrossed in reading the finished

"It's just a crib, Mike," he said. "The critics would say I had forgotten it, and put in instead what I could

remember of a variation out of the Handel theme. That next one's, oh, great fun. But I wish you would

Aunt Barbara stopped in the middle of her sentence; she knew Michael's old sensitiveness about these

physical disabilities, and she had a moment's cold horror at the thought of Falbe having said so miserably

tactless a thing to him. But the horror was of infinitesimal duration, for she heard Michael's laugh as they

"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 that you can't hear anything else

afterwards. Do sing, Miss Sylvia; my aunt won't really mindwill you, Aunt Barbara?"

"Michael, I have just learned that this is THE Miss Falbe," she said. "I am suffering from shock. Do let me

Michael gently edged Hermann away from the musicstool. Much as he enjoyed his master's accompaniment

he was perfectly sure that he preferred, if possible, to play for Sylvia himself than have the pleasure of

"And so Mr. Hermann sits down by Lady Barbara while Lord Comber plays for Miss Sylvia," he observed,

Michael began playing the introduction to the Hugo Wolff song which he had accompanied for her one

Sunday night at their house. He knew it perfectly by heart, but stumbled a little over the difficult syncopated

time. This was not done without purpose, for the next moment he felt her hand on his shoulder marking it for

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

Hermann put down the Variations, which he still had in his hand, when Sylvia's voice began. Unaccustomed

as she was to her accompanist, his trained ear told him that she was singing perfectly at ease, and was

completely at home with her player. Occasionally she gave Michael some little indication, as she had done

before, but for the most part her fingers rested immobile on his shoulder, and he seemed to understand her

perfectly. Somehow this was a surprise to him; he had not known that Michael possessed that sort of

secondsight that unerringly feels and translates into the keys the singer's mood. For himself he always had to

attend most closely when he was playing for his sister, but familiar as he was with her singing, he felt that

Michael divined her certainly as well as himself, and he listened to the piano more than to the voice.

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

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

He slid into the opening bars of "Who is Sylvia?" That song, since he had heard her sing it at her recital in the

summer, had grown in significance to him, even as she had. It had seemed part of her then, but then she was a

stranger. Tonight it was even more intimately part of her, and she was a friend.

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

"My sister's a blatant egoist, Lady Barbara," he said. "She loves singing about herself. And she lays it on

pretty thick, too, doesn't she? Now, Sylvia, if you've finishedquite finished, I meando come and sit

"Shall we surrender, Michael?" asked the girl. "Or shall we stick to the piano, now we've got it? If Hermann

once sits down, you know, we shan't get him away for the rest of the evening. I can't sing any more, but we

Hermann rushed to the piano, took his sister by the shoulders, and pushed 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 Sylvia home at once. Now you may all talk as much as you like; you won't interrupt

Then a feat of marvellous execution began. Michael had taken an evil pleasure in giving his master, for

whom he slaved with so unwearied a diligence, something that should tax his powers, and he gave a great

crash of laughter when for a moment Hermann was brought to a complete standstill in an octave passage of

triplets against quavers, and the performer exultantly joined in it, as he pushed his hair back from his

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

"Silence, you chit! Mike, come here a minute. Sit down one second and play that. Promise to get up again,

though, immediately. Just these three barsyes, I see. An orangoutang apparently can do it, so why not I?

Am I not much better than they? Go away, please; or, rather, stop there and turn over. Why couldn't you have

finished the page with the last act, and started this one fresh, instead of making this Godforsaken

A very simple little minuet measure followed this outrageous passage, and Hermann's exquisite lightness of

touch made it sound strangely remote, as if from a mile away, or a hundred years ago, some graceful echo

was evoked again. Then the little dirge wept for the memories of something that had never happened, and

leaving out the number he disapproved of, as reminiscent of the Handel theme, Hermann gathered himself up

again for the assertion of the original tune, with its bars of 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 for a few months only, and so this must all have been in you before. And you've

come to the age you are without letting any of it out. I suppose that's why it has come with a rush. You knew

it all along, while you were wasting your time over drilling your toy soldiers. Come on, Sylvia, or I shall go

Protest was clearly useless; and, having seen the two off, Michael came upstairs again to Aunt Barbara, who

"And so these are the people you have been living with," she said. "No wonder you had not time to come and

see me. Do they always go that sort of paceit is quicker than when I talk French."

"Oh, yes, that's Hermann all over," he said. "Butbut just think what it means to me! He's going to play my

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

This and the inference that naturally followed was as much as could be expected, and Aunt Barbara did not

appear to wait for anything more on the subject of Sylvia. She had seen sufficient of the situation to know

where Michael was most certainly bound for. Yet the very fact of Sylvia's outspoken friendliness with him

made her wonder a little as to what his reception would be. She would hardly have said so plainly that she

and her brother were devoted to him if she had been devoted to him with that secret tenderness which, in its

essentials, is reticent about itself. Her half hour's conversation with the girl had given her a certain insight

into her; still more had her attitude when she stood by Michael as he played for her, and put her hand on his

shoulder precisely as she would have done if it had been another girl who was seated at the piano. Without

doubt Michael had a real existence for her, but there was no sign whatever that she hailed it, as a girl so

He outlined for her, giving the halfEnglish, halfGerman parentage, the shadowlike mother, the Bavarian

father, Sylvia's sudden and cometlike rising 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 she had so brilliantly taken. Now it was to

be his turn, the shackles of his drudgery no longer impeded him, and he, so Michael radiantly prophesied,

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

"Hermann's so funny," he said. "For days and weeks together you would think 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

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

"Hundreds. He was just like what he was when he came to Ashbridge. He reviewed the Yeomanry, and shot

pheasants, and spent the afternoon in a steam launch, apparently studying the deepwater channel of the

river, where it goes underneath my father's place; and then in the evening there was a concert."

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

"I fancy they have," said Michael. "And then after the concert there was the torchlight procession, with the

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

"I'm driving at this," she said. "The Germans are accumulating a vast quantity of knowledge about England.

Tony, for instance, has a German valet, and when he went down to Portsmouth the other day to see the

American ship that was there, he took him with him. And the man took a camera and was found

photographing where no photography is allowed. Did you see anything of a camera when the Emperor came

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

"And, we may presume, kept some copies himself," remarked Aunt Barbara drily. "Really, for childish

"I mean that the Germans are a very knowledgeseeking people, and that we gratify their desires in a very

simple fashion. Do you think they are so friendly, Michael? Do you know, for instance, what is a very

common toast in German regimental messes? They do not drink it when there are foreigners there, but one

night during the manoeuvres an officer in a mess where Tony was dining got slightly 'on,' as you may say,

"It does; and what day? The day when Germany thinks that all is ripe for a war with us. 'Der Tag' will dawn

suddenly from a quiet, peaceful night, when they think we are all asleep, and when they have got all the

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

"There are hundreds and hundreds of their spies all over England," she said, "and hundreds of their agents all

over America. Deep, patient Germany, as Carlyle said. She's as patient as God and as deep as the sea. They

are working, working, while our toy soldiers play golf. I agree with that adorable pianist; and, what's more, I

believe they think that 'Der Tag' is near to dawn. Tony says that their manoeuvres this year were like nothing

that has ever been seen before. Germany is a fighting machine without parallel in the history of the world."

"And they think their opportunity is at hand," she said, "though not for 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

the other; and in a few months' time now they expect we shall be in the throes of an internal revolution over

this Irish business. They may be right, but there is just the possibility that they may be astoundingly wrong.

The fact of the great foreign perilthis nightmare, this Armageddon of European warmay be exactly that

which will pull us together. But their diplomatists, anyhow, are studying the Irish question very closely, and

German gold, without any doubt at all, is helping the Home Rule party. As a nation we are fast asleep. I

wonder what we shall be like when we wake. Shall we find ourselves already fettered when we wake, or will

there be one moment, just one moment, in which we can spring up? At any rate, hitherto, the English have

always been at their best, not their worst, in desperate positions. They hate exciting themselves, and refuse to

do it until the crisis is actually on them. But then they become disconcertingly serious and cool headed."

"I think the Emperor is the hardest worker in all Germany," said Barbara. "I believe he is trying (and

admirably succeeding) to make us trust 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 his regard and affection for England. He

was always impressing on Tony the same thing, though to him, of course, he said that if there was any

country nearer to his heart than England it was America. Stuff and nonsense, my dear!"

All this, though struck in a more serious key than was usual with Aunt Barbara, was quite characteristic of

her. She had the quality of mind which when occupied with one idea is occupied with it to the exclusion of all

others; she worked at full power over anything she took up. But now she dismissed it altogether.

"You see what a diplomatist I have become," she said. "It is a fascinating business: one lives in an

atmosphere that is charged with secret affairs, and it infects one like the influenza. You catch it somehow,

and have a feverish cold of your own. And I am quite useful to him. You see, I am such a chatterbox that

people think I let out things by accident, which I never do. I let out what I want to let out on purpose, and

they think they are pumping me. I had a long conversation the other day with one of the German Embassy, all

about Irish affairs. They are hugely interested about Irish affairs, and I just make a note of that; but they can

make as many notes as they please about what I say, and no one will be any the wiser. In fact, they will be the

"But I must. And if when you are down at Ashbridge at Christmas you find strangers hanging about the

deepwater reach, you might just let me know. It's no use telling your father, because he will certainly think

they have come to get a glimpse of him as he plays golf. But I expect you'll be too busy thinking about that

new friend of yours, and perhaps his sister. What did she tell me we had got to do? 'To her garlands let us

bring,' was it not? You and I will both send wreaths, Michael, though not for her funeral. Now don't be a

hermit any more, but come and see me. 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 have become yourself at last. Go on being yourself

Some fortnight later, and not long before Michael was leaving town for his Christmas visit to Ashbridge,

Sylvia and her brother were lingering in the big studio from which the last of their Sunday evening guests had

just departed. The usual joyous chaos consequent on those entertainments reigned: the top of the piano was

covered with the plates and glasses of those who had made an alfresco supper (or breakfast) of fried bacon

and beer before leaving; a circle of cushions were ranged on the floor round the fire, for it was a bitterly cold

night, and since, for some reason, a series of charades had been spontaneously generated, there was lying

about an astonishing collection of pillowcases, rugs, and tablecloths, and such articles of domestic and

household use as could be converted into clothes for this purpose. But the event of the evening had

undoubtedly been Hermann's performance of the "Wenceslas Variations"; these he had now learned, and, as

he had promised Michael, was going to play them at his concert in the Steinway Hall in January. Tonight a

good many musician friends had attended the Sunday evening gathering, and there had been no two opinions

"I was talking to Arthur Lagden about them," said Falbe, naming a prominent critic of the day, "and he would

hardly believe that they were an Opus I., or that Michael had not been studying music technically for years

It was not unusual for the brother and sister to sit up like this, till any hour, after their guests had gone; and

Sylvia collected a bundle of cushions and lay full length on the floor, with her feet towards the fire. For both

of them the week was too busy on six days for them to indulge that companionship, sometimes full of talk,

sometimes consisting of those dropped words and long silences, on which intimacy lives; and they both

enjoyed, above all hours in the week, this time that lay between the friendly riot of Sunday evening and the

starting of work again on Monday. There was between them that bond which can scarcely exist between

husband and wife, since it almost necessarily implies the close consanguinity of brother and sister, and

postulates a certain sort of essential community of nature, founded not on tastes, nor even on affection, but on

the fact that the same blood beats in the two. Here an intense affection, too strong to be ever demonstrative,

fortified it, and both brother and sister talked to each other, as if they were speaking to some physically

Sylvia had nothing apparently to add on the subject of Michael's maturity. Instead she just raised her head,

"Stuff another cushion under my head, Hermann," she said. "Thanks; now I'm completely comfortable, you

"That's a weight off my mind," he said. "About Michael now. He's been suppressed all his life, you know,

and instead of being dwarfed he has just gone on growing inside. Good Lord! I wish somebody would

suppress me for a year or two. What a lot there would be when I took the cork out again. We dissipate too

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

"Yes. How much one dissipates is determined for one just as is the shape of your nose or the colour of your

eyes. By the way, I fell madly in love with that cousin of Michael's who came with him to night. He's the

most attractive creature I ever saw in my life. Of course, he's too beautiful: no boy ought to be as beautiful as

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

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

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

"No, I don't want to, but I've got to," she said. "Aunt Barbara we became Sylvia and Aunt Barbara an hour

or two ago, and she's a dearAunt Barbara has been talking to me about it already."

"Just what you are going to," said Sylvia; "namely, that I had better make up my mind what I mean to say

She shifted round so as to face her brother as he stood in front of the fire, and pulled his trouserleg more

"But what's to happen if I can't make up my mind?" she said. "I needn't tell you how much I like Michael; I

believe I like him as much as I possibly can. But I don't know if that is enough. Hermann, is it enough? You

She put out her arm, and clasped his two legs in the crook of her elbow. That expressed their attitude, what

they were to each other, as absolutely as any physical demonstration allowed. Had there not been the

difference of sex which severed them she could never have got the sense of support that this physical contact

gave her; had there not been her sisterhood to chaperon her, so to speak, she could never have been so at ease

with a man. The two were loverlike, without the physical apexes and limitations that physical love must

always bring with it. The complement of sex that brought them so close annihilated the very existence of sex.

The closer contact of his firewarmed trousers to the calf of his leg made Hermann step out of her encircling

"I won't be burned," he said. "Sorry, but I won't be burned. It seems to me, Sylvia, that you ought to like

"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

He clawed some more cushions together, and sat down on the floor by her. She raised herself a little and

"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

are in music, if you understandand of course you dowe belong to each other. Do you know, Hermann,

he finds me when I'm singing, without the slightest effort, and even you, as you have so often told me, have

to search and be on the lookout. And then the song is over, and, as somebody says, 'When the feast is finished

and the lamps expire,' thenwell, the lamps expire, and he isn't me any longer, but Michael, with thethe

ugly face, andoh, isn't it horrible of methe long arms and the little stumpy legsif only he was rather

different in things that don't matter, that CAN'T matter! Butbut, Hermann, if only Michael was rather like

you, and you like Michael, I should love you exactly as much as ever, and I should love Michael, too."

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

"Oh, thank goodness there is somebody in the world to whom I can say just whatever I feel, and know he

understands," she said. "And I know this, tooand follow me here, HermannI know that all that doesn't

really matter; I am sure it doesn't. I like Michael far too well to let it matter. But there are other things which I

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

"There is Michael's position," she said. "When Michael asks me if I will have him, as we both know he is

going to do, I shall have to make conditions. I won't give up my career. I must go on working in other

words, singingwhether I marry him or not. I don't call it singing, in my sense of the word, to sing 'The

Banks of Allan Water' to Michael and his father and mother at Ashbridge, any more than it is being a

politician to read the morning papers and argue about the Irish question with you. To have a career in politics

means that you must be a member of ParliamentI daresay the House of Lords would doand make

speeches and stand the racket. In the same way, to be a singer doesn't mean to sing after dinner or to go

squawking anyhow in a workhouse, but it means to get up on a platform before critical people, and if you

don't do your very best be damned by them. If I marry Michael I must go on singing as a professional singer,

and not become an amateurthe Viscountess Comber, who sings so charmingly. I refuse to sing charmingly;

I will either sing properly or not at all. And I couldn't not sing. I shall have to continue being Miss Falbe, so

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

"I am sure he would. But by so doing he would certainly quarrel irrevocably with his people. Even Aunt

Barbara, who, after all, is very liberally minded, sees that. They can none of them, not even she, who are born

to a certain tradition imagine that there are other traditions quite as stiffnecked. Michael, it is true, was born

to one tradition, but he has got the other, as he has shown very clearly by refusing to disobey it. He will

certainly, as you say, insist on my endorsing the resolution he has made for himself. What it comes to is this,

that I can't marry him without his father's complete consent to all that I have told you. I can't have my career

disregarded, covered up with awkward silences, alluded to as a painful subject; and, as I say, even Aunt

Barbara seemed to take it for granted that if I became Lady Comber I should cease to be Miss Falbe. Well,

there she's wrong, my dear; I shall continue to be Miss Falbe whether I'm Lady Comber, or Lady Ashbridge,

or the Duchess of anything you please. Andhere the difficulty really comes inthey must all see how

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

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

"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

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

"There's something bigger than we know coming," she said. "Whether it's storm or sunshine I have no idea.

But there will be something that shall utterly sever Michael and me or utterly unite us."

He went round the room putting out the electric lamps and opening the big skylight in the roof. There was a

curtain in front of this, which he pulled aside, and from the frosty cloudless heavens the starshine of a

"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 perfectly different reasons, they have to feel to the end of their fingers that they

He opened the door for her to pass out, and they walked up the passage together arminarm.

"Well, perhaps Michael won't ask you," he said, "in which case all bother will be saved, and we shall have sat

up talking till Sylvia, did you know it is nearly threesat up talking for nothing!"

This view of the case found confirmation next day, for Michael, after his music lesson, lingered so firmly and

determinedly when the three chatted together over the fire that in the end Hermann found nothing to do but to

leave them together. Sylvia had given him no sign as to whether 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 she intended Michael to have

The latter rose as the door closed behind Hermann, and came and stood in front of her. And at the moment

Sylvia could notice nothing of him except his heaviness, his plainness, all the things that she had told herself

before did not really matter. Now her sensation contradicted that; she was conscious that the ash somehow

had vastly accumulated over her fire, that all her affection and regard for him were suddenly eclipsed. This

was a complete surprise to her; for the moment she found Michael's presence and his proximity to her simply

For a second or two she did not reply; it was clearly no use to continue the ordinary banter of conversation, to

suggest that as the room was Hermann's he might conceivably be conceded the right to stop there if he chose.

There was no transition possible between the affairs of every day and the affair for which Michael had

stopped to speak. She gave up all attempt to make one; instead, she just helped him.

Then to her, at any rate, Michael's face completely changed. There burned in it all of a sudden the full glow

His shyness, his awkwardness, had all vanished; the time had come for him to offer to her all that he had to

"Whether you can accept me or not," he said, "I have just to tell you that I am entirely yours. Is there any

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 of the occasion. His very quietness told her better than any

protestations could have done of the quality of what he offered, and that quality vastly transcended all that

She came a step forward, and without any sense of embarrassment found that she, without conscious

intention, had put her hands on his shoulders. The moment that was done she was conscious of the impulse

"Yes, I feel like that to you," she said. "You're a dear. I expect you know how fond I am of you, and if you

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

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

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 the evening before,

of the ease and certitude with which she had laid down her conditions, of not giving up her career, of

remaining the famous Miss Falbe, of refusing to take a dishonoured place in the sacred circle of the Combers.

Now, when she was face to face with his love, so ineloquently expressed, so radically a part of him, she knew

that there was nothing in the world, external to him and her, that could enter into their reckonings; but into

their reckonings there had not entered the one thing essential. She gave him sympathy, liking, friendliness,

but she did not want him with her blood. And though it was not humanly possible that she could want him

"I have been constantly here all these last months," he said. "Now that you know what I have told you, do you

"Not directly. But I can easily understand its being a bore to you. I don't want to bore you. That would be a

very stupid way of trying to make you care for me. As I said, that is my job. I haven't accomplished it as yet.

She understood her own feeling better than he. She understood at least that she was dealing with things that

"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

In a flash she became aware that it would be impossible for her to behave 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 her fingers

on his arm, knowing that the physical contact meant nothing to her, and allall to him. The rejection of him

as a lover rendered the sisterly attitude impossible. And not only must she revise her conduct, but she must

revise the mental attitude of which it was the physical counterpart. Up till this moment she had looked at the

situation from her own side only, had felt that no plans could be made, that the natural thing was to go on as

before, with the intimacy that she liked and the familiarity that was the obvious expression of it. But now she

began to see the question from his side; she could not go on doing that which meant nothing particular to her,

if that insouciance meant something so very particular to him. She realised that if she had loved him the touch

of his hand, the proximity of his face would have had significance for her, a significance that would have

been intolerable unless there was something mutual and secret between them. It had seemed so easy, in

anticipation, to tell him that he must wait, so simple for him justwell, just to wait until she could make up

her mind. She believed, as she had told her brother, that she cared for Michael, or as she had told him that she

wanted tothe two were to the girl's mind identical, though expressed to each in the only terms that were

possiblebut until she came face to face with the picture of the future, that to her wore the same outline and

colour as the past, she had not known the impossibility of such a presentment. The desire of the lover on

Michael's part rendered unthinkable the sisterly attitude on hers. That her instinct told her, but her reason

He stood absolutely unresponsive. Something within him longed that she should advance a step more, that he

should again have the touch of her hands on his shoulders, but another instinct stronger than that made him

revoke his desire, and if she had moved again he would certainly have fallen back before her.

"It may seem ridiculous to you," he said, "since you do not care. But I can't do that. Does that seem absurd to

you I? I am afraid it does; but that is because you don't understand. By all means let us be what they call

excellent friends. But there are certain little things which seem nothing to you, and they mean so much to me.

I can't explain; it's just the brotherly relation which I can't stand. It's no use suggesting that we should be as

"I think I'll be going now," he said. "I am off to Ashbridge in two days. Give Hermann my love, and a jolly

He walked home from Chelsea in that utterly blank and unfeeling consciousness which almost invariably is

the sequel of any event that brings with it a change of attitude towards life generally. Not for a moment did he

tell himself that he had been awakened from a dream, or abandon his conviction that his dream was to be

made real. The rare, quiet determination that had made him give up his stereotyped mode of life in the

summer and take to music was still completely his, and, if anything, it had been reinforced by Sylvia's

emphatic statement that "she wanted to care." Only her imagining that their old relations could go on showed

him how far she was from knowing what "to care" meant. At first without knowing it, but with a gradually

increasing keenness of consciousness, he had become aware that this sisterly attitude of hers towards him had

meant so infinitely much, because he had taken it to be the prelude to something more. Now he saw that it

was, so to speak, a piece complete in itself. It bore no relation to what he had imagined it would lead into. No

curtain went up when the prelude was over; the curtain remained inexorably hanging there, not

acknowledging the prelude at all. Not for a moment did he accuse her of encouraging him to have thought so;

she had but given him a frankness of comradeship that meant to her exactly what it expressed. But he had

thought otherwise; he had imagined that it would grow towards a culmination. All that (and here was the

change that made his mind blank and unfeeling) had to be cut away, and with it all the budding branches that

his imagination had pictured as springing from it. He could not be comrade to her as he was to her

He went briskly enough through the clean, dry streets. The frost of last night had held throughout the

morning, and the sunlight sparkled with a rare and seasonable brightness of a traditional Christmas weather.

Hecatombs of turkeys hung in the poulterers' windows, among sprigs of holly, and shops were bright with

children's toys. The briskness of the day had flushed the colour into the faces of the passengers in the street,

and the festive air of the imminent holiday was abroad. All this Michael noticed with a sense of detachment;

what had happened had caused a veil to fall between himself and external things; it was as if he was sealed

into some glass cage, and had no contact with what passed round him. This lasted throughout his walk, and

when he let himself into his flat it was with the same sense of alienation that he found his cousin Francis

"I was just wondering whether I should give you up," he said. "The hour that you named for lunch was

halfpast one. And I have almost forgotten what your clock sounded like when it struck two."

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

Michael came and stood in front of the fire, and looked with a sudden spasm of envy on the handsome boy

"I was distinctly chippy this morning," remarked Francis, "and so I didn't so much mind waiting for lunch. I

attribute it to too much beer and bacon last night at your friend's house. I enjoyed itI mean the evening,

"I had no idea you could frolic like that, Mike," he said. "It was quite a new light on your character. How did

Here again the veil was drawn. Was it last night only that Falbe had played the Variations, and that they had

"I didn't know Germans could be so jolly," he continued. "As a rule I don't like Germans. When they try to be

jolly they generally only succeed in being topheavy. But, of course, your friend is halfEnglish. Can't he

play, too? And to think of your having written those ripping tunes. His sister, toono wonder we haven't

seen much of you, Mike, if that's where you've been spending your time. She's rather like the new girl at the

Gaiety, but handsomer. I like big girls, don't you? Oh, I forgot, you don't like girls much, anyhow. But are

you learning your mistake, Mike? You looked last night as if you were getting more sensible."

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

Michael could not make up his mind to tell his cousin what had happened; but he was aware of having

"Let's have lunch, then," he said. "We shall be better after lunch, as one's nurse used to say. And are you

"Yes; I've been talking to Aunt Bar about it this morning. We're both coming; the family is going to rally

round you, Mike, and defend you from Uncle Robert. There's sure to be some duck shooting, too, isn't there?"

"Oh, that's ripping," he said. "You and Aunt Barbara always make me feel that there's a good deal of

"To be sure there is. Isn't that what the world is for? Lunch and amusement, and dinner and amusement. Aunt

Bar told me she dined with you the other night, and had a quantity of amusement as well as an excellent

"I know. After all, everything that isn't hints is obvious, and so there'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 tell me if I

"Very much. One naturally wants to please delightful people. And I think they are both delightful. Especially

the girl; but then she starts with the tremendous advantage of beingof being a girl. I believe you are in love

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

Michael felt a sudden overwhelming desire to make Francis stop this maddening twaddle; also the events of

the morning were beginning to take on an air of reality, and as this grew he felt the need of sympathy of some

kind. Francis might not be able to give him anything that was of any use, but it would do no harm to see if his

cousin's buoyant unconscious philosophy, which made life so exciting and pleasant a thing to him, would in

any way help. Besides, he must stop this light banter, which was like drawing plaster off a sore and unhealed

"You're quite right," he said. "I am in love with her. Furthermore, I asked her to marry me this morning."

All Michael's old sensitiveness, his selfconsciousness of his plainness, his awkwardness, his big hands, his

"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 had forgotten all about it."

"I almost hadin fact I quite had until this morning," said Michael. "If I had remembered it I shouldn't have

"No, I don't think that's true," he said. "I should have asked her, anyhow; but I should have been prepared for

"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 a matter

of fact, they do. They don't mind what we look like; what they care about is whether we want them. Of

"No, I don't. Good Lord, you've only asked her once. You've got to make yourself felt. You're not intending

"Certainly," said Michael, without hesitation. "But that's a long way from the other thing."

"It may be," he said, "but it strikes me it's round the corner. You can't even see one from the other."

"Possibly not. But you never know how near the corner really is. Go for her, Mike, full speed ahead."

"Oh, there are hundreds of ways. I'm not sure that one of the best isn't to keep away for a bit. Even if she

doesn't want you just now, when you are there, she may get to want you when you aren't. I don't think I

should go on the mournful Byronic plan if I were you; I don't think it would suit your style; you're too heavily

built to stand leaning against the chimneypiece, gazing at her and dishevelling your hair."

"Why not? It isn't a tragedy yet. It won't be a tragedy till she marries somebody else, or definitely says no.

And until a thing is proved to be tragic, the best way to deal with it is to treat it like a comedy which is going

to end well. It's only the second act now, you see, when everything gets into a mess. By the merciful decrees

of Providence, you see, girls on the whole want us as much as we want them. That's what makes it all so

Michael went down next day to Ashbridge, where Aunt Barbara and Francis were to follow the day after, and

found, after the freedom and interests of the last six months, that the pompous formal life was more

intolerable than ever. He was clearly in disgrace still, as was made quite clear to him by his father's icy and

awful politeness when it was necessary to speak to him, and by his utter unconsciousness of his presence

when it was not. This he had expected. Christmas had ushered in a truce in which no guns were discharged,

But though there was no change in his father, his mother seemed to Michael to be curiously altered; her mind,

which, as has been already noticed, was usually in a stunned condition, seemed to have awakened like a child

from its sleep, and to have begun vaguely crying in an inarticulate discomfort. It was true that Petsy was no

more, having succumbed to a bilious attack of unusual severity, but a second Petsy had already taken her

place, and Lady Ashbridge sat with himit was a gentleman Petsy this timein her lap as before, and

occasionally shed a tear or two over Petsy II. in memory of Petsy I. But this did not seem to account for the

wakening up of her mind and emotions into this state of depression and anxiety. It was as if all her life she

had been quietly dozing in the sun, and that the place where she sat had passed into the shade, and she had

awoke cold and shivering from a bitter wind. She had become far more talkative, and though she had by no

means abandoned her habit of upsetting any conversation by the extreme obviousness of her remarks, she

asked many more questions, and, as Michael noticed, often repeated a question to which she had received an

answer only a few minutes before. During dinner Michael constantly found her looking at him in a shy and

eager manner, removing her gaze when she found it was observed, and when, later, after a silent cigarette

with his father in the smoking room, during which Lord Ashbridge, with some ostentation, studied an Army

List, Michael went to his bedroom, he was utterly 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 the inevitable Petsy, and she herself

"I heard you come up, Michael," she said, "and I wondered if it would annoy you if I came in to have a little

talk with you. But I won't come in if it would annoy you. I only thought I should like a little chat with you,

Michael instantly got up from the chair in front of his fire, in which he had already begun to see images of

Sylvia. This intrusion of his mother's was a thing utterly unprecedented, and somehow he at once connected

its innovation with the strange manner he had remarked already. But there was complete cordiality in his

"There, that is nice," she said. "I told them to see you had a good fire on this cold night. Has it been very cold

This question had already been asked and answered twice, now for the third time Michael admitted the

"I hope you wrap up well," she said. "I should be sorry if you caught cold, and so, I am sure, your father

would be. I wish you could make up your mind not to vex him any more, but go back into the Guards."

"Well, if it's impossible there is no use in saying anything more about it. But it vexed him very much. He is

still vexed with you. I wish he was not vexed. It is a sad thing when father and son fall out. But you do wrap

Michael felt a sudden pang of anxiety and alarm. Each separate thing that his mother said was sensible

"You have been in London since September," she went on. "That is a long time to be in London. Tell me

"Tell me about it all. I am afraid I have not been a very good mother to you; 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 sons don't

confide in their mothers. But I daresay it was my fault, and now I know so little about you."

"I hope you are happy, Michael," she said. "I don't think I am so happy as I used to be. But don't tell your

father; I feel sure he does not notice it, and it would vex him. But I want you to be happy; you used not to be

when you were little; you were always sensitive and queer. But you do seem happier now, and that's a good

Here again this was all sensible, when taken in bits, but its aspect was different when considered together.

She looked at Michael anxiously a moment, and then drew her chair closer to him, laying her thin, veined

"But it wasn't I who made you happier," she said, "and that's so dreadful. I never made anybody happy. Your

father always made himself happy, and he liked being himself, but I suspect you haven't liked being yourself,

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 him at dinner, which fugitively fluttered

away when she saw that it was observed, and now that it was bent so unwaveringly on him he saw shining

through it what he had never seen before, namely, the motherlove which 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 had been vaguely alarmed, and as they went on the alarm had become more

pronounced; but at this moment, when there shone forth the motherinstinct which had never come out or

blossomed in her life, but had been overlaid completely with routine and conventionality, rendering it too

indolent to put forth petals, Michael had no thought but for that which she had never given him yet, and

"Since you have been away," she said, "and since your father has been vexed with you, I have begun to see

how lonely you must have been. What taught 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 be near 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

never gave you the chance before, God forgive me, and now perhaps it is too late. You have learned to do

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 but childish efforts, easily repulsed. He had not troubled about it, and if she was to

blame, the blame was his also. She had been slow to show the motherinstinct, but he had been just as

He was profoundly touched by this humble timidity, by the sincerity, vague but unquestionable, that lay

"It's never too late, is it?" he said, bending down and kissing the thin white hands that held his. "We are in

"Oh, don't kiss my hands, Michael," she said. "It hurts me that you should 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 armsmay I?"

"Then let me do it. No, my darling, don't move. Just sit still as you are, and let me just get my arms about

you, and put my head on your shoulder, and hold me close like that for a moment, so that I can realise that I

She got up, and, leaning over him, held him so for a moment, pressing her cheek close to his, and kissing him

"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 you let 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 could clasp his arm.

"I want your happiness, dear," she said, "but there is so little now that I can do to secure it. I must put that

into other hands. You are twentyfive, Michael; you are old enough to get married. All Combers marry when

they are twentyfive, don't they? Isn't there some girl you would like to be yours? But you must love her, you

know, you must want her, you mustn't be able to do without her. It won't do to marry just because you are

It would no more have entered into Michael's head this morning to tell to 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

"Ah, tell me about hertell me about her," she said. "You want her, you can't do without her; that is the right

"Oh, you may be sure she doesn't know her own mind," she said. "Girls so often don't. You must not be

"She's the sister of my great friend, Hermann Falbe," he said, "who teaches me music."

"Oh, my dear, it will vex your father again," she said, "that you should want to marry the sister of a

"But certainly she is," he said. "Her father was German, her mother was a Tracy, just as wellborn as you or

"How odd, then, that her brother should have taken to giving music lessons. That does not sound good.

Perhaps they are poor, and certainly there is no disgrace in being poor. And what is her name?"

"Sylvia," said Michael. "You have probably heard of her; she is the Miss Falbe who made such a sensation in

The old outlook, the old traditions were beginning to come to the surface again in poor Lady Ashbridge's

"Oh, my dear!" she said. "A singer! That would vex your father terribly. Fancy the daughter of a Miss Tracy

Then came a step at the door; it opened an inch or two, and Michael heard his father's voice.

At that Lady Ashbridge got up. For one second she clung to her son, and then, disengaging herself, froze up

"Yes, Robert," she said. "I suppose it must be late. I will come. Oh, there's Petsy. Will you ring, Michael?

Michael, in desperate conversational efforts next morning at breakfast, mentioned the fact that the German

Emperor had engaged him in a substantial talk at Munich, and had recommended him to pass the winter at

Berlin. It was immediately obvious that he rose in his father's estimation, for, though no doubt primarily the

fact that Michael was his son was the cause of this interest, it gave Michael a sort of testimonial also to his

respectability. If the Emperor had thought that his taking up a musical career was indelibly disgracefulas

Lord Ashbridge himself had donehe would certainly not have made himself so agreeable. On anyone of

Lord Ashbridge's essential and deeprooted snobbishness this could not fail to make a certain effect; his

chilly politeness to Michael sensibly thawed; you might almost have detected a certain cordiality in his desire

"I should be inclined to reconsider that, Michael," said the father. "The Emperor knows what he is talking

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 was afraid sometimes that his food was not nourishing enough.

"I remember the concert we had here," she said. "We had the 'Song to Aegir' twice."

Lord Ashbridge gave her a quick glance. Michael felt he would not have noticed it the evening before.

"Quite so. You remember it perfectly. And about his visit here, Michael. Did he talk about that?"

"I must tell Barbara that," he said. "She has become a sort of Cassandra, since she became a diplomatist, and

"She asked me about it," said Michael. "I don't think she believes in his sincerity."

"No doubt he will. I shall have a round of golf, I think, on this fine morning. I should like to have a word with

The moment he had gone her whole manner changed: it was suffused with the glow that had lit her last night.

"And we shall have another talk, dear?" she said. "It was tiresome being interrupted last night. But your father

Michael's understanding of the situation grew clearer. Whatever was the change in his mother, whatever,

perhaps, it portended, it was certainly accompanied by two symptoms, the one the late dawning of

motherlove for himself, the other a certain fear of her husband; for all her married life she had been

completely dominated by him, and had lived but in a twilight of her own; now into that twilight was

beginning to steal a dread of him. His pleasure or his vexation had begun to affect her emotionally, instead of

being as before, merely recorded in her mind, as she might have recorded an object quite exterior to herself,

and seen out of the window. Now it was in the room with her. Even as Michael left her to speak with him, the

His father was in the smokingroom, standing enormously in front of the fire, and for the first time the sense

"There are several things I want to tell you about," he said. "Your career, first of all. I take it that you have no

"I want you to understand, then, that, though I shall not speak to you again about it, my wishes are no less

strong than they were. It is something to me to know that a man whom I respect so much as the Emperor

"She shows quite a new affection for myself," he said. "She came and talked to me last night in a way she had

The irritation which Michael's mere presence produced on his father was beginning to make itself felt. The

fact that Michael was squat and longarmed and ugly had always a sideblow to deal at Lord Ashbridge in

the reminder that he was his father. He tried to disregard thishe tried to bring his mind into an impartial

attitude, without seeing for a moment the bitter irony of considering impartiality the ideal quality when

dealing with his son. He tried to be fair, and Michael was perfectly conscious of the effort it cost him.

"I had noticed something of the sort," he said. "Your mother was always asking after you. You have not been

The magical effects of the Emperor's interest were dying out. Lord Ashbridge became more keenly aware of

"No, sir," he said, "but you never answered any of my letters. I thought it quite probable that it displeased you

"I should have expressed my displeasure if I had felt it," said his father with all the pomposity that was

"That had not occurred to me," said Michael. "I am afraid I took your silence to mean that my letters didn't

He paused a moment, and his rebellion against the whole of his father's attitude flared up.

"Besides, I had nothing particular to say," he said. "My life is passed in the pursuit of which you entirely

He felt himself back in boyhood again with this stifling and leaden atmosphere of authority and disapproval

to breathe. He knew that Francis in his place would have done somehow differently; he could almost hear

Aunt Barbara laughing at the pomposity of the situation that had suddenly erected itself monstrously in front

of him. The fact that he was Michael Comber vexed his fatherthere was no statement of the case so

Lord Ashbridge moved away towards the window, turning his back on Michael. Even his back, his homespun

Norfolk jacket, his loose knickerbockers, his stalwart calves expressed disapproval; but when his father spoke

again he realised that he had moved away like that, and obscured his face for a different reason.

Lord Ashbridge continued looking out of the window a little longer, letting his eyes dwell on his own garden

and his own fields, where towered the leafless elms and the red roofs of the little town which had given him

his own name, and continued to give him so satisfactory an income. There presented itself to his mind his

own picture, painted and framed and glazed and hung up by himself, the beneficent nobleman, the

conscientious landlord, the essential vertebra of England's backbone. It was really impossible to impute

blame to such a fine fellow. He turned round into the room again, braced and refreshed, and saw Michael

"It is quite true what you say," he said, with a certain pride in his own impartiality. "She has developed an

extraordinary timidity towards me. I have continually noticed that she is nervous and agitated in my

presenceI am quite unable to account for it. In fact, there is no accounting 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 I don'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 one delusionfor it is no less than thatis as strange as the other."

"I do not mean that it is not very natural she should be devoted to her son," he said with a tremendous air.

"There is a third thing," he said. "This concerns you. You are of the age when we Combers usually marry. I

should wish you to marry, Michael. During this last year your mother has asked half a dozen girls down here,

all of whom she and I consider perfectly suitable, and no doubt you have met more in London. I should like

to know definitely if you have considered the question, and if you have not, I ask you to set about it at once."

Michael was suddenly aware that never for a moment had Sylvia been away from his mind. Even when his

mother was talking to him last night Sylvia had sat at the back, in the inmost place, throned and secure. And

now she stepped forward. Apart from the impossibility of not acknowledging her, he wished to do it. He

wanted to wear her publicly, though she was not his; he wanted to take his allegiance oath, though his

"I have considered the question," he said, "and I have quite made up my mind whom I want to marry. She is

Miss Falbe, Miss Sylvia Falbe, of whom you may have heard as a singer. She is the sister of my

It was not merely defiance of the dreadful old tradition, which Lord Ashbridge had announced in the manner

of Moses stepping down from Sinai, that prompted this appalling statement of the case; it was the joy in the

profession of his love. It had to be flung out like that. Lord Ashbridge looked at him a moment in dead

"I have not the honour of knowing MissMiss Falbe, is it?" he said; "nor shall I have that honour."

"It is very likely that you will not," he said, "since when I proposed to her yesterday she did not accept me."

Somehow Lord Ashbridge felt that as an insult to himself. Indeed, it was a double insult. Michael had

proposed to this singer, and this singer had not instantly clutched him. He gave his dreadful little treble

Michael drew himself up to his full height. This was an indiscretion, for it but made his father recognise how

"Oh, by no means," he said. "My heart is not going to break yet. I don't give up hope."

Then, in a flash, he thought of his mother's pale, anxious face, her desire that he should not vex his father.

"I am sorry," he said, "but that is the case. I wishI wish you would try to understand me."

"I find you incomprehensible," said Lord Ashbridge, and left the room with his high walk and his swinging

Well, it was done now, and Michael felt that there were no new vexations to be sprung on his father. It was

bound to happen, he supposed, sooner or later, and he was not sorry that it had happened sooner than he

expected or intended. Sylvia so held sway in him that he could not help acknowledging her. His

announcement had broken from him irresistibly, in spite of his mother's whispered word to him last night,

"This is our secret." It could not be secret when his father spoke like that. . . . And then, with a flare of

illumination he perceived how intensely his father disliked him. Nothing but sheer basic antipathy could have

been responsible for that miserable retort, "Am I to bind up your broken heart?" Anger, no doubt, was the

immediate cause, but so utterly ungenerous a rejoinder to Michael's announcement could not have been

conceived, except in a heart that thoroughly and rootedly disliked him. That he was a continual monument of

disappointment to his father he knew well, but never before had it been quite plainly shown him how

essential an object of dislike he was. And the grounds of the dislike were now equally plainhis father

disliked him exactly because he was his father. On the other hand, the last twentyfour hours had shown him

that his mother loved him exactly because he was her son. When these two new and undeniable facts were

He went rather drearily to the window. Far off across the field below the garden he could see Lord Ashbridge

walking airily along on his way to the links, with his head held high, his stick swinging in his hand, his two

retrievers at his heels. No doubt already the soothing influences of Nature were at workNature, of course,

standing for the portion of trees and earth and houses that belonged to himand were expunging the

depressing reflection that his wife and only son inspired in him. And, indeed, such was actually the case:

Lord Ashbridge, in his amazing fatuity, could not long continue being himself without being cheered and

invigorated by that fact, and though when he set out his big white hands were positively trembling with

passion, he carried his balsam always with him. But he had registered to himself, even as Michael had

registered, the fact that he found his son a most intolerable person. And what vexed him most of all, what

made him clang the gate at the end of the field so violently that it hit one of his retrievers shrewdly on the

nose, was the sense of his own impotence. He knew perfectly well that in point of view of determination (that

quality which in himself was firmness, and in those who opposed him obstinacy) Michael was his match.

And the annoying thing was that, as his wife had once told him, Michael undoubtedly inherited that quality

from him. It was as inalienable as the estates of which he had threatened to deprive his son, and which, as he

knew quite well, were absolutely entailed. Michael, in this regard, seemed no better than a common but

successful thief. He had annexed his father's firmness, and at his death would certainly annex all his pictures

Michael saw the gate so imperially slammed, he heard the despairing howl of Robin, and though he was sorry

for Robin, he could not help laughing. He remembered also a ludicrous sight he had seen at the Zoological

Gardens a few days ago: two seals, sitting bolt upright, quarrelling with each other, and making the most

absurd grimaces and noises. They neither of them quite dared to attack the other, and so sat with their faces

close together, saying the rudest things. Aunt Barbara would certainly have seen how inimitably his father

And then he became aware that all the time, au fond, he had thought about 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 hour later, he strolled out, according to

arrangement, with his mother. It had melted the rime of the night before that lay now on the grass in threads

of minute diamonds, though below the terrace wall, and on the sunk rims of the empty garden beds it still

persisted in outline of white heraldry. A few monthly roses, weak, pink blossoms, weary with the toil of

keeping hope alive till the coming of spring, hung dejected heads in the sunk garden, where the hornbeam

hedge that carried its russet leaves unfallen, shaded them from the wind. Here, too, a few bulbs had pricked

their way above ground, and stood with stout, erect horns daintily capped with rime. All these things, which

for years had been presented to Lady Ashbridge's notice without attracting her attention; now filled her with

minute childlike pleasure; they were discoveries as entrancing and as magical as the first finding of the oval

pieces of blue sky that a child sees one morning in a hedgesparrow's nest. Now that she was alone with her

son, all her secret restlessness and anxiety had vanished, and she remarked almost with glee that her husband

had telephoned from the golf links to say that he would not be back for lunch; then, remembering that

Michael had gone to talk to his father after breakfast, she asked him about the interview.

Michael had already made up his mind as to what to say here. Knowing that his father was anxious about her,

he felt it highly unlikely that he would tell her anything to distress her, and so he represented the interview as

having gone off in perfect amity. Later in the day, on his father's return, he had made up his mind to propose

a truce between them, as far as his mother was concerned. Whether that would be accepted or not he could

not certainly tell, but in the interval there was nothing to be gained by grieving her.

"Ah, my dear, that is good," she said. "I was anxious. So now perhaps we shall have a peaceful Christmas. I

am glad your Aunt Barbara and Francis are coming, for though your aunt always laughs at your father, she

does it kindly, does she not? And as for Francismy dear, if God had given me two sons, I should have liked

the other to be like Francis. And shall we walk a little farther this way, and see poor Petsy's grave?"

Petsy's grave proved rather agitating. There were doleful little stories of the last days to be related, and Petsy

II. was tiresome, and insisted on defying the world generally with shrill barkings from the top of the small

mound, conscious perhaps that his helpless predecessor slept below. Then their walk brought them to the

band of trees that separated the links from the house, from which Lady Ashbridge retreated, fearful, as she

vaguely phrased it, "of being seen," and by whom there was no need for her to explain. Then across the field

came a group of children scampering home from school. They ceased their shouting and their games as the

others came near, and demurely curtsied and took off their caps to Lady Ashbridge.

"Nice, wellbehaved children," said she. "A merry Christmas to you all. I hope you are all good children to

She pressed his arm, nodded and smiled at the children, and walked on with him. And Michael felt the lump

The arrival of Aunt Barbara and Francis that afternoon did something, by the mere addition of numbers to the

party, to relieve the tension of the situation. Lord Ashbridge said little but ate largely, and during the intervals

of empty plates directed an impartial gaze at the portraits of his ancestors, while wholly ignoring his

descendant. But Michael was too wise to put himself into places where he could be pointedly ignored, and the

resplendent dinner, with its six footmen and its silver service, was not really more joyless than usual. But his

father's majestic displeasure was more apparent when the three men sat alone afterwards, and it was in dead

silence that port was pushed round and cigarettes handed. Francis, it is true, made a couple of efforts to

enliven things, but his remarks produced no response whatever from his uncle, and he subsided into himself,

thinking with regret of what an amusing evening he would have had if he had only stopped in town. But

when they rose Michael signed to his cousin to go on, and planted himself firmly in the path to the door. It

was evident that his father did not mean to speak to 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 told my mother that our interview this

morning was quite amicable. I do not see why she should be distressed by knowing that it was not."

As far as that went, the compact was observed, and whenever Lady Ashbridge was present her husband made

a point of addressing a few remarks to Michael, but there their intercourse ended. Michael found opportunity

to explain to Aunt Barbara what had happened, suggesting as a consolatory simile the domestic difficulties of

the seals at the Zoological Gardens, and was pleased to find her recognise the aptness of this description. But

heaviest of all on the spirits of the whole party sat the anxiety about Lady Ashbridge. There could be no

doubt that some cerebral degeneration was occurring, and Lady Barbara's urgent representation to her brother

had the effect of making him promise to take her up to London without delay after Christmas, and let a

specialist see her. For the present the pious fraud practised on her that Michael and his father had had "a good

talk" together, and were excellent friends, sufficed to render her happy and cheerful. She had long, dim talks,

full of repetition, with Michael, whose presence appeared to make her completely content, and when he was

out or away from her she would sit eagerly waiting for his return. Petsy, to the great benefit of his health, got

somewhat neglected by her; her whole nature and instincts were alight with the motherlove that had burnt so

late into flame, with this tragic accompaniment of derangement. She seemed to be groping her way back to

the days when Michael was a little boy, and she was a young woman; often she would seat herself at her

piano, if Michael was not there to play to her, and in a thin, quavering voice sing the songs of twenty years

ago. She would listen to his playing, beating time to his music, and most of all she loved the hour when the

day was drawing in, and the first shadow and flame of dusk and firelight; then, with her hand in his, sitting in

her room, where they would not be interrupted, she would whisper fresh inquiries about Sylvia, offering to go

herself to the girl and tell her how lovable her suitor was. She lived in a dim, subaqueous sort of

consciousness, physically quite well, and mentally serene in the knowledge that Michael was in the house,

For the others it was dismal enough; this shadow, that was to her a watery sunlight, lay over them allthis,

and the further quarrel, unknown to her, between Michael and his father. When they all met, as at meal times,

there was the miserable pretence of friendliness and comfortable ease kept up, for fear of distressing Lady

Ashbridge. It was dreary work for all concerned, but, luckily, not difficult of accomplishment. A little chatter

about the weather, the merest small change of conversation, especially if that conversation was held between

Michael and his father, was sufficient to wreathe her in smiles, and she would, according to habit, break in

with some wrecking remark, that entailed starting this talk all afresh. But when she left the room a glowering

silence would fall; Lord Ashbridge would pick up a book or leave the room with his highstepping walk and

Of the three he was far most to be pitied, although the situation was the direct result of his own arrogance and

selfimportance; but arrogance and selfimportance were as essential ingredients of his character as was

humour of Aunt Barbara's. They were very awkward and tiresome qualities, but this particular Lord

Ashbridge would have no existence without them. He was deeply and mortally offended with Michael; that

alone was sufficient to make a sultry and stifling atmosphere, and in addition to that he had the burden of his

anxiety about his wife. Here came an extra sting, for in common humanity he had, by appearing to be friends

with Michael, to secure her serenity, and this could only be done by the continued profanation of his own

highly proper and necessary attitude towards his son. He had to address friendly words to Michael that really

almost choked him; he had to practise cordiality with this wretch who wanted to marry the sister of a

musicmaster. Michael had pulled up all the old traditions, that carefullytended and pompous

flowergarden, as if they had been weeds, and thrown them in his father's face. It was indeed no wonder that,

in his wife's absence, he almost burst with indignation over the desecrated beds. More than that, his own

selfesteem was hurt by his wife's fear of him, just as if he had been a hard and unkind husband to her, which

he had not been, but merely a very selfabsorbed and dominant one, while the one person who could make

her quite happy was his despised son. Michael's person, Michael's tastes, Michael's whole presence and

character were repugnant to him, and yet Michael had the power which, to do Lord Ashbridge justice, he

would have given much to be possessed of himself, of bringing comfort and serenity to his wife.

On the afternoon of the day following Christmas the two cousins had been across the estuary to Ashbridge

together. Francis, who, in spite of his habitual easiness of disposition and general good temper, had found the

conditions of anger and anxiety quite intolerable, had settled to leave next day, instead of stopping till the end

of the week, and Michael acquiesced in this without any sense of desertion; he had really only wondered why

Francis had stopped three nights, instead of finding urgent private business in town after one. He realised

also, somewhat with surprise, that Francis was "no good" when there was trouble about; there was no one so

delightful when there was, so to speak, a contest of who should enjoy himself the most, and Francis

invariably won. But if the subject of the contest was changed, and the prize given for the individual who,

under depressing circumstances, should contrive to show the greatest serenity of aspect, Francis would have

lost with an even greater margin. Michael, in fact, was rather relieved than otherwise at his cousin's

immediate departure, for it helped nobody to see the martyred St. Sebastian, and it was merely odious for St.

Sebastian himself. In fact, at this moment, when Michael was rowing them back across the fullflooded

"I don't do any good here, Mike," he said. "Uncle Robert doesn't speak to 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 might go

duckshooting today, and Uncle Robert merely looked out of the window. But if anybody, specially you,

"Thanks awfully. Gosh, look at those ducks! They're just wanting to be shot. But there it is, then. Certainly

Uncle Robert doesn't want me, nor Aunt Marion. I say, what do they think is the matter with her?"

Michael looked round, then took, rather too late, another pull on his oars, and the boat gently grated on the

pebbly mud at the side of the landingplace. Francis's question, the goodhumoured insouciance of it grated

"We don't know yet," he said. "I expect we shall all go back to town in a couple of days, so that she may see

Francis jumped out briskly and gracefully, and stood with his hands in his pockets while Michael pushed off

"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 consoling reflections. But now, in the light of

his own increasing maturity, he saw how hopeless it was to feel Francis's deficiencies, his entire lack of deep

feeling. He was made like that; and if you were fond of anybody the only possible way of living up to your

"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 I

should say nothing about it, if I knew my people would disapprove, until I had got her."

"Oh, yes you would," he said, "if you were to use your own words, fond of her 'like that.' You couldn't help it.

"We won't talk about it," he said"or, rather, I can't talk about it, if you don't understand."

"That makes no difference. She shines through everything, through the infernal awfulness of these days,

through my father's anger, and my mother's illness, whatever it proves to beI think about them really with

all my might, and at the end I find I've been thinking about Sylvia. Everything is shethe woods, the

They had walked across the marshy land at the edge of the estuary, and now 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 made a

sudden turn to the left, sweeping directly seawards, and round the corner, immediately in front of them was

the long reach of deep water up which, even when the tide was at its lowest, an oceangoing steamer could

penetrate if it knew the windings of the channel. Today, in the windless, cold calm of midwinter, though

the sun was brilliant in a blue sky overhead, an opaque mist, thick as cottonwool, lay over the surface of the

water, and, taking the winding road through the woods, which, following the estuary, turned the point, they

presently found themselves, as they mounted, quite clear of the mist that lay below them on the river. Their

steps were noiseless on the mossy path, and almost immediately after they had turned the corner, as Francis

paused to light a cigarette, they heard from just below them the creaking of oars in their rowlocks. It caught

the ears of them both, and without conscious curiosity they listened. On the moment the sound of rowing

ceased, and from the dense mist just below them there came a sound which was quite unmistakable, namely,

the "plop" of something heavy dropped into the water. That sound, by some remote form of association,

suddenly recalled to Michael's mind certain questions Aunt Barbara had asked him about the Emperor's stay

at Ashbridge, and his own recollection of his having gone up and down the river in a launch. There was

something further, which he did not immediately recollect. Yes, it was the request that if when he was here at

Christmas he found strangers hanging about the deep water reach, of which the chart was known only to the

Admiralty, he should let her know. Here at this moment they were overlooking the mistswathed water, 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

"Come back to the boat," he said. "I want to row round and see who that is. Wait a moment, though."

The oars below made some halfdozen strokes, and then were still again. Once more there came the sound of

They went very quietly till they were round the point, then quickened their steps, and Michael spoke.

"That's the uncharted channel," he said; "at least, only the Admiralty have the soundings. The water's deep

enough right across for a ship of moderate draught to come up, but there is a channel up which any

manofwar can pass. Of course, it may be an Admiralty boat making fresh soundings, but not likely on

"What are you going to do?" asked Francis, striding easily along by Michael'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 down with it, and we shan't be heard. I'll row just enough to keep her head straight. Sit

Foot by foot they dropped down the river, and soon came into the thick mist that lay beyond the point. It was

impossible to see more than a yard or two ahead, but the same dense obscurity would prevent any further

range of vision from the other boat, and, if it was still at its work, the sound of its oars or of voices, Michael

reflected, might guide him to it. From the lisp of little wavelets lapping on the shore below the woods, he

knew he was quite close in to the bank, and close also to the place where the invisible boat had been ten

minutes before. Then, in the bewildering, unlocalised manner in which sound without the corrective guidance

of sight comes to the ears, he heard as before the creaking of invisible oars, somewhere quite close at hand.

Next moment the dark prow of a rowingboat suddenly loomed into sight on their starboard, and he took a

rapid stroke with his righthand scull to bring them up to it. But at the same moment, while yet the occupants

of the other boat were but shadows in the mist, they saw him, and a quick word of command rang out.

"Rowrow hard!" it cried, and with a frenzied churning of oars in the water, the other boat shot by them,

making down the estuary. Next moment it had quite vanished in the mist, leaving behind it knots of swirling

Michael started in vain pursuit; his craft was heavy and clumsy, and from the retreating and faintgrowing

sound of the other, it was clear that he could get no pace to match, still less to overtake them. Soon he

"But an Admiralty boat wouldn't have run away," he said. "They'd have asked us who the devil we were."

"Aunt Barbara would tell you," he said. "She would tell you that they were German spies."

But at that moment he felt the first chill of the shadow that menaced, if by chance Aunt Barbara was right,

and if already the clear tranquillity of the sky was growing dim as with the mist that lay that afternoon on the

waters of the deep reach, and covered mysterious movements which were going on below it. England and

Germanythere was so much of his life and his heart there. Music and song, and Sylvia.

Michael had heard the verdict of the brain specialist, who yesterday had seen his mother, and was sitting in

his room beside his unopened piano quietly assimilating it, and, without making plans of his own initiative,

contemplating the forms into which the future was beginning to fall, mapping itself out below him, outlining

itself as when objects in a room, as the light of morning steals in, take shape again. And even as they take the

familiar shapes, so already he felt that he had guessed all this in that week down at Ashbridge, from which he

She was suffering, without doubt, from some softening of the brain; nothing of remedial nature could

possibly be done to arrest or cure the progress of the disease, and all that lay in human power was to secure

for her as much content and serenity as possible. In her present condition there was no question of putting her

under restraint, nor, indeed, could she be certified by any doctor as insane. She would have to have a trained

attendant, she would live a secluded life, from which must be kept as far as possible anything that could

agitate or distress her, and after that there was nothing more that could be done except to wait for the

inevitable development of her malady. This might come quickly or slowly; there was no means of forecasting

that, though the rapid deterioration of her brain, which had taken place during those last two months, made it,

on the whole, likely that the progress of the disease would be swift. It was quite possible, on the other hand,

that it might remain stationary for months. . . . And in answer to a question of Michael's, Sir James had

"Both for her sake and for the sake of all of you," he had said, "one hopes that it will be swift."

Lord Ashbridge had just telephoned that he was coming round to see Michael, a message that considerably

astonished him, since it would have been more in his manner, in the unlikely event of his wishing to see his

son, to have summoned him to the house in Curzon Street. However, he had announced his advent, and thus,

waiting for him, and not much concerning himself about that, Michael let the future map itself. Already it was

sharply defined, its boundaries and limits were clear, and though it was yet untravelled it presented to him a

familiar aspect, and he felt that he could find his allotted road without fail, though he had never yet traversed

it. It was strongly marked; there could be no difficulty or question about it. Indeed, a week ago, when first the

recognition of his mother's condition, with the symptoms attached to it, was known to him, he had seen the

Lord Ashbridge made his usual flamboyant entry, prancing and swinging his elbows. Whatever happened he

would still be Lord Ashbridge, with his grey tophat and his large carnation and his enviable position.

"You will have heard what Sir James's opinion is about your poor mother," he said. "It was in consequence of

what he recommended when he talked over the future with me that I came to see you."

Michael guessed very well what this recommendation was, but with a certain stubbornness and sense of what

was due to himself, he let his father proceed with the not very welcome task of telling him.

The fact of his being Lord Ashbridge, and the fact of Michael being his unsatisfactory son, stiffened him, and

"Perhaps I should not say I am about to ask you a favour," he corrected himself, "but rather to point out to

Suddenly it struck Michael that his father was not thinking about Lady Ashbridge at all, nor about him, but in

the main about himself. All had to be done from the dominant standpoint; he owed it to himself to alleviate

the conditions under which his wife must live; he owed it to himself that his son should do his part as a

Comber. There was no longer any possible doubt as to what this favour, or this direction of duty, must be, but

still Michael chose that his father should state it. He pushed a chair forward for him.

"Thank you, I would rather stand. Yes; it is not so much a favour as the indication of your duty. I do not

know if you will see it in the same light as I; you have shown me before now that we do not take the same

Michael felt himself bristling. His father certainly had the effect of drawing out in him all the feelings that

"Certainly it is not the subject of my interview with you now. The fact is this. In some way your presence

gives a certain serenity and content to your mother. I noticed that at Ashbridge, and, indeed, there has been

some trouble with her this morning because I could not take her to come to see you with me. I ask you,

therefore, for her sake, to be with us as much as you can, in short, to come and live with us."

Michael nodded, saluting, so to speak, the signpost into the future as he passed it.

"I had already determined to do that," he said. "I had determined, at any rate, to ask your permission to do so.

It is clear that my mother wants me, and no other consideration can weigh with that."

"I am glad you take that view of it," he said. "I think that is all I have to say."

Now Michael was an adept at giving; as indicated before, when he gave, he gave nobly, and he could not only

outwardly disregard, but he inwardly cancelled the wonderful ungenerosity with which his father received.

"I will make arrangements to come at once," he said, "if you can receive me today."

"That will hardly be worth while, will it? I am taking your mother back to 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 to his father, but to his mother. It was made, as his heart knew, not ungrudgingly only, but

eagerly, and if it had been recommended by the doctor that she should go to Ashbridge, he would have

entirely disregarded the large additional sacrifice on himself which it entailed. Thus it was not owing to any

"I hope you willwill meet me halfway about this, sir," he said. "You must remember that all my work lies

in London. I want, naturally, to continue that as far as I can. If you go to Ashbridge it is completely

"And all my duties lie at Ashbridge," he said. "As you know, I am not of the type of absentee landlords. It is

quite impossible that I should spend these months in idleness in town. I have never done such a thing yet, nor,

I may say, would our class hold the position they do if we did. We shall come up to town after Easter, should

your mother's health permit it, but till then I could not dream of neglecting my duties in the country."

Now Michael knew perfectly well what his father's duties on that excellently managed estate were. They

consisted of a biweekly interview in the "businessroom" (an abode of files and stags' heads, in which Lord

Ashbridge received various reports of building schemes and repairs), of a round of golf every afternoon, and

of reading the lessons and handing the offertorybox on Sunday. That, at least, was the sumtotal as it

presented itself to him, and on which he framed his conclusions. But he left out altogether the moral effect of

the big landlord living on his own land, and being surrounded by his own dependents, which his father, on the

other hand, so vastly overestimated. It was clear that there was not likely to be much accord between them

"But could you not go down there perhaps once or twice a week, and get Bailey to come and consult you

All this, Michael felt, had nothing to do with the problem of his mother and himself. It was outside it

altogether, and concerned only his father's convenience. He was willing to press this point as far as possible.

"I had imagined you would stop in London," he said. "Supposing under these circumstances I refuse to live

"I should draw my own conclusion as to the sincerity of your profession of duty towards your mother."

Another alternative suddenly suggested itself to Michael which he was almost ashamed of proposing, for it

implied that his father put his own convenience as outweighing any other consideration. But he saw that if

only Lord Ashbridge was selfish enough to consent to it, it had manifest merits. His mother would be alone

"I propose, then," he said, "that she and I should remain in town, as you want to be at Ashbridge."

He had been almost ashamed of suggesting it, but no such shame was reflected in his father's mind. This

would relieve him of the perpetual embarrassment of his wife's presence, and the perpetual irritation of

Michael's. He had persuaded himself that he was making a tremendous personal sacrifice in proposing that

"Upon my word, Michael," he said, with the first hint of cordiality that he had displayed, "that is very well

thought of. Let us consider; it is certainly the case that this derangement in your poor mother's mind has

caused her to take what I might almost call a dislike to me. I mentioned that to Sir James, though it was very

painful for me to do so, and he said that it was a common and most distressing symptom of brain disease, that

the sufferer often turned against those he loved best. Your plan would have the effect of removing that."

"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. Of myself, 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; it seems to me a very sensible notion. We shall

have to see what your mother says to it. She might not like me to be away from her, in spite of her

apparenterdislike of me. It must all depend on her attitude. But for my part I think very well of your

He left immediately after this to ascertain Lady Ashbridge's feelings about it, and walked home with a

complete resumption of his usual exuberance. It indeed seemed an admirable plan. It relieved him from the

nightmare of his wife's continual presence, and this he expressed to himself by thinking that it relieved her

from his. It was not that he was deficient in sympathy for her, for in his selfcentred way he was fond 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 love which would make it impossible for him to leave her. He would also be spared the

constant irritation of having Michael in the house, and this he expressed to himself by saying that Michael

disliked him, and would be far more at his ease without him. Furthermore, Michael would be able to continue

his studies . . . of this too, in spite of the fact that he had always done his best to discourage them, he made a

selflaudatory translation, by telling himself that he was very glad not to have to cause Michael to

discontinue them. In fine, he persuaded himself, without any difficulty, that he was a very fine fellow in

consenting to a plan that suited him so admirably, and only wondered that he had not thought of it himself.

There was nothing, after his wife had expressed her joyful acceptance of it, to detain him in town, and he left

for Ashbridge that afternoon, while Michael moved into the house in Curzon Street.

Michael entered upon his new life without the smallest sense of having done anything exceptional or even

creditable. It was so perfectly obvious to him that he had to be with his mother that he had no inclination to

regard himself at all in the matter; the thing was as simple as it had been to him to help Francis out of

financial difficulties with a gift of money. There was no effort of will, no sense of sacrifice about it, it was

merely the assertion of a paramount instinct. The life limited his freedom, for, for a great part of the day he

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 he would

often find her, on his return, sitting in the hall, waiting for him, so as to enjoy his presence from the first

moment that he re entered the house. But though he found no food for reflection in himself, Aunt Barbara,

who came to see them some few days after Michael had been installed here, found a good deal.

They had all had tea together, and afterwards Lady Ashbridge's nurse had come down to fetch her upstairs to

rest. And then Aunt Barbara surprised Michael, for she came across the room to him, with her kind eyes full

"My dear, I must say it once," she said, "and then you will know that it is always in my mind. You have

behaved nobly, Michael; it's a big word, but I know no other. As for your father"

"Oh, I don't understand him," he said. "At least, that's the best way to look at it. Let's leave him out."

"After all, it is a much better plan than our living all three of us at Ashbridge. It's better for my mother, and

"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 father is a very ludicrous person, you know. But about you, Michael, do you think

"Why, of course I can," he said. "Indeed, I don't think I'll accept that statement of it. It'sit's such a score to

be able to be of use, you know. I can make my mother happy. Nobody else can. I think I'm getting rather

"Then you must just bear it. The thing is"Michael took a moment to find 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"

"Aunt Barbara, how ironically gifts come," he said. "This was rather a sinister way of giving, that my mother

should want me like this just as her brain was failing. And yet that failure doesn't affect the quality of her

love. Is it something that shines through the poor tattered fabric? 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 stand it?"

Michael with his ugly face and his kind eyes and his simple heart seemed extraordinarily charming just then

to Aunt Barbara. She wished that Sylvia could have seen him then in all the unconsciousness of what he was

doing so unquestioningly, or that she could have seen him as she had with his mother during the last hour.

Lady Ashbridge had insisted on sitting close to him, and holding his hand whenever she could possess herself

of it, of plying him with a hundred repeated questions, and never once had she made Michael either

ridiculous or selfconscious. And this, she reflected, went on most of the day, and for how many days it

would go on, none knew. Yet Michael could not consider even whether he could stand it; he rejected the

"Oh, yes, occasionally," said Michael. "They don't come here, for the presence of strangers makes my mother

agitated. She thinks they have some design of taking her or me away. But she wants to see Sylvia. She knows

aboutabout her and me, and I can't make up my mind what to do about it. She is always asking if I can't

"I expect so. I told Hermann. But I am afraid my mother will well, you can't call it arguingbut will try to

persuade her to have me. I can't let Sylvia in for that. Nor, if it comes to that, can I let myself in for that."

Michael leaned forward to the fire, pondering this, and stretching out his big hands to the blaze.

"Yes, I might," he said. "I should love to see Sylvia again, just see her, you know. We settled that the old

terms we were on couldn't continue. At least, I settled that, and she understood."

"Oh, get her to come," said she. "I'm sure your mother will do as you tell her. I'll be here too, if you like, if

that will do any good. By the 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, Hermann tells me I

shall be dragged screaming on to the platform, and have to bow. 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, as I have another engagement, but a little

"My dear, I quite forgot," she said. "Michael, such excitement. You remember the boat you heard taking

soundings on the deepwater reach? Of course you do! Well, I sent that information to the proper quarter,

and since then watch has been kept in the woods just above it. Last night only the coastguard police caught

four men at itall Germans. They tried to escape as they did before, by rowing down the river, but there was

a steam launch below which intercepted them. They had on them a chart of the reach, with soundings, nearly

complete; and when they searched their houses they are all tenants of your astute father, who merely

laughed at usthey found a very decent map of certain private areas at Harwich. Oh, I'm not such a fool as I

look. They thanked me, my dear, for my information, and I very gracefully said that my information was

"Yes; and your father will have four decorous houses on his hands. I am glad: he should not have laughed at

"And you know what I think of you," she said. "Tomorrow evening, then. I hate music usually; but then I

adore Mr. Hermann. I only wish he wasn't a German. Can't you get him to naturalise himself and his sister?"

Michael's "Variations" came some halfway down the programme next evening, and as the moment for them

"I hope he knows them by heart properly, dear," she whispered to Michael. "I shall be so nervous for fear

he'll forget them in the middle, which is so liable to happen if you play without your notes."

The hall was crammed from end to end, for not only was Hermann a person of innumerable friends, but he

had already a considerable reputation, and, being a German, all musical England went to hear him. And

tonight he was playing superbly, after a couple of days of miserable nervousness over his debut as a pianist;

but his temperament was one of those that are strung up to their highest pitch by such nervous agonies; he

required just that to make him do full justice to his own personality, and long before he came to the

"Variations," Michael felt quite at ease about his success. There was no question about it any more: the whole

audience knew that they were listening to a master. In the row immediately 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 it furtively in pauses. They had come in after

Michael, and until the interval between the classical and the modern section of the concert he was unaware of

their presence; then idly turning round to look at the crowded hall, he found himself face to face with the girl.

And then suddenly the words of commonplace failed him, and he looked at her in silence.

Michael glanced sideways, indicating his mother, who sat next him, and was talking to Barbara.

"I wondered whether perhaps you would come and see my mother and me," he said. "May I write?"

She looked at him with the friendliness of her smiling eyes and her grave mouth.

Michael turned back to his seat, for his mother had had quite enough of her sisterinlaw, and wanted him

again. She looked over her shoulder for a moment to see whom Michael was talking to.

"I'm enjoying my concert, dear," she said. "And who is that nice young lady? Is she a friend of yours?"

The interval was over, and Hermann returned to the platform, and waiting for 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 himself looking on at an oldfashioned dance, and while the dancers moved to the

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 of the sunlight of a spring morning it still haunted him. It lay behind a cascade of

foaming waters that, leaping, roared into a ravine; it marched with flying banners on some day of victorious

entry, it watched a funeral procession wind by, with tapers and the smell of incense; it heard, as it got nearer

back to itself again, the peals of Christmas bells, and stood forth again in its own person, decorated and

Hermann had already captured his audience; now he held them tame in the hollow 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

He waited to explain to her quietly, left her, and, feeling rather dazed, made his way round to the back and

saw the open door on to the platform confronting him. He felt that no power on earth could make him step

into the naked publicity there, but at the moment Hermann appeared in the doorway.

"Come on, Mike," he said, laughing. "Thank the pretty ladies and gentlemen! Lord, isn't it all a lark!"

Michael advanced with him, stared and hoped he smiled properly, though he felt that he was nailing some

hideous grimace to his face; and then just below him he saw his mother eagerly pointing him out to a total

stranger, with gesticulation, and just behind her Sylvia looking at her, and not at him, with such tenderness,

such kindly pity. There were the two most intimately bound into his life, the mother who wanted him, the girl

whom he wanted; and by his side was Hermann, who, as Michael always knew, had thrown open the gates of

life to him. All the rest, even including Aunt Barbara, seemed of no significance in that moment. Afterwards,

no doubt, he would be glad they were pleased, be proud of having pleased them; but just now, even when, for

the first time in his life, that intoxicating wine of appreciation was given him, he stood with it bubbling and

Michael had prepared the way of Sylvia's coming by telling his mother the identity of the "nice young lady"

at the concert; he had also impressed on her the paramount importance of not saying anything with regard to

him that could possibly embarrass the nice young lady, and when Sylvia came to tea a few days later, he was

quite without any uneasiness, while for himself he was only conscious of that thirst for her physical presence,

the desire, as he had said to Aunt Barbara, "just to see her." Nor was there the slightest embarrassment in

their meeting! it was clear that there was not the least difficulty either for him or her in being natural, which,

"That is good of you to come," he said, meeting her almost at the door. "My mother has been looking forward

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 Falbe should not be embarrassed, and any wish just now expressed by Michael was of

"Well, this is a pleasure," she said, looking across to Michael with the eyes of a dog on a beloved master.

"And we are not strangers quite, are we, Miss Falbe? We sat so near each other to listen to your brother, who

I am sure plays beautifully, and the music which Michael made. Haven't I got a clever son, and such a good

"Indeed, you have," she said, sitting down by her. "And Michael mustn't hear what we say about him, must

"And that would never do, would it?" she said, still retaining Sylvia's hand. 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. Andand won't you take off your hat, Miss Falbe, for you are not going to hurry

Michael had not time to remind his mother that ladies who come to tea do not usually take their hats off, for

"I'm so glad you suggested that," she said. "I always want to take my hat off. I don't know who invented hats,

Lady Ashbridge looked at her masses of bright hair, and could not help telegraphing a note of admiration, as

"Now, that's more comfortable," she said. "You look as if you weren't going away next minute. When I like

to see people, I hate their going away. I'm afraid sometimes that Michael will go away, but he tells me he

won't. And you liked Michael's music, Miss Falbe? Was it not clever of him to think of all that out of one

simple little tune? And he tells me you sing so nicely. Perhaps you would sing to us when we've had tea. Oh,

and here is my sisterinlaw. Do you know herLady Barbara? My dear, what is your husband's name?"

Seeing Sylvia uncovered, Lady Barbara, with a tact that was creditable to her, but strangely unsuccessful,

also began taking off her hat. Her sisterinlaw was too polite to interfere, but, as a matter of fact, she did not

take much pleasure in the notion that Barbara was going to stay a very long time, too. She was fond of her,

but it was not Barbara whom Michael wanted. She turned her attention to the girl again.

"My husband's away," she said, confidentially; "he is very busy down at Ashbridge, and I daresay he won't

find time to come up to town for many weeks 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 his dutieswould it, Michael?"

"No, you mustn't think of tempting him to come up to town," said Michael. "Give me some tea for Aunt

This answer entranced Lady Ashbridge; she had to nudge Michael several times to show that she understood

the brilliance of it, and put lump after lump of sugar into Barbara's cup in her rapt appreciation of it. But very

"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. But perhaps

some day he will come and play his concert over again to us; and then, perhaps, if you ask me, I will sing to

you. I used to sing a great deal when I was younger. Michaelwhere has Michael gone?"

Michael had just left the room to bring some cigarettes in from next door, and Lady Ashbridge ran after him,

"Now we will all sit and talk for a long time," she said. "You one side of me, Miss Falbe, and Michael the

other. Or would you be so kind as to sing for us? Michael will play for you, and would it annoy you if I came

and turned over the pages? It would give me a great deal of pleasure to turn over for you, if you will just nod

"Why, of course," she said. "What have you got, Michael? I haven't anything with me."

Michael found a volume of Schubert, and once again, as on the first time he had seen her, she sang "Who is

Sylvia?" while he played, and Lady Ashbridge 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 sing herself, and with some faroff remembrance

of the airs and graces of twentyfive years ago, she put her handkerchief and her rings on the top of the

piano, and, playing for herself, emitted faint treble sounds which they knew to be "The Soldier's Farewell."

Then presently her nurse came for her to lie down before dinner, and she was inclined to be tearful and refuse

to go till Michael made it clear that it was his express and sovereign will that she should do so. Then very

audibly she whispered to him. "May I ask her to give me a kiss?" she said. "She looks so kind, Michael, I

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 her novels, demanded such incessant attentions, whether she had sufficient love

in her heart to render them with the exquisite simplicity, the tender patience that Michael showed. Well as she

knew him, greatly as she liked him, she had not imagined that he, or indeed any man could have 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 perfect work" natural to him; he did not seem to have to remind himself that his mother was ill,

and thus he must be gentle with her. He was gentle with her because he was in himself gentle. And yet,

though his behaviour was no effort to him, she guessed how wearying must be the continual strain of the

situation itself. She felt that she would get cross from mere fatigue, however excellent her intentions might

be, however willing the spirit. And no one, so she had understood from Barbara, could take Michael's place.

In his occasional absences his mother was fretful and miserable, and day by day Michael left her less. She

would sit close to him when he was practisinga thing that to her or to Hermann would have rendered

practice impossibleand if he wrestled with one hand over a difficult bar, she would take the other into hers,

would ask him if he was not getting tired, would recommend him to rest for a little; and yet Michael, who last

summer had so stubbornly insisted on leading his own life, and had put his determination into effect in the

teeth of all domestic opposition, now with more than cheerfulness laid his own life aside in order to look after

his mother. Sylvia felt that the real heroisms of life were not so much the fine heady deeds which are so

obviously admirable, as such serene steadfastness, such unvarying patience as that which she had just seen.

Her whole soul applauded Michael, and yet below her applause was this heartache for him, the desire to be

able to help him to bear the burden which must be so heavy, though he bore it so blithely. But in the very

nature of things there was but one way in which she could help him, and in that she was powerless. She could

It was a morning of early March, and Michael, looking out from the diningroom window at the house in

Curzon Street, where he had just breakfasted alone, was smitten with wonder and a secret ecstasy, for he

suddenly saw and felt that it was winter no longer, but that spring had come. For the last week the skies had

screamed with outrageous winds and had been populous with flocks of sullen clouds that discharged

themselves in sleet and snowy rain, and half last night, for he had slept very badly, he had heard the dashing

of showers, as of winddriven spray, against the windowpanes, and had listened to the fierce rattling of the

frames. Towards morning he had slept, and during those hours it seemed that a new heaven and a new earth

had come into being; vitally and essentially the world was a different affair altogether.

At the back of the house on to which these windows looked was a garden of some half acre, a square of

somewhat sooty grass, bounded by high walls, with a few trees at the further end. Into it, too, had the

message that thrilled through his bones penetrated, and this little oasis of doubtful grass and blackened shrubs

had a totally different aspect today from that which it had worn all those weeks. The sparrows that had sat

with fluffedup feathers in corners sheltered from the gales, were suddenly busy and shrilly vocal, chirruping

and dragging about straws, and flying from limb to limb of the trees with twigs in their beaks. For the first

time he noticed that little verdant cabochons of folded leaf had globed themselves on the lilac bushes below

the window, crocuses had budded, and in the garden beds had shot up the pushing spikes of bulbs, while in

the sooty grass he could see specks and patches of vivid green, the first growth of the year.

He opened the window and strolled out. The whole taste and savour of the air was changed, and borne on the

primrosecoloured sunshine came the smell 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 and restoration. The grey, lumpy clouds were gone, and instead chariots of

dazzling white bowled along the infinite blue expanse, harnessed to the southwest 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 stood sunning his soul in spring. But

then he felt the fetters of his own individual winter heavy on him again, and he could only see what was

happening without feeling it. For that moment he had felt the leap in his blood, but the next he was conscious

again of the immense fatigue that for weeks had been growing on him. The task which he had voluntarily

taken on himself had become no lighter with habit, the incessant attendance on his mother and the strain of it

got heavier day by day. For some time now her childlike content in his presence had been clouded and,

instead, she was constantly depressed and constantly querulous with him, finding fault with his words and his

silences, and in her confused and muffled manner blaming him and affixing sinister motives to his most

innocent actions. But she was still entirely dependent on him, and if he left her for an hour or two, she would

wait in an agony of anxiety for his return, and when he came back overwhelmed him with tearful caresses

and the exaction of promises not to go away again. Then, feeling certain of him once more, she would start

again on complaints and reproaches. Her doctor had warned him that it looked as if some new phase of her

illness was approaching, which might necessitate the complete curtailment of her liberty; but day had

succeeded to day and she still remained in the same condition, neither better nor worse, but making every

It had been necessary that Sylvia should discontinue her visits, for some weeks ago Lady Ashbridge had

suddenly taken a dislike to her, and, when she came, would sit in silent and lofty displeasure, speaking to her

as little as possible, and treating her with a chilling and awful politeness. Michael had enough influence with

his mother to prevent her telling the girl what her crime had been, which was her refusal to marry him; but,

when he was alone with his mother, he had to listen to torrents of these complaints. Lady Ashbridge, with a

wealth of language that had lain dormant in her all her life, sarcastically supposed that Miss Falbe was a

princess in disguise ("very impenetrable disguise, for I'm sure she reminds me of a barmaid more than a

princess"), and thought that such a marriage would be beneath her. Or, another time, she hinted that Miss

Falbe might be already married; indeed, this seemed a very plausible explanation of her attitude. She desired,

in fact, that Sylvia should not come to see her any more, and now, when she did not, there was scarcely a day

in which Lady Ashbridge would not talk in a pointed manner about pretended friends who leave you alone,

and won't even take the trouble to take a twopenny 'bus (if they are so poor as all that) to come from

Michael knew that his mother's steps were getting nearer and nearer to that border line which separates the

sane from the insane, and with all the wearing strain of the days as they passed, had but the one desire in his

heart, namely, to keep her on the right side for as long as was humanly possible. But something might

happen, some new symptom develop which would make it impossible for her to go on living with him as she

did now, and the dread of that moment haunted his waking hours and his dreams. Two months ago her doctor

had told him that, for the sake of everyone concerned, it was to be hoped that the progress of her disease

would be swift; but, for his part, Michael passionately disclaimed such a wish. In spite of her constant

complaints and strictures, she was still 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 awful boundary line. Had a deed been

presented to him for his signature, which bound him indefinitely to his mother's service, on the condition that

In consequence of his mother's dislike to Sylvia, Michael had hardly seen her during this last month. Once,

when owing to some small physical disturbance, 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 fling himself with enjoyment into the

friendly welcoming atmosphere. But for the present, he felt himself detached from it all, for this life with his

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 he longed for Sylvia

as much as ever; but, in his present detachment, his desire for her was a drowsy ache, a remote emptiness,

and the veil that lay over his mother seemed to lie over him also. Once, indeed, during the evening, when he

had played for her, the veil had lifted and for the drowsy ache he had the sunlit, stabbing pang; but, as he left,

the veil dropped again, and he let himself into the big, mute house, sorry that he had left it. In the same way,

too, his music was in abeyance: he could not concentrate himself or find it worth while to make the effort to

absorb himself in it, and he knew that short of that, there was neither profit nor pleasure for him in his piano.

Everything seemed remote compared with the immediate foreground: there was a gap, a gulf between it and

His father wrote to him from time to time, laying stress on the extreme importance of all he was doing in the

country, and giving no hint of his coming up to town at present. But he faintly adumbrated the time when in

the natural course of events he would have to attend to his national duties in the House of Lords, and

wondered whether it would not (about then) be good for his wife to have a change, and enjoy the country

when the weather became more propitious. Michael, with an excusable unfilialness, did not answer these

amazing epistles; but, having basked in their unconscious humour, sent them on to Aunt Barbara. Weekly

reports were sent by Lady Ashbridge's nurse to his father, and Michael had nothing whatever to add to these.

His fear of him had given place to a quiet contempt, which he did not care to think about, and certainly did

Every now and then Lady Ashbridge had what Michael thought of as a good hour or two, when she went

back to her content and childlike joy in his presence, and it was clear, when presently she came downstairs as

he still lingered in the garden, reading the daily paper in the sun, that one 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 of it with a joy

"My dear," she said, "what a beautiful morning! Is it wise to sit out of 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 the birds are

collecting twigs for their nests! I wonder how they know that the time has come round again. Sweet little

"My dear, I wish you were going to nest, too," she said. "I wonderdo you think I have been illnatured and

unkind to your Sylvia, and that makes her not come to see me now? I do remember being vexed at her for not

wanting to marry you, and perhaps I talked unkindly about her. I am sorry, for my being cross to her will do

no good; it will only make her more unwilling than ever to marry a man who has such an unpleasant mamma.

These good hours were too rare in their appearances and swift in their vanishings to warrant the certainty that

"Ah, we shall have to think about that, mother," he said. "Look, there is a quarrel going on between those two

"Oh, I wish they would not quarrel," she said. "It is so sad and stupid to quarrel, instead of being agreeable

and pleasant. I do not like them to do that. There, one has flown away! And see, the crocuses are coming up.

Indeed it is spring. I should like to see the country today. If you are not busy, Michael, would you take me

out into the country? We might go to Richmond Park perhaps, for that is in the opposite direction from

Ashbridge, and look at the deer and the budding trees. Oh, Michael, might we take lunch with us, and eat it

"Everything seems so fragile, dear," she whispered. "Everything may break. . . . Sometimes I am frightened."

The little expedition was soon moving, after a slight altercation between Lady Ashbridge and her nurse,

whom she wished to leave behind in order to enjoy Michael's undiluted society. But Miss Baker, who had

already spoken to Michael, telling him she was not quite happy in her mind about her patient, was firm about

accompanying them, though she obligingly effaced herself as far as possible by taking the boxseat by the

chauffeur as they drove down, and when they arrived, and Michael and his mother strolled about in the warm

sunshine before lunch, keeping carefully in the background, just ready to come if she was wanted. But indeed

it seemed as if no such precautions were necessary, for never had Lady Ashbridge been more amenable, more

blissfully content in her son's companionship. The vernal hour, that first smell of the rejuvenated earth, as it

stirred and awoke from its winter sleep had reached her no less than it had reached the springing grass and the

heart of buried bulbs, and never perhaps in all her life had she been happier than on that balmy morning of

early March. Here the stir of spring that had crept across miles of smoky houses to the gardens behind Curzon

Street, was more actively effervescent, and the "bare, leafless choirs" of the trees, which had been empty of

song all winter, were once more resonant with feathered worshippers. Through the tussocks of the grey grass

of last year were pricking the vivid shoots of green, and over the grove of young birches and hazel the dim,

purple veil of spring hung mistlike. Down by the wateredge of the Penn ponds they strayed, where

moorhens scuttled out of rhododendron bushes that overhung the lake, and hurried across the surface of the

water, half swimming, half flying, for the shelter of some securer retreat. There, too, they found a plantation

of willows, already in bud with soft moleskin buttons, and a tortoiseshell butterfly, evoked by the sun from its

hibernation, settled on one of the twigs, opening and shutting its diapered wings, and spreading them to the

warmth to thaw out the stiffness and inaction of winter. Blackbirds fluted in the busy thickets, a lark shot up

near them soaring and singing till it became invisible in the luminous air, a suspended carol in the blue, and

bold male chaffinches, seeking their mates with twittered songs, fluttered with burr of throbbing wings. All

the promise of spring was theredim, 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 removing herself to the box seat, and spreading

rugs on the grass sat in the sunshine, while Lady Ashbridge talked or silently watched Michael as he smoked,

but always with a smile. The one little note of sadness which she had sounded when she said she was

frightened lest everything should break, had not rung again, and yet all day Michael heard it echoing

somewhere dimly behind the song of the wind and the birds, and the shoots 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 it out of the

corner of his eye, only to lose it when he looked at it. And yet for weeks his mother had never seemed so

well: the cloud had lifted off her this morning, and, but for some vague presage of trouble that somehow

haunted his mind, refusing to be disentangled, he could have believed that, after all, medical opinion might be

at fault, and that, instead of her passing more deeply into the shadows as he had been warned was inevitable,

she might at least maintain the level to which she had returned today. All day she had been as she was

before the darkness and discontent of those last weeks had come upon her: he who knew her now so well

could certainly have affirmed that she had recovered the serenity of a month ago. It was so much, so

tremendously much that she should do this, and if only she could remain as she had been all day, she would

at any rate be happy, happier, perhaps, than she had consciously been in all the stifled years which had

preceded this. Nothing else at the moment seemed to matter except the preservation to her of such content,

and how eagerly would he have given all the service that his young manhood had to offer, if by that he could

keep her from going further into the bewildering darkness that he had been told awaited her.

There was some little trouble, though no more than the shadow of a passing cloud, when at last he said that

they must be getting back to town, for the afternoon was beginning to wane. She besought him for five

minutes more of sitting here in the sunshine that was still warm, and when those minutes were over, she

begged for yet another postponement. But then the quiet imposition of his will suddenly conquered her, and

"My dear, you shall do what you like with me," she said, "for you have given me such a happy day. Will you

remember that, Michael? It has been a nice day. And might we, do you think, ask Miss Falbe to come to tea

with us when we get back? She can but say 'no,' and if she comes, I will be very good and not vex her."

As she got back into the motor she stood up for a moment, her vague blue eyes scanning the sky, the trees,

"Goodbye, lake, happy lake and moorhens," she said. "Goodbye, trees and grass that are growing green

Michael had no hesitation in telephoning to Sylvia when they got back to town, asking her if she could come

and have tea with his mother, for the gentle, affectionate mood of the morning still lasted, and her eagerness

to 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 his mother, and this one seemed in her present mood a perfectly safe one.

Added to that impulse, in itself sufficient, there was his own longing to see her again, that thirst that never

left him, and soon after they had got back to Curzon Street Sylvia was with them, and, as before, in

preparation for a long visit, she had taken off her hat. Today she divested herself of it without any

"Look, Michael," she said. "Miss Falbe means to stop a long time. That is sweet of her, is it not? She is not in

such a hurry to get away today. Sugar, Miss Falbe? Yes, I remember you take sugar and milk, but no cream.

Sylvia had seen neither mother nor son for a couple of weeks, and her eyes coming fresh to them noticed

much change in them both. In Lady Ashbridge this change, though marked, was indefinable enough: she

seemed to the girl to have somehow gone much further off than she had been before; she had faded, become

indistinct. It was evident that she found, except when she was talking to Michael, a far greater difficulty in

expressing herself, the channels of communication, as it were, were getting choked. . . . With Michael, the

change was easily stated, he looked terribly tired, and it was evident that the strain of these weeks was telling

heavily on him. And yet, as Sylvia noticed with a sudden sense of personal pride in him, not one jot of his

patient tenderness for his mother was abated. Tired as he was, nervous, on edge, whenever he dealt with her,

either talking to her, or watching for any little attention she might need, his face was alert with love. But she

noticed that when the footman brought in tea, and in arranging the cups let a spoon slip jangling from its

saucer, Michael jumped as if a bomb had gone off, and under his breath said to the man, "You clumsy fool!"

Little as the incident was, she, knowing Michael's courtesy and politeness, found it significant, as bearing on

the evidence of his tired face. Then, next moment his mother said something to him, and instantly his love

Today, more than ever before, Lady Ashbridge seemed to exist only through him. As Sylvia knew, she had

been for the last few weeks constantly disagreeable to him; but she wondered whether this exacting,

meticulous affection was not harder to bear. Yet Michael, in spite of the nervous strain which now showed

itself so clearly, seemed to find no difficulty at all in responding to it. It might have worn his nerves to tatters,

but the tenderness and love of him passed unhampered through the frayed communications, for it was he

himself who was brought into play. It was of that Michael, now more and more triumphantly revealed, that

Sylvia felt so proud, as if he had been a possession, an achievement wholly personal to her. He was her

Michaelit was just that which was becoming evident, since nothing else would account for her claim of

It was not long before Lady Ashbridge's nurse appeared, to take her upstairs to rest. At that her patient

became suddenly and unaccountably agitated: all the happy content of the day was wiped off her mind. She

"No, no, Michael," she said, "they mustn't take me away. I know they are going to take me away from you

"Now, my lady, you mustn't behave like that," she said. "You know you are only going upstairs to rest as

"No, Michael, no!" she repeated. "I'm going to be taken away from you. And look, Missah, my dear, I

have forgotten your name look, she has got no hat on. She was going to stop with me a long time. Michael,

Michael saw the nurse looking at her, watching her with that quiet eye of the trained attendant.

"Well, if Lord Comber will just step outside with me," she said, "we'll see if we can arrange for you to stop a

Michael saw that the nurse wanted to say something to him, and with infinite gentleness disentangled the

"Why, of course I will," he said. "And won't you give Miss Falbe another cup of tea?"

"Yes, I'll do that," she said. "And by the time I've done that you will be back again, won't you?"

Michael followed the nurse from the room, who closed the door without shutting it.

"There's something I don't like about her this evening," she said. "All day I have been rather anxious. She

must be watched very carefully. Now I want you to get her to come upstairs, and I'll try to make her go to

"I don't expect anything, but we must be prepared. A change comes very quickly."

"Now, mother darling," he said, "up you go with Nurse Baker. You've been out all day, and you must have a

"Yes, but where am I going to?" she said. "How do I know Nurse Baker will take me to my own room?"

That instantly reassured her. Mood after mood, as Michael saw, were passing like shadows over her mind.

"Ah, that's enough!" she said. "Goodbye, Missthere! the name's gone again! But won't you sit here and

have a talk to Michael, and let him show 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 have dinner with us, and afterwards we

"We'll talk about that while you're resting," he said. "Don't keep Nurse Baker waiting any longer, mother."

"No, no; mustn't keep anybody waiting," she said. "Your father taught me to be punctual."

She saw that at the moment he was not thinking of her at all, and her heart honoured him for that.

"I'm anxious about my mother tonight," he said. "She has been so I suppose you must call itwell all

"I'm frightened," he said, "and it's so unutterably feeble of me. And I'm tired: you don't know how tired, and

try as I may I feel that all the time it is no use. My mother is slipping, slipping away."

"But, my dear, no wonder you are tired," she said. "Michael, can't anybody help? It isn't right you should do

"And I'm so brutally proud of it," he said. "She wants me. Well, that's a lot for a son to be able to say. Sylvia,

Still he was not thinking of her, and knowing that, she came close to him and put her arm in his. She longed

to give him some feeling of comradeship. She could be sisterly to him over this without suggesting to him

what she could not be to him. Her instinct had divined right, and she felt the answering pressure of his elbow

"You are giving everything to keep her," she said. "You are giving yourself. What further gift is there,

He kept her arm close pressed by him, and she knew by the frankness of that 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 courage and

clearsightedness in difficult hours. She wanted to be no more than that to him just now; it was the most she

could do for him, but with a desire, the most acute she had ever felt for him, she wanted him to accept

thatto take her comradeship as he would have surely taken her brother's. Once, in the last intimate

moments they had had together, he had refused to accept that attitude from herhad felt it a relationship

altogether impossible. She had seen his point of view, and recognised the justice of the embarrassment. Now,

very simply but very eagerly, she hoped, as with some tugging strain, that he would not reject it. She knew

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 own business, with a quiet splendour that drew her eyes to him, and as they stood

there, thus linked, she wondered if her heart was following. . . . She had seen, last December, how reasonable

it was of him to refuse this domestic sort of intimacy with her; now, she found herself intensely longing that

Suddenly Michael awoke to the fact of her presence, and abruptly he moved away from her.

"Thanks, Sylvia," he said. "I know I have youryour good wishes. Butwell, I am sure you understand."

She understood perfectly well. And the understanding of it cut her to the quick.

"Have you got any right to behave like that to me, Michael?" she asked. "What have I done that you should

He looked at her, completely recalled in mind to her alone. All the hopes and desires of the autumn smote

"Yes, every right," he said. "I wasn't heeding you. I only thought of my mother, and the fact that there was a

very dear friend by me. And then I came to myself: I remembered who the friend was."

They stood there in silence, apart, for a moment. Then Michael came closer. The desire for human sympathy,

"I'm a brute," he said. "It was awfully nice of you toto offer me that. I accept it so gladly. I'm wretchedly

She felt the crook of his elbow tighten again on her wrist. She had not known before how much she prized

"But are you sure you are right in being anxious, Mike?" she asked. "Isn't it perhaps your own tired nerves

"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 and content all day, and yet there were little lapses, if you understand. It was as if she

knew: she said goodbye to the lake and the jolly moorhens and the grass. And her nurse thinks so, too. She

called me out of the room just now to tell me that. . . . I don't know why I should tell you these depressing

"Don't you?" she asked. "But I do. It's because you know I care. Otherwise you wouldn't tell me: you

For a moment the balance quavered in his mind between Sylvia the beloved and Sylvia the friend. It inclined

"Yes, that's why," he said. "And I reproach myself, you know. All these years I might, if I had tried harder,

have been something to my mother. I might have managed it. I thoughtat least I felt that she didn't

encourage me. But I was a beast to have been discouraged. And now her wanting me has come just when it

isn't her unclouded self that wants me. It's as ifas if it had been raining all day, and just on sunset there

Suddenly he stood stiff, listening to some sound which at present she did not hear. It sounded a little louder,

and her ears caught the running of footsteps on the stairs outside. Next moment the door opened, and Lady

"Will you go to her ladyship, my lord?" she said. "Her nurse wants you. She told me to telephone to Sir

"Michael, may I wait?" she said. "You might want me, you know. Please let me wait."

Lady Ashbridge's room was on the floor above, and Michael ran up the intervening stairs three at a time. He

knocked and entered and wondered why he had been sent for, for she was sitting quietly on her sofa near the

window. But he noticed that Nurse Baker stood very close to her. Otherwise there was nothing that was in

Lady Ashbridge turned towards the door as Michael came in, and when he met her eyes he knew why he had

been sent for, why at this moment Sir James was being summoned. For she looked at him not with the

clouded eyes of affection, not with the motherspirit striving to break through the shrouding trouble of her

brain, but with eyes of blank nonrecognition. She saw him with the bodily organs of her vision, but the

Michael did not hesitate. It was possible that he still might be something to her, that he, his presence, might

"But you are not resting, mother," he said. "Why are you sitting up? I came to talk to you, as I said I would,

Suddenly into those blank, irresponsive eyes there leaped recognition. He saw the pupils contract as they

focused themselves on him, and hand in hand with recognition there leaped into them hate. Instantly that was

veiled again. But it had been there, and now it was not banished; it lurked behind in the shadows, crouching

She answered him at once, but in a voice that was quite toneless. It seemed like that of a child repeating a

lesson which it had learned by heart, and could be pronounced while it was thinking of something quite

"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 at her 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 it up

near her sofa, he looked at the nurse. She moved her hand slightly towards the left, and interpreting this, he

moved the chair a little to the left, so that he would not sit, as he had intended, quite close to the sofa.

She looked at him sideways and slowly. Then again, as if recollecting a task she had committed to memory,

"Yes, so much," she said. "All the trees and the birds and the sunshine. I enjoyed them so much."

"Bring your chair a little closer, my darling," she said. "You are so far off. And why do you wait, nurse? I

Michael felt one moment of sickening spiritual terror. He understood quite 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 black

horror, that the sane and the sensitive must always feel when they are brought intimately in contact with some

blind derangement of instinct in those most nearly allied to them. Physically, on the material plane, he had no

He made a movement, grasping the arm of his chair, as if to wheel it closer, but he came actually no nearer

"Why don't you go away, nurse?" said Lady Ashbridge, "and leave my son and me to talk about our nice day

"I want to talk, too, my lady," she said. "I went with you and Lord Comber. We all enjoyed it together."

It seemed to Michael that his mother made some violent effort towards selfcontrol. He saw one of her hands

that were lying on her knee clench itself, so that the knuckles stood out white.

"Yes, we will all talk together, then," she said. "Orershall I have a little doze first? I am rather sleepy

with so much pleasant air. And you 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 am fresh again, you shall come back, nurse, and we

When he entered the room, Michael had not quite closed the door, and now, as half an hour before, he heard

"What is that?" she said. "Who is coming now to disturb me, just when I wanted to have a nap?"

There came a knock at the door. Nurse Baker did not move her head, but continued watching her patient, with

Lady Ashbridge's face was towards the door. As Sir James entered, she suddenly sprang up, and in her right

hand that lay beside her was a knife, which she had no doubt taken from the teatable when she came

"It's a trap," she cried. "You've led me into a trap. They are going to take me away."

Michael had thrown up his arm to shield his head. The blow fell between shoulder and elbow, and he felt the

And from deep in his heart sprang the leaping fountains of compassion and love and yearning pity.

Michael was sitting in the big studio at the Falbes' house late one afternoon at the end of June, and the

warmth and murmur of the fullblown summer filled the air. The day had so far declined that the rays of the

sun, level in its setting, poured slantingly in through the big window to the north, and shining through the

foliage of the planetrees outside made a diaper of rosy illuminated spots and angled shadows on the

whitewashed wall. As the leaves stirred in the evening breeze, this pattern shifted and twinkled; now, as the

wind blew aside a bunch 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 again faintly stirring. Through the window to the south,

which Hermann had caused to be cut there, since the studio was not used for painting purposes, Michael

could see into the patch of highwalled garden, where Mrs. Falbe was sitting in a low basket chair,

completely absorbed in a book of highborn and ludicrous adventures. She had made a mild attempt when

she found that Michael intended to wait for Sylvia's return to entertain him till she came; but, with a little

oblique encouragement, remarking on the beauty and warmth of the evening, and the pleasure of sitting out of

doors, Michael had induced her to go out again, and leave him alone in the studio, free to live over again that

He reconstructed it as he sat on the sofa and dwelt on the pearl moments of 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 opposite

the fireplace they had come face to face. She held in her hand a small white rose which she had plucked in the

tiny garden here in the middle of London. It was not a very fine specimen, but it was a rose, and she had said

in answer to his depreciatory glance: "But you must see it when I have washed it. One has to wash London

Then . . . the miracle happened. Michael, with the hand that had just taken hers, stroked a petal of this prized

vegetable, with no thought in his mind stronger than the thoughts that had been indigenous there since

Christmas. As his finger first touched the rim of the townbred petals, undersized yet not quite lacking in

"rosequality," he had intended nothing more than to salute the flower, as Sylvia made her apology for it.

"One has to wash London flowers." But as he touched it he looked up at her, and the quiet, usual song of his

thoughts towards her grew suddenly loud and stupefyingly sweet. It was as if from the vacant hivedoor the

bees swarmed. In her eyes, as they met his, he thought he saw an expectancy, a welcome, and his hand,

instead of stroking the rose petals, closed on the rose and on the hand that held it, and kept them close

imprisoned and strongly gripped. He could not remember if he had spoken any word, but he had seen that in

her face which rendered all speech unnecessary, and, knowing in the bones and the blood of him that he was

His hand still was tight on hers that held the crumpled rose, and when he opened it, loverlike, to stroke and

kiss it, there was a spot of blood in the palm of it, where a rosethorn had pricked her, just one drop of

Sylvia's blood. As he kissed it, he had wiped it away with the tip of his tongue between his lips, and she

They had sat together on the sofa where this afternoon he sat alone waiting for her. Every moment of that half

hour was as distinct as the outline of trees and hills just before a storm, and yet it was still entirely

dreamlike. He knew it had happened, for nothing but the happening of it would account now for the fact of

himself; but, though there was nothing in the world so true, there was nothing so incredible. Yet it was all as

cleancut in his mind as etched lines, and round each line sprang flowers and singing birds. For a long space

there was silence after they had sat down, and then she said, "I think I always loved you, Michael, only I

didn't know it. . . ." Thereafter, foolish love talk: he had claimed a superiority there, for he had always loved

her and had always known it. Much time had been wasted owing to her ignorance . . . she ought to have

known. But all the time that existed was theirs now. In all the world there was no more time than what they

had. The crumpled rose had its petals rehabilitated, the thorn that had pricked her was peeled off. They

wondered if Hermann had come in yet. Then, by some vague process of locomotion, they found themselves

at the piano, and with her arm around his neck Sylvia has whispered half a verse of the song of herself. . . .

They became a little more definite over loverconfessions. Michael had, so to speak, nothing to confess: he

had loved all alonghe had wanted her all along; there never had been the least pretence or nonsense about

it. Her path was a little more difficult to trace, but once it had been traversed it was clear enough. She had

liked him always; she had felt sisterlike from the moment when Hermann brought him to the house, and

sisterlike she had continued to feel, even when Michael had definitely declared there was "no thoroughfare"

there. She had missed that relationship when it stopped: she did not mind telling him that now, since it was

abandoned by them both; but not for the world would she have confessed before that she had missed it. She

had loved being asked to come and see his mother, and it was during those visits that she had helped to pile

the barricade across the "sisterthoroughfare" with her own hands. She began to share Michael's sense of the

impossibility of that road. They could not walk down it together, for they had to be either more or less to each

other than that. And, during these visits, she had begun to understand (and her face a little hid itself) what

Michael's love meant. She saw it manifested towards his mother; she was taught 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, and if he

still wanted anything else, she supposed (so she supposed) that some time he would mention that fact. Yes:

Michael went over this very deliberately as he sat waiting for her twentyfour hours later. He rehearsed this

moment and that over and over again: in mind he followed himself and Sylvia across to the piano, not

hurrying their steps, and going through the verse of the song she sang at the pace at which she actually sang

it. And, as he dreamed and recollected, he heard a little stir in the quiet house, and Sylvia came.

"Ah, but which? If hours, I shall apologise, and then excuse myself by saying that you must have come earlier

than you intended. If minutes I shall praise myself for being so exceedingly punctual."

"Minutes, then," said he. "I'll praise you instead. Praise is more convincing if somebody else does it."

"Yes, but you aren't somebody else. Now be sensible. Have you done all the things you told me you were

There was no cloud on Michael's face. There was such sunlight where his soul sat that no shadow could fall

"And what is more he saw me, so to speak," he said. "He realised that I had an existence independent of him.

I used to be aa sort of clock to him; he could put its hands to point to any hour he chose. Well, he has

realisedhe has reallythat I am ticking along on my own account. He was quite respectful, not only to

me, which doesn't matter, but to youwhich does." Michael laughed, as he plaited his fingers in with hers.

"My father is so comic," he said, "and unlike most great humourists his humour is absolutely unconscious. He

was perfectly well aware that I meant to marry you, for I told him that last Christmas, adding that you did not

mean to marry me. So since then I think he's got used to you. Used to youfancy getting used to you!"

"That makes it less odd. Getting used to you after seeing you would be much more incredible. I was saying

that in a way he had got used to you, just as he's got used to my being a person, and not a clock on his

chimneypiece, and what seems to have made so much difference is what Aunt 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 faraway

manner he realises that you are 'one of us.' Isn't he a comic? He's going to make the best of you, it appears. To

make the best of you! You can't beat that, you know. In fact, he told me to ask if he might come and pay his

"He was funny about that also," he said. "My father took it absolutely for granted that having made this

tremendous social advance, you would bury your past, all but the Tracy part of it, as if it had been something

"I? Oh, I told him that, of course, you would do as you pleased about that, but that for my part I should urge

"He got four inches taller. What is so odd is that as long as I never opposed my father's wishes, as long as I

was the clock on the chimney piece, I was terrified at him. The thought of opposing myself to him made my

knees quake. But the moment I began doing so, I found there was nothing to be frightened at."

"But what am I to do about it, Michael?" she asked. "Oh, I blush when I think of a conversation I had with

Hermann about you, just before Christmas, when I knew you were going to propose to me. I said that I could

never give up my singing. Can you picture the selfimportance of that? Why, it doesn't seem to me to matter

two straws whether I do or not. Naturally, I don't want to earn my living by it any more, but whether I sing or

not doesn't matter. And even as the words are in my mouth I try to imagine myself not singing any more, and

I can't. It's become part of me, and while I blush to think of what I said to Hermann, I wonder whether it's not

"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's art 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's very best, whether one is singing professionally or

not, but it is hardly possible. Why, the whole difference between amateurs and professionals is that amateurs

sing charmingly and professionals just sing. Only they sing as well as they possibly can, not only because

they love it, but because if they don't they will be dropped on to, and if they continue not singing their best,

will lose their place which they have 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 myself coming down to the Drill Hall at Brixton,

extremely beautifully dressed, with rows of pearls, and arriving rather late, and just singing charmingly. It's

such a spur to know that serious musicians judge one's performance by the highest possible standard. It's so

relaxing to think that one can easily sing well enough, that one can delight ninetynine hundredths of the

audience without any real effort. I could sing 'The Lost Chord' and move the whole Drill Hall at Brixton to

tears. But there might be one man there who knew, you or Hermann or some other, and at the end he would

just shrug his shoulders ever so slightly, and I would wish I had never been born."

"I'll not sing any more at all, ever," she said, "or I must sing to those who will take me seriously and judge me

ruthlessly. To sing just well 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, but otherwise as purposeless as a wandering

"I was afraid it might be going to get chilly," she remarked. "After a hot day there is often a cool evening.

"Then I hope there will be something for you to eat. Sylvia, is there something to eat? No doubt you will see

to that, darling. I shall just rest upstairs for a little before dinner, and perhaps finish my book. So pleased you

She drifted towards the studio door, in thistledown fashion catching at corners a little, and then moving

"And Hermann's not in yet, but if LordI mean, Michael, is going to stop here till dinnertime, it won't

matter whether Hermann comes in in time to dress or not, as Michael is not dressed either. Oh, there is the

The knock in question, however, proved to be Hermann, who, as was generally the case, had forgotten his

latchkey. He ran into his mother at the studio door, and came and sat down, regardless of whether he was

"I probably intrude," he said, "but such is my intention. I've just seen Lady Barbara, who says that the shock

has not been too much for Mike's father. That is a good thing; she says he is taking nourishment much as

usual. I suppose I oughtn't to jest on so serious a subject, but I took 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 time of King

John flirted, if no more, with a Comber. And what about your career, Sylvia? Are you going to continue to

urge your wild career, or not? I ask with a purpose, as Blackiston proposes we should give a concert together

in the third week in July. The Queen's Hall is vacant one afternoon, and he thinks we might sing and play to

them. I'm on if you are. It will be about the last concert of the season, too, so we shall have to do our best.

Otherwise we, or I, anyhow, will start again in the autumn with a black mark. By the way, are you going to

start again in the autumn? It wouldn't surprise me one bit to hear that you and Mike had been talking about

"I don't propose to die, if you mean that. Oh, Blackiston had another suggestion also. He wanted to know if

we would consider making a short tour in Germany in the autumn. He says that the beloved Fatherland is

rather disposed to be interested in us. He thinks we should have good audiences at Leipzig, and so on. There's

a tendency, he says, to recognise poor England, a cordial intention, anyhow. I said that in your case there

might be domestic considerations which But I think I shall go in any case. Lord, fancy playing in Germany

to Germans again. Fancy being listened to by a German audience; fancy if they approved."

Michael leaned forward, putting his elbow into Hermann's chest. Early December had already been

mentioned as a date for their marriage, and as a prenuptial journey, this seemed to him a plan ecstatically

"Yes, Sylvia," he said. "The answer is yes. I shall come with you, you know. I can see it; a triumphal

procession, you two making noises, and me listening. A month's tour, Hermann. Middle of October till

All his tremendous pride in her singing, dormant for the moment under the wonder of his love, rose to the

surface. He knew what her singing meant to her, and, from their conversation together just now, how keen

was her eagerness for the strict judgment of those who knew, how she loved that austere pinnacle of daylight.

Here was an ideal opportunity; never yet, since she had won her place as a singer, had she sung in Germany,

that Mecca of the musical artist, and in her case, the land from which she sprung. Had the scheme implied a

postponement of their marriage, he would still have declared himself for it, for he unerringly felt for her in

"Yes, yes," he repeated, "I must have you do that, Sylvia. I don't care what Hermann wants or what you want.

"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, and rudely interrupted.

"No," he said. "It's a question for me. When the Fatherland hears that I 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 with pride!"

It required, then, little debate, since all three were agreed, before Hermann was empowered with authority to

make arrangements, and they remained simultaneously talking till Mrs. Falbe, again drifting in, announced

that the bell for dinner had sounded some minutes before. She had her finger in the last chapter of "Lady

Ursula's Ordeal," and laid it face downwards on the table to resume again at the earliest possible moment.

This opportunity was granted her when, at the close of dinner, coffee and the evening paper came in together.

"Hallo!" he said. "That's horrible! The Heir Apparent of the Austrian Emperor has been murdered at

"Oh, what a dreadful thing," said Mrs. Falbe, opening her book. "Poor man, what had he done?"

"They are on the chimneypiece, dear," she said, thinking he spoke of material matches.

Michael felt that Hermann saw something, or conjectured something ominous in this news, for he sat with

"Yes; it seems that Servian officers are implicated," he said. "And there are materials enough already for a

"Those tiresome Balkan States," said Mrs. Falbe, slowly immersing herself like a diving submarine in her

book. "They are always quarrelling. Why doesn't Austria conquer them all and have done with it?"

This simple and striking solution of the whole Balkan question was her final contribution to the topic, for at

this moment she became completely submerged, and cut off, so to speak, from the outer world, in the lucent

"What will Austria do?" he said. "Supposing she threatens Servia in some outrageous way and Russia says

Michael looked across to Sylvia; he was much more interested in the way she dabbled the tips of her hands in

the cool water of her finger bowl than in what Hermann was saying. Her fingers had an extraordinary life of

their own; just now they were like a group of maidens by a fountain. . . . But Hermann repeated the question

"Oh, I suppose there will be a lot of telegraphing," he said, "and perhaps a board of arbitration. After all, one

expected a European conflagration over the war in the Balkan States, and again over their row with Turkey. I

don't believe in European conflagrations. We are all too much afraid of each other. We walk round each other

like collie dogs on the tips of their toes, gently growling, and then quietly get back to our own territories and

"Thank God, there's that wonderful fireengine in Germany ready to turn the hose on conflagrations."

"The Emperor, of course. We should have been at war ten times over but for him."

Michael suddenly remembered how one night in the flat Aunt Barbara had suddenly turned the conversation

from the discussion of cognate topics, on hearing that the Falbes were Germans, only to resume it again when

"I don't fancy she does," he said. "But then, as you know, Aunt Barbara has original views on every subject."

"My dear Hermann," he said, "how often have you told me that we English don't pay the smallest attention to

international politics. I am aware that 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

"Well, long may ignorance be bliss," he said. "Lord, what a divine evening! 'Uber allen gipfeln ist Ruhe.' At

least, there is peace on the only summits visible, which are house roofs. There's not a breath of wind in the

"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 out for 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 year when the hour after sunset is warm like this. It's

such a pity to waste one indoors. The young people" and he pointed to Sylvia and Michael"will gaze

into each other's hearts, and Mamma's will beat in unison with Lady Ursula's, and I will sit and look at the

Hermann and Michael bestirred themselves, and presently the whole little party had encamped on chairs

placed in an oasis of rugs (this was done at the special request of Mrs. Falbe, since Lady Ursula had caught a

chill that developed into consumption) in the small, highwalled garden. Beyond at the bottom lay the road

along the embankment and the greyblue Thames, and the dim woods of Battersea Park across the river.

When they came out, sparrows were still chirping in the ivy on the studio wall and in the tall angle leaved

planes at the bottom of the little plot, discussing, no doubt, the domestic arrangements for their comfort

during the night. But presently a sudden hush fell upon them, and their shrillness was sharp no more against

the drowsy hum of the city. The sky overhead was of veiled blue, growing gradually more toneless as the

light faded, and was unflecked by any cloud, except where, high in the zenith, a fleece of rosy vapour still

caught the light of the sunken sun, and flamed with the soft radiance of some snowsummit. Near it there

burned a molten planet, growing momentarily brighter as the night gathered and presently beginning to be

dimmed again as a tawny moon three days past the full rose in the east above the low river horizon.

Occasionally a steamer hooted from the Thames and the noise of churned waters sounded, or the crunch of a

motor's wheels, or the tapping of the heels of a foot passenger on the pavement below the garden wall. But

such evidence of outside seemed but to accentuate the perfect peace of this secluded little garden where the

four sat: the hour and the place were cut off from all turmoil and activities: for a moment the stream of all

their lives had flowed into a backwater, where it rested immobile before 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 evening when the

tawny moon grew golden as it climbed the empty heavens, dimming the stars around it.

What they talked of, even though it was Sylvia who spoke, seemed external to the spirit of the hour. They

seemed to have reached a point, some momentary haltingplace, where speech and thought even lay outside,

and the need of the spirit was merely to exist and be conscious of its existence. Sometimes for a moment his

past life with its selfrepression, its mute yearnings, its chrysalis stirrings, formed a mist that dispersed again,

sometimes for a moment in wonder at what the future held, what joys and troubles, what achings, perhaps,

and anguishes, the unknown knocked stealthily at the door of his mind, but then stole away unanswered and

unwelcome, and for that hour, while Mrs. Falbe finished with Lady Ursula, while Hermann smoked and

sighed like a sentimental German, and while he and Sylvia sat, speaking occasionally, but more often silent,

he was in some kind of Nirvana for which its own existence was everything. Movement had ceased: he held

When it was broken, there was no shattering of it: it simply died away like a longdrawn chord as Mrs. Falbe

"Darling mother, I'm ever so much obliged," he said. "We had to return to earth somehow. Where has

"How dull! Oh, I suppose that's not polite to Sylvia. I've been in Leipzig 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."

"Ah, we've stolen this hour!" he said. "We've taken it out of the hurlyburly and had it to ourselves. It's been

ripping. But I'm back from the rim of the world. Oh, I've been there, too, and looked out over the immortal

sea. Lieber Gott, what a sea, where we all come from, and where we all go to! We're just playing on the sand

where the waves have cast 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 into the house, and gave a hand on each side

"Ah, it was a good thing I just caught that train at Victoria nearly a year ago," he said. "If I had been five

seconds later, I should have missed it, and so I should have missed my friend, and Sylvia would have missed

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 am filled with a German desire for beer. Let us come into the studio, liebe

Kinder, and have beer and music and laughter. We cannot recapture this hour or prolong it. But it was good,

Sylvia put her hand on her brother's arm, looking at him with just a shade of anxiety.

"Wrong? There is nothing wrong unless it is wrong to be happy. But we have to go forward: my only quarrel

with life is that. I would stop it now if I could, so that time should not run on, and we should stay just as we

"The immediate future holds beer apparently," she said. "It also hold a great deal of work for you and me, if it

They walked together into the studio, and as they entered Hermann looked back over her into the dim garden.

The news about the murder of the Austrian Grand Duke, which, for that moment at dinner, had caused

Hermann to peer with apprehension into the veil of the future, was taken quietly enough by the public in

general in England. It was a nasty incident, no doubt, and the murder having been committed on Servian soil,

the pundits of the Press gave themselves an opportunity for subsequently saying that they were right, by

conjecturing that Austria might insist on a strict inquiry into the circumstances, and the due punishment of

not only the actual culprits but of those also who perhaps were privy to the plot. But three days afterwards

there was but little uneasiness; the Stock Exchanges of the European capitalsthose highly sensitive

barometers of coming stormwere but slightly affected for the moment, and within a week had steadied

themselves again. From Austria there came no sign of any unreasonable demand which might lead to trouble

with Servia, and so with Slavonic feeling generally, and by degrees that threatening of storm, that sudden

lightning on the horizon passed out of the mind of the public. There had been that one flash, no more, and

even that had not been answered by any growl of thunder; the storm did not at once move up and the heavens

above were still clear and sunny by day, and starrykirtled at night. But here and there were those who, like

Hermann on the first announcement of the catastrophe, scented trouble, and Michael, going to see Aunt

Barbara one afternoon early in the second week 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 quietly at the Austrian Embassy and at the German. I dined at one Embassy last night and

at the other only a few nights ago, and I can't get anybodynot even the most indiscreet of the

"I can't believe that. Austria cannot possibly let an incident of that sort pass. There is mischief brewing. If she

was merely intending to insistas she has every right to doon an inquiry being held that should satisfy

reasonable demands for justice, she would have insisted on that long ago. But a fortnight has passed now, and

still she makes no sign. I feel sure that something is being arranged. Dear me, I quite forgot, Tony asked me

"I mean this: that Austria is being persuaded to make some outrageous demand, some demand that no

"My dear, youlike all the rest of Englandare fast asleep. Who but Germany, and that dangerous

monomaniac who rules Germany? She has long been 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 her armies, and her

fleet too, east and west and north. Mark my words! She is about ready now, and I believe she is going to take

"It is such an opportunity as has never occurred before," she said, "and in a hundred years none so fit may

occur again. Here are we Englandon the brink of civil war with Ireland and the Home Rulers; our hands

are tied, or, rather, are occupied with our own troubles. Anyhow, Germany thinks 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,

and that if she forces on war whether we shall range ourselves with our allies?"

"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 perhaps England, but not for Germany. She is

A servant brought in tea and Lady Barbara waited till he had left the room again.

"It is as simple as an addition sum," she said, "if you grant the first step, that Austria is going to make some

outrageous demand of Servia. What follows? Servia refuses that demand, and Austria begins mobilisation in

order to enforce it. Servia appeals to Russia, invokes the bond of blood, and Russia remonstrates with

Austria. Her representations 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, will begin in her slow, cumbrous manner, hampered by those immense

distances and her imperfect railway system, to mobilise also. Then will Germany, already quite prepared,

show her hand. She will demand that Russia shall cease mobilisation, and again will Russia refuse. That will

set the military machinery of France going. All the time the governments of Europe will be working for

Michael felt inclined to laugh at this rapid and disastrous sequence of ominous forebodings; it was so

completely characteristic of Aunt Barbara to take the most violent possible view of the situation, which no

doubt had its dangers. And what Michael felt was felt by the enormous majority of English people.

"It will happen quickly," she said. "There is that little cloud in the east like a man's hand today, and rather like

that mailed fist which our sweet peaceful friend in Germany is so fond of talking about. But it will spread

over the sky, I tell you, like some tropical storm. France is unready, Russia is unready; only Germany and her

"I wish I could. Ever since that Sarajevo murder I have thought of nothing else day and night. But how events

will develop then I can't imagine. What will England do? Who knows? I only know what Germany thinks she

will do, and that is, stand aside because she can't stir, with this Irish millstone round her neck. If Germany

thought otherwise, she is perfectly capable of sending a dozen submarines over to our naval manoeuvres and

"While a fleet of Zeppelins hovers over London, and drops bombs on the War Office and the Admiralty," he

"And if England stands aside," she said, "Der Tag will only dawn a little later, when Germany has settled

with France and Russia. We shall live to see Der Tag, Michael, unless we are run over by motorbuses, and

pray God we shall see it soon, for the sooner the better. Your adorable Falbes, now, Sylvia and Hermann.

"Hermann was certainly ratherrather upset when he read of the Sarajevo murders," he said. "But he pins

his faith on the German Emperor, whom he alluded to as a fireengine which would put out any

"Pish and bosh!" she remarked. "If he had alluded to him as an incendiary bomb, there would have been more

"Anyhow, he and Sylvia are planning a musical tour in Germany in the autumn," said Michael.

"Oh, it's just a song I heard at a musichall the other night. There's a jolly catchy tune to it, which has rung in

my head ever since. That's the sort of music I like, something you can carry away with you. And your music,

"Ah, tell me more about them," she said. "I want to get this nightmare out of my head. Sylvia, now. Sylvia is

"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

"She still refuses to see me," he said. "She still thinks it was I who made the plot to take her away and shut

her up. She is often angry with me, poor darling, butbut you see it isn't she who is angry: it's just her

"How else could I see it? It was my real mother whom I began to know last Christmas, and whom I was with

in town for the three months that followed. That's how I think of her: I can't think of her as anything else."

"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 are good days, when she takes a certain pleasure in her walks and in looking after

a little plot of ground where she gardens. And, thank God, that sudden outburst when she tried to kill me

seems to have entirely passed from her mind. They don't think she remembers it at all. But then the good days

are rare, and are growing rarer, and often now she sits doing nothing at all but crying."

"If only she could come back just for a little to what she was in January," he said. "She was happier then, I

think, than she ever was before. I can't help wondering if anyhow I could have prolonged those days, by

"My dear, you needn't wonder about that," said Aunt Barbara. "Sir James told me that it was your love and

"I can't tell you what they were to me," he said, "for she and I found each other then, and we both felt we had

missed each other so much and so long. She was happy then, and I, too. And now everything has been taken

"They don't think she will live very long," he said. "She is getting physically much weaker. But during this

last week or two she has been less unhappy, they think. They say some new change may come any time: it

may be only the great changeI mean her death; but it is possible before that that her mind will clear again.

Sir James told me that occasionally happened, likelike a ray of sunlight after a stormy day. It would be

good if that happened. I would give almost anything to feel that she and I were together again, as we were."

Barbara, childless, felt something of motherhood. Michael's simplicity and his sincerity were already known

to her, but she had never yet known the strength of him. You could lean on Michael. In his quiet,

undemonstrative way he supported you completely, as a son should; there was no possibility of insecurity. . .

One close thundery morning about a week later, Michael was sitting at his piano in his shirtsleeves, busy

practising. He was aware that at the other end of the room the telephone was calling for him, but it seemed to

be of far greater importance at the minute to finish the last page of one of the Bach fugues, than to attend to

what anybody else might have to say to him. Then it suddenly flashed across him that it might be Sylvia who

wanted to speak to him, or that there might be news about his mother, and his fingers leaped from the piano

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, wanted to see him urgently, and, if he was in (which he was) would be with him in

But the Bach thread was broken, and Michael, since it was not worth while trying to mend it for the sake of

these few minutes, sat down by the open window, and idly took up the morning paper, which as yet he had

not opened, since he had hurried over breakfast in order to get to his piano. The music announcements on the

outside page first detained him, and seeing that the concert by the Falbes, which was to take place in five or

six days, was advertised, he wondered vaguely whether it was about that that Hermann wanted to see him,

and, if so, why he could not have said whatever he had to say on the telephone, instead of cutting things short

with the curt statement that he wished to see him urgently, and would come round at once. Then

remembering that Francis had been playing cricket for the Guards yesterday, he turned briskly over to the last

page of sporting news, and found that his cousin had distinguished himself by making no runs at all, but by

missing two expensive catches in the deep field. From there, after a slight inspection of a couple of

advertisement columns, he worked back to the middle leaf, where were leaders and the news of nations and

the movements of kings. All this last week he had scanned such items with a growing sense of amusement in

the recollection of Hermann's disquiet over the Sarajevo murders, and Aunt Barbara's more detailed and vivid

prognostications of coming danger, for nothing more had happened, and he supposedvaguely only, since

the affair had begun to fade from his mindthat Austria had made inquiries, and that since she was satisfied

The hot breeze from the window made the paper a little unmanageable for a moment, but presently he got it

satisfactorily folded, and a big black headline met his eye. A halfcolumn below it contained the demands

which Austria had made in the Note addressed to the Servian Government. A glance was sufficient to show

that they were framed in the most truculent and threatening manner possible to imagine. They were not the

reasonable proposals that one State had a perfect right to make of another on whose soil and with the

connivance of whose subjects the murders had been committed; they were a piece of arbitrary dictation, a

Michael had read them through twice with a growing sense of uneasiness at the thought of how Lady

Barbara's first anticipations had been fulfilled, 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 to see you about."

"Mike, I'm going back to Germany today," he said. "Now do you understand? I'm German."

"It is obvious, isn't it? Those demands couldn't have been made without the consent of Austria's ally. And

they won't be granted. Servia will appeal to Russia. And . . . and then God knows what may happen. In the

event of that happening, I must be in my Fatherland ready to serve, if necessary."

"Yes, I think it possible, and, if I am right, if there is that possibility, I can't be away from my country."

"He is away yachting. He went off after the visit of the British fleet to Kiel. Who knows whether before he

gets back, things may have gone too far? Can't you see that I must go? Wouldn't you go if you were me?

"And if there is trouble with Russia, France, I take it, is bound to join her. And if France joins her, what will

The great shadow of the approaching storm fell over Michael, even as outside the sultry stillness of the

"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 to me. You two make up my world reallyyou 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. It counts first. Nothing, nobody, not even Sylvia or my mother or you can stand

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 wrong about it allabout the gravity, I mean, of the situation, and perhaps in a few

days I may come racing home again. Yes, I said 'home,' didn't I? Well, that shows you just how I am torn in

Hermann's hand remained on his shoulder gently patting it. To Michael the world, life, the whole spirit of

things had suddenly grown sinister, of the quality of nightmare. It was true that all the ground of this ominous

depression which had darkened round him, was conjectural and speculative, that diplomacy, backed by the

horror of war which surely all civilised nations and responsible govermnents must share, had, so far from

saying its last, not yet said its first word; that the wits of all the Cabinets of Europe were at this moment only

just beginning to stir themselves so as to secure a peaceful solution; but, in spite of this, the darkness and the

nightmare grew in intensity. But as to Hermann's determination to go to Germany, which made this so

terribly real, since it was beginning to enter into practical everyday life, he had neither means nor indeed

"I don't want to dissuade you," he said, "not only because it would be useless, but because I am with you.

"She can't leave my mother, of course," said Hermann, "and, after all, I may be on a wild goose chase. But I

Somehow this, though it gave Michael a moment of intensest relief to know that Sylvia remained, made the

shadow grow deeper, accentuated the lines of the storm which had begun to spread over the sky. He began to

see as nightmare no longer, but as stern and possible realities, something of the unutterable woe, the

"Hermann, what do you think will happen?" he said. "It is incredible, unfaceable"

The gentle patting on his shoulder, that suddenly and poignantly reminded him of when Sylvia's hand was

"Mike, old boy," said Hermann, "we've got to face the unfaceable, and believe 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, on the other hand,

this may be our last talk together, for I go off this afternoon. So let's face it."

"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 will before long be fighting England. There I shall be on one side, and, since naturally

you will go back into the Guards, you will be fighting on 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 a bayonet 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 same as before, and hoping you would live happy, for ever and

"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 in this jolly world, Mike, and we've been great friends. Neither you nor I could find

a greater friend than we've been to each other. I bless God for this last year. It's been the happiest in my life.

Now what else is there? Your music: don't ever be lazy about your music. It's worth while taking all the pains

you can about it. Lord! do you remember the evening when I first tried your Variations? . . . Let me play the

He held his hands, those long, slimfingered hands, poised for a moment above the keys, then plunged into

the glorious riot of the full chords and scales, till the room rang with it. The last chord he held for a moment,

"Ah, that's good," he said. "And now I'm going to say goodbye, and go without looking round."

"No, please don't. Station partings are fussy and disagreeable. I want to say goodbye to you here in your

quiet room, just as I shall say goodbye to Sylvia at home. Ah, Mike, yes, both hands and smiling. May God

give us other meetings and talks and companionship and years of love, my best of friends. Goodbye."

Then, as he had said, he walked to the door without looking round, and next moment it had closed behind

Throughout the next week the tension of the situation grew ever greater, strained towards the snappingpoint,

while the little cloud, the man's hand, which had arisen above the eastern horizon grew and overspread the

heavens in a pall that became ever more black and threatening. For a few days yet it seemed that perhaps

even now the cataclysm might be averted, but gradually, in spite of all the efforts of diplomacy to loosen the

knot, it became clear that the ends of the cord were held in hands that did not mean to release their hold till it

was pulled tight. Servia yielded to such demands as it was possible for her to grant as an independent State;

but the inflexible fingers never abated one jot of their strangling pressure. She appealed to Russia, and

Russia's remonstrance fell on deaf ears, or, rather, on ears that had determined not to hear. From London and

Paris came proposals for conference, for arbitration, with welcome for any suggestion from the other side

which might lead to a peaceful solution of the disputed demands, already recognised by Europe as a firebrand

wantonly flung into the midst of dangerous and inflammable material. Over that burning firebrand,

preventing and warding off all the eager hands that were stretched to put it out, stood the figure of the nation

Gradually, out of the thunderclouds and gathering darkness, vaguely at first and then in definite and

menacing outline, emerged the inexorable, flintlike face of Germany, whose figure was clad in the shining

armour so well known in the flamboyant utterances of her War Lord, which had been treated hitherto as mere

irresponsible utterances to be greeted with a laugh and a shrugged shoulder. Deep and patient she had always

been, and now she believed that the time had come for her patience to do its perfect work. She had bided long

for the time when she could best fling that lighted brand into the midst of civilisation, and she believed she

had calculated well. She cared nothing for Servia nor for her ally. On both her frontiers she was ready, and

now on the East she heeded not the remonstrance of Russia, nor her sincere and cordial invitation to friendly

discussion. She but waited for the step that she had made inevitable, and on the first sign of Russian

mobilisation she, with her mobilisation ready to be completed in a few days, peremptorily demanded that it

should cease. On the Western frontier behind the Rhine she was ready also; her armies were prepared, cannon

fodder in uncountable store of shells and cartridges was prepared, and in endless battalions of men, waiting to

be discharged in one bulllike rush, to overrun France, and holding the French armies, shattered and

The whole campaign was mathematically thought out. In a few months at the outside France would be lying

trampled down and bleeding; Russia would be overrun; already she would be mistress of Europe, and

prepared to attack the only country that stood between her and worldwide dominion, whose allies she would

already have reduced to impotence. Here she staked on an uncertainty: she could not absolutely tell what

England's attitude would be, but she had the strongest reason for hoping that, distracted by the imminence of

civil strife, she would be unable to 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 sword unsheathed, waiting for the horror of the stupendous bloodshed which she had

made inevitable. Her legions gathered on the Eastern front threatening war on Russia, and thus pulling France

into the spreading conflagration and into the midst of the flame she stood ready to cast the tornup fragments

All this week, while the flames of the flung firebrand began to spread, the English public waited,

incredulous of the inevitable. Michael, among them, found himself unable to believe even then that the bugles

were already sounding, and that the piles of shells in their wickerbaskets were being loaded on to the

military ammunition trains. But all the ordinary interests in life, all the things that busily and contentedly

occupied his day, one only excepted, had become without savour. A dozen times in the morning he would sit

down to his piano, only to find that he could not think it worth while to make his hands produce these

meaningless tinkling sounds, and he would jump up to read the paper over again, or watch for fresh headlines

to appear on the boards of news vendors in the street, and send out for any fresh edition. Or he would walk

round to his club and spend an hour reading the tape news and waiting for fresh slips to be pinned up. But,

through all the nightmare of suspense and slowlydying hope, Sylvia remained real, and after he had received

his daily report from the establishment where his mother was, with the invariable message that there was no

marked change of any kind, and that it was useless for him to think of coming to see her, he would go off to

Once during this week he had received a note from Hermann, written at Munich, and on the same day she

also had heard from him. He had gone back to his regiment, which was mobilised, as a private, and was very

busy with drill and duties. Feeling in Germany, he said, was elated and triumphant: it was considered certain

that England would stand aside, as the quarrel was none of hers, and the nation generally looked forward to a

short and brilliant campaign, with the occupation of Paris to be made in September at the latest. But as a

"You don't think there is the faintest chance of England coming in, do you? Please write to me fully, and get

Mike to write. I have heard from neither of you, and as I am sure you must have written, I conclude that

letters are stopped. I went to the theatre last night: there was a tremendous scene of patriotism. The people are

Since then nothing had been heard from him, and today, as Michael drove down to see Sylvia, he saw on the

newsboards that Belgium had appealed to England against the violation of her territory by the German

armies en route for France. Overtures had been made, asking for leave to pass through the neutral territory:

these Belgium had rejected. This was given as official news. There came also the report that the Belgian

remonstrances would be disregarded. Should she refuse passage to the German battalions, that could make no

difference, since it was a matter of life and death to invade France by that route.

Sylvia was out in the garden, where, hardly a month ago, they had spent that evening of silent peace, and she

"Ah, my dear," she said, "I am glad you have come. I have got the horrors. You saw the latest news? Yes?

"No, I have not heard either," he said. "I expect he is right. Letters have been stopped."

"Who can tell? The Prime Minister is going to make a statement on Monday. There have been Cabinet

Quite suddenly, at her question, Michael found himself facing it, even as, when the final catastrophe was

more remote, he had faced it with Falbe. All this week he knew he had been looking away from it, telling

himself that it was incredible. Now he discovered that the one thing he dreaded more than that England

should go to war, was that she should not. The consciousness of national honour, the thing which, with

religion, Englishmen are most shy of speaking about, suddenly asserted itself, and he found on the moment

"I think we shall go to war," he said. "I don't see personally how we can exist any more as a nation if we

don't. Wewe shall be damned if we don't, damned for ever and ever. It's moral extinction not to."

"Yes, I know," she said, "that's what I have been telling myself; but, oh, Mike, there's some dreadful

"My darling, how can you ask?" he said. "Of course I shall go back to the army."

"My dear, I ask your pardon," she said. "Of course you will. I know that really. It's only this stupid cowardly

part of me that that interrupted. 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 what Germany is to me, and what Hermann is, and when I think

what England is to me, and what you are! It shan't appear again, or if it does, you will 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. But

"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 you didn't think much of. Do you remember? You crushed it up in my hand and

"Have you?" she asked. "What a wonderful memory. And that quiet evening out here next day. Perhaps you

remember that too. That was real: that was a possession that we shan't ever part with."

"You and I sat there, and Hermann there," she said. "And mother satwhy, there she is. Mother darling, let's

Mrs. Falbe had drifted out in her usual thistledown style, and shook hands with Michael.

"What an upset it all is," she said, "with all these dreadful rumours going about that we shall be at war. I fell

asleep, I think, a little after lunch, when I could not attend to my book for thinking about war."

"No, not very. It is rather painful. I do not know why people write about painful things when there are so

many pleasant and interesting things to write about. It seems to me very morbid."

Michael heard something cried in the streets, and at the same moment he heard Sylvia's step quickly crossing

the studio to the side door that opened on to it. In a minute she returned with a fresh edition of an evening

"I don't know, I am sure," she said, "what you are in such a state about, Sylvia. Of course the Germans want

to get into France the easiest and quickest way, at least I'm sure I should. It is very foolish of Belgium not to

"Very likely not, dear, but I am very glad we are an island, and that nobody can come marching here. But it is

all a dreadful upset, LordI mean Michael, what with Hermann in Germany, and the concert tour

abandoned. 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 the spot, and you and Michael can join him, though I'm not quite sure if that would

"Oh, and are you pessimistic too, like Sylvia? Pray don't be pessimistic. There is a dreadful pessimist in my

"As far as I have got, it does, which makes it all the worse. Of course I am very anxious about Hermann, but I

feel sure he will come back safe to us. I daresay France will give in when she sees Germany is in earnest."

Mrs. Falbe pulled the shattered remnants of her mind together. In her heart of hearts she knew she did not

care one atom what might happen to armies and navies and nations, provided only that she had a quantity of

novels to read, and meals at regular hours. The fact of being on an island was an immense consolation to her,

since it was quite certain that, whatever happened, German armies (or French or Soudanese, for that matter)

could not march here and enter her sittingroom and take her books away from her. For years past she had

asked nothing more of the world than that she should be comfortable in it, and it really seemed not an

unreasonable request, considering at how small an outlay of money all the comfort she wanted could be

secured to her. The thought of war had upset her a good deal already: she had been unable to attend to her

book when she awoke from her afterlunch nap; and now, when she hoped to have her tea in peace, and find

her attention restored by it, she found the general atmosphere of her two companions vaguely disquieting.

She became a little more loquacious than usual, with the idea of talking herself back into a tranquil frame of

"Such a blessing we have a good fleet," she said. "That will make us safe, won't it? I declare I almost hate the

Germans, though my dear husband was one himself, for making such a disturbance. The papers all say it is

Germany's fault, so I suppose it must be. The papers know better than anybody, don't they, because they have

Sylvia felt she could not endure this any longer. It was like having a raw wound stroked. . . .

"Mother, you don't understand," she said. "You don't appreciate what is happening. In a day or two England

Mrs. Falbe's book had slipped from her knee. She picked it up and flapped the cover once or twice to get rid

"But what then?" she said. "It is very dreadful, no doubt, to think of dear Hermann being with the German

army, but we are getting used to that, are we not? Besides, he told me it was his duty to go. I do not think 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 letter will be to say that he has been walking down the boulevards. Of course war is

very dreadful, I know that. And then Germany will be at war with Russia, too, but she will have Austria to

help her. And as for Germany being at war with England, that does not make me nervous. Think of our fleet,

and how safe we feel with that! I see that we have twice as many boats as the Germans. With two to one we

must win, and they won't be able to send any of their armies here. I feel quite comfortable again now that I

Sylvia caught Michael's eye for a moment over the teaurn. She felt he acquiesced in what she was intending

"That is good, then," she said. "I am glad you feel comfortable about it, mother dear. Now, will you read your

Mrs. Falbe turned a questioning eye to the motionless trees and the unclouded sky.

"I don't think I shall even want a shawl, dear," she said. "Listen, how the newsboys are calling! is it

A moment's listening attention was sufficient to make it known that the news shouted outside was concerned

only with the result of a county cricket match, and Michael, as well as Sylvia, was conscious of a certain

relief to know that at the immediate present there was no fresh clang of the bell that was beating out the

seconds of peace that still remained. Just for now, for this hour on Saturday afternoon, there was a respite: no

new link was forged in the intolerable sequence of events. But, even as he drew breath in that knowledge,

there came the counterstroke in the sense that those whose business it was to disseminate the news that

would cause their papers to sell, had just a cricket match to advertise their wares. Now, when the country and

when Europe were on the brink of a bloodier war than all the annals of history contained, they, who

presumably knew what the public desired to be informed on, thought that the news which would sell best was

that concerned with wooden bats and leather balls, and strong young men in flannels. Michael had heard with

a sort of tender incredulity Mrs. Falbe's optimistic reflections, and had been more than content to let her rest

secure in them; but was the country, the heart of England, like her? Did it care more for cricket matches, as

she for her book, than for the maintenance of the nation's honour, whatever that championship might cost? . .

. And the cry went on past the gardenwalk. "Fine innings by Horsfield! Result of the Oval match!"

And yet he had just had his tea as usual, and eaten a slice of cake, and was now smoking a cigarette. It was

natural to do that, not to make a fuss and refuse food and drink, and it was natural that people should still be

interested in cricket. And at the moment his attitude towards Mrs. Falbe changed. Instead of pity and

irritation at her normality, he was suddenly taken with a sense of gratitude to her. It was restful to suspense

and jangled nerves to see someone who went on as usual. The sun shone, the leaves of the planetrees did not

wither, Mrs. Falbe read her book, the evening paper was full of cricket news. . . . And then the reaction from

that seized him again. Supposing all the nation was like that. Supposing nobody cared. . . . And the tension of

For the next fortyeight hours, while day and night the telegraph wires of Europe tingled with momentous

questions and grave replies, while Ministers and Ambassadors met and parted and met again, rumours flew

this way and that like flocks of wildfowl driven backwards and forwards, settling for a moment with a stir

and splash, and then with rush of wings speeding back and on again. A huge coal strike in the northern

counties, fostered and financed by German gold, was supposed to be imminent, and this would put out of the

country's power the ability to interfere. The Irish Home Rule party, under the same suasion, was said to have

refused to call a truce. A letter had been received in high quarters from the German Emperor avowing his

fixed determination to preserve peace, and this was honey to Lord Ashbridge. Then in turn each of these was

contradicted. All thought of the coal strike in this crisis of national affairs was abandoned; the Irish party, as

well as the Conservatives, were of one mind in backing up the Government, no matter what postponement of

questions that were vital a month ago, their cohesion entailed; the Emperor had written no letter at all. But

through the nebulous mists of hearsay, there fell solid the first drops of the imminent storm. Even before

Michael had left Sylvia that afternoon, Germany had declared war on Russia, on Sunday Belgium received a

Note from Berlin definitely stating that should their Government not grant the passage to the German

battalions, a way should be forced for them. On Monday, finally, Germany declared war on France also.

The country held its breath in suspense at what the decision of the Government, which should be announced

that afternoon, should be. One fact only was publicly known, and that was that the English fleet, only lately

dismissed from its manoeuvres and naval review, had vanished. There were guard ships, old cruisers and

what not, at certain ports, torpedoboats roamed the horizons of Deal and Portsmouth, but the great fleet, the

swift forts of seapower, had gone, disappearing no one knew where, into the fine weather haze that brooded

over the midsummer sea. There perhaps was an indication of what the decision would be, yet there was no

certainty. At home there was official silence, and from abroad, apart from the three vital facts, came but the

Then suddenly came certainty, a rainbow set in the intolerable cloud. On Monday afternoon, when the House

of Commons met, all parties were known to have sunk their private differences and to be agreed on one point

that should take precedence of all other questions. Germany should not, with England's consent, violate the

neutrality of Belgium. As far as England was concerned, all negotiations were at an end, diplomacy had said

its last word, and Germany was given twentyfour hours in which to reply. Should a satisfactory answer not

be forthcoming, England would uphold the neutrality she with others had sworn to respect by force of arms.

And at that one immense sigh of relief went up from the whole country. Whatever now might happen, in

whatever horrors of long drawn and bloody war the nation might be involved, the nightmare of possible

neutrality, of England's repudiating the debt of honour, was removed. The one thing worse than war need no

longer be dreaded, and for the moment the future, hideous and heartrending though it would surely be,

Michael woke on the morning of Tuesday, the fourth of August, with the feeling of something having

suddenly roused him, and in a few seconds he knew that this was so, for the telephone bell in the room next

door sent out another summons. He got straight out of bed and went to it, with a hundred vague shadows of

expectation crossing his mind. Then he learned that his mother was gravely ill, and that he was wanted at

once. And in less than half an hour he was on his way, driving swiftly through the serene warmth of the early

morning to the private asylum where she had been removed after her sudden homicidal outburst in March.

Michael was sitting that same afternoon by his mother's bedside. He had learned the little there was to be told

him on his arrival in the morning; how that half an hour before he had been summoned, she had had an attack

of heart failure, and since then, after recovering from the acute and immediate danger, she had lain there all

day with closed eyes in a state of but semiconscious exhaustion. Once or twice only, and that but for a

moment she had shown signs of increasing vitality, and then sank back into this stupor again. But in those

rare short intervals she had opened her eyes, and had seemed to see and recognise him, and Michael thought

that once she had smiled at him. But at present she had spoken no word. All the morning Lord Ashbridge had

waited there too, but since there was no change he had gone away, saying that he would return again later,

and asking to be telephoned for if his wife regained consciousness. So, but for the nurse and the occasional

In this long period of inactive waiting, when there was nothing to be done, Michael did not seem to himself to

be feeling very vividly, and but for one desire, namely, that before the end his mother would come back to

him, even if only for a moment, his mind felt drugged and stupefied. Sometimes for a little it would

sluggishly turn over thoughts about his father, wondering with a sort of blunt, remote contempt how it was

possible for him not to be here too; but, except for the one great longing that his mother should cleave to him

once more in conscious mind, 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 the present like some picture painted in his mind,

without reality. Dim, too, was the tension of those last days. Somewhere in Europe was a country called

Germany, where was his best friend, drilling in the ranks to which he had returned, or perhaps already on his

way to bloodier battlefields than the world had ever dreamed of; and somewhere set in the seas was

Germany's archfoe, who already stood in her path with open cannon mouths pointing. But all this had no

real connection with him. From the moment when he had come into this quiet, orderly room and saw his

But though the emotional side of his mind lay drugged and insensitive to anything outside, he found himself

observing the details of the room where he waited with a curious vividness. There was a big window opening

down 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 bright flowerbeds, dozed in the haze of the August heat. Beyond was a row of tall

elms, against which a copper beech glowed metallically, and somewhere out of sight a mowingmachine was

being used, for Michael heard the click of its cropping journey, growing fainter as it receded, followed by the

pause as it turned, and its gradual crescendo as it approached again. Otherwise everything outside was

strangely silent; as the hot hours of midday and early afternoon went by there was no note of birdmusic, nor

any sound of wind in the elmtops. Just a little breeze stirred from time to time, enough to make the slats of

the halfdrawn Venetian blind rattle faintly. Earlier in the day there had come in from the window the smell

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 Lady Ashbridge's nurse. She was reading, and the rustle of the turned page was

regular; but regular and constant also were her glances towards the bed where her patient lay. At intervals she

put down her book, marking the place with a slip of paper, and came to watch by the bed for a moment,

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 his mute question, each time she gave him a little headshake, or perhaps a whispered word

or two, that told him there was no change. Opposite the bed was the empty fireplace, and at the foot of it a

table, on which stood a vase of roses. Michael was conscious of the scent of these every now and then, and at

intervals of the faint, rather sickly smell of ether. A Japan screen, ornamented with storks in gold thread,

stood near the door and halfconcealed the washingstand. There was a chest of drawers on one side of the

fireplace, a wardrobe with a looking glass door on the other, a dressingtable to one side of the window, a

few prints on the plain blue walls, and a dark blue drugget carpet on the floor; and all these ordinary

appurtenances of a bedroom etched themselves into Michael's mind, biting their way into it by the acid of his

Finally there was the bed where his mother lay. The coverlet of blue silk upon it he knew was somehow

familiar to him, and after fitful gropings in his mind to establish the association, he remembered that it had

been on the bed in her room in Curzon Street, and supposed that it had been brought here with others of her

personal belongings. A little core 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 in under the Venetian blind. The nurse, sitting in the

window, noticed this also, and lowered it. The thought of Sylvia crossed his brain for a moment; then he

thought of his father; but every train of reflection dissolved almost as soon as it was formed, and he came

It was perfectly peaceful and strangely younglooking, as if the cool, soothing hand of death, which presently

would quiet all trouble for her, had been already at work there erasing the marks that the years had graven

upon it. And yet it was not so much young as ageless; it seemed to have passed beyond the register and

limitations of time. Sometimes for a moment it was like the face of a stranger, and then suddenly it would

become beloved and familiar again. It was just so she had looked when she came so timidly into his room one

night at Ashbridge, asking him if it would be troublesome to him if she sat and talked with him for a 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. It was hard to tell, for she lay there quite flat, without pillows, and he looked at her from an

unusual angle. Sometimes he felt as if he had been sitting there watching for uncounted years; and then again

the hours that he had been here appeared to have lasted but for a moment, as if he had but looked once at her.

As the day declined the breeze of evening awoke, rattling the blind. By now 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 had

begun, and a thrush came close to the window and sang a liquid phrase, and then repeated it. Michael glanced

there and saw the bird, specklebreasted, with throat that throbbed with the notes; and then, looking back to

She looked vaguely about the room for a moment, as if she had awoke from some deep sleep and found

herself in an unfamiliar place. Then, turning her head slightly, she saw him, and there was no longer any

question as to whether her mouth smiled, for all her face was flooded with deep, serene joy.

Michael heard the rustle of the nurse's dress as she got up and came to the bedside. He slipped from his chair

on to his knees, so that his face was near his mother's. He felt in his heart that the moment he had so longed

for was to be granted him, that she had come back to him, not only as he had known her during the weeks that

they had lived alone together, when his presence made her so content, but in a manner infinitely more real

"Have you been sitting here all the time while I slept, dear?" she asked. "Have you been waiting for me to

She looked at him, and the motherlove, which before had been veiled and clouded, came out with all the

"I knew you wouldn't fail me, my darling," she said. "You were so patient with me in the trouble I have been

"Yes, send for him, dear, if it would not vex him to come," she said; "or get somebody else to send; I don't

The nurse went to the door, gave some message, and presently returned to the other side of the bed. Then

For a moment her eyes dilated, then grew quiet again, and the smile returned to her mouth.

"I'm not frightened, Michael," she said, "with you there. It isn't lonely or terrible."

"My son!" she said in a voice loud and triumphant. Then her head fell back again, and she lay with face close

to his, and her eyelids quivered and shut. Her breath came slow and regular, as if she slept. Then he heard that

she missed a breath, and soon after another. Then, without struggle at all, her breathing ceased. . . . And

It was an hour later when Michael left, having waited for his father's arrival, and drove to town through the

clear, falling dusk. He was conscious of no feeling of grief at all, only of a complete pervading happiness. He

could not have imagined so perfect a close, nor could he have desired anything different from that

imperishable moment when his mother, all trouble past, had come back to him in the serene calm of love. . . .

As he entered London he saw the newsboards all placarded with one fact: England had declared war on

He went, not to his own flat, but straight to Maidstone Crescent. With those few minutes in which his mother

had known him, the stupor that had beset his emotions all day passed off, and he felt himself longing, as he

had never longed before, for Sylvia's presence. Long ago he had given her all that he knew of as himself; now

there was a fresh gift. He had to give her all that those moments had taught him. Even as already they were

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 spring she flooded him, there was that other news which he had seen on the newsboards

Sylvia had been alone all day with her mother; but, before Michael arrived, Mrs. Falbe (after a few more

encouraging remarks about war in general, to the effect that Germany would soon beat France, and what a

blessing it was that England was an island) had taken her book up to her room, and Sylvia was sitting alone in

the deep dusk of the evening. She did not even trouble to turn on the light, for she felt unable to apply herself

to any practical task, and she could think and take hold of herself better in the dark. All day she had longed

for Michael to come to her, though she had not cared to see anybody else, and several times she had rung him

up, only to find that he was still out, supposedly with his mother, for he had been summoned to her early that

morning, and since then no news had come of him. Just before dinner had arrived the announcement of the

declaration of war, and Sylvia sat now trying to find some escape from the encompassing nightmare. She felt

confused and distracted with it; she could not think consecutively, but only contemplate shudderingly the

series of pictures that presented themselves 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 glint of his rifle, to feel her heart on his heart, big with passionate

patriotism. She had no doubt that patriotism formed the essence of his consciousness, and yet by now

probably he knew that the land beloved by him, where he had made his home, was at war with his own. She

could not but know how often his thoughts dwelled here in the dark quiet studio where she sat, and where so

many days of happiness had been passed. She knew what she was to him, she and her mother and Michael,

and the hosts of 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 the two? She thought he would, though she knew that for

herself she would have made it as hard as possible for him to do so. She would have used every argument she

could think of to dissuade him, and yet she felt that her entreaties would have beaten in vain against the

granite of his and her nationality. Dimly she had foreseen this contingency when, a few days 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 perhaps on his way to violate the neutrality of the country for the sake of which

England had gone to war. On the other side was Michael, into whose keeping 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 heart was her brother's also. The one personified

Germany for her, the other England. It was as if she saw Hermann and Michael with bayonet and rifle

stalking each other across some land of sand dunes and hollows, creeping closer to each other, always

closer. She felt as if she would have gladly given herself over to an eternity of torment, if only they could

have had one hour more, all three of them, together here, as on that night of stars and peace when first there

She longed as with thirst for Michael to come, and as her solitude became more and more intolerable, a

hundred hideous fancies obsessed her. What if some accident had happened to Michael, or what, if in this

tremendous breaking of ties that the war entailed, he felt that he could not see her? She knew that was an

impossibility; but the whole world had become impossible. And there was no escape. Somehow she had to

adjust herself to the unthinkable; somehow her relations both with Hermann and Michael 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 the street: 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 as he

stepped in, before any word of greeting had been exchanged, she flung herself on him, with fingers eager for

"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 dark desolatedesolate. And oh! my darling, what a beast I am to think of nothing but myself. I

She turned on the light as they walked back across the studio, and Michael saw that her eyes, which were a

little dazzled by the change from the dark into the light, were dim with unshed tears, and her hands clung to

him as never before had they clung. She needed him now with that 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 which she had

suddenly become an alien, an enemy, though all her friends except 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 hands intertwined before Michael answered. He

"My mother died an hour ago," he said. "I was with her, and as I had longed might happen, she came back to

me before she died. For two or three minutes she was herself. And then she said to me, 'My son,' and soon she

"Oh, Michael," she said, and for a little while there was silence, and in turn it was her presence that he clung

"Sylvia, I'm so frightfully hungry," he said. "I don't think I've eaten anything since breakfast. May we go and

"Hermann left the cellar key on the chimneypiece, Michael," she said. "Get some wine out, dear. Mother

and I don't drink any. And there's some ham, I know. While you are getting wine, I'll broil some. And there

were some strawberries. I shall have some supper with you. What a good thought! And you must be

As they ate they talked perfectly simply and naturally of the hundred associations which this studio meal at

the end of the evening called up concerning the Sunday night parties. There was an occasion on which

Hermann tried to recollect how to mull beer, with results that smelled like 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 actors imitated each other; another when Francis came

and made himself so immensely agreeable. It was after that one that Sylvia and Hermann had sat and talked

in front of the stove, discussing, as Sylvia laughed to remember, what she would say when Michael proposed

to her. Then had come the break in Michael's attendances and, as Sylvia allowed, a certain fallingoff in

"But it was really Hermann and I who made you gay originally," she said. "We take a wonderful deal of

All this was as completely natural for them as was the impromptu meal, and soon without effort Michael

spoke of his mother again, and presently afterwards of the news of war. But with him by her side Sylvia

found her courage come back to her; the news itself, all that it certainly implied, and all the horror that it held,

no longer filled her with the sense that it was impossibly terrible. Michael did not diminish the awfulness 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

"No. And I suppose we can't hear now. He is with his regiment, that's all; nor shall we hear of him till there is

"Michael, I have to face it, that I may never see Hermann again," she said. "Mother doesn't fear it, you know.

Shethe darling she lives in a sort of dream. I don't want her to wake from it. But how can I get

accustomed to the thought that perhaps I shan't see Hermann again? I must get accustomed to it: I've got to

"But, one doesn't quarrel with the big things of life," he said. "Isn't it so? We haven't any quarrel with things

"Well, it's just that. We don't quarrel with them: they manage themselves. Hermann's going managed itself. It

"Oh, my dear, of course it will," he said. "Of course, one doesn't know yet what the War Office will do about

the Army. I suppose it's possible that they will send troops to France. All that concerns me is that I shall

"Yes, I should think that is inevitable. And you know there's something big about it. I'm not warlike, you

know, but I could not fail to be a soldier under these new conditions, any more than I could continue being a

soldier when all it meant was to be ornamental. Hermann in bursts of pride and patriotism used to call us

"I can't tell you how I dreaded we shouldn't go to war," he said. "That has been a nightmare, if you like. It

would have been the end of us if we had stood aside and seen Germany violate a solemn treaty."

Even with Michael close to her, the call of her blood made itself audible to Sylvia. Instinctively she withdrew

"Ah, you don't understand Germany at all," she said. "Hermann always felt that too. He told me he felt he was

talking gibberish to you when he spoke of it. It is clearly life and death to Germany to move against France as

"But nothing can justify the violation of a national oath," he said. "That's the basis of civilisation, a thing like

"But if it's a necessity? If a nation's existence depends on it?" she asked. "Oh, Michael, I don't know! I don't

know! For a little I am entirely 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: I needn'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 that she has wantonly provoked war with you."

"I can't argue about it," she said. "I am English and I am German. You must 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 of my soul. Shall we leave it so, Michael, and not

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 from her.

When he looked at it directly and simply like that, there was nothing that could blur the verity of it. But the

truth of what she said, the reality of that call of the blood, seemed to cast a shadow over it. He knew beyond

all other knowledge that it was there: only it looked out at him with a shadow, faint, but unmistakable, fallen

across it. But the sense of that made him the more eagerly accept her suggestion.

"Yes, darling, we'll never speak of it again," he said. "That would be much wisest."

Lady Ashbridge's funeral took place three days afterwards, down in Suffolk, and those hours detached

themselves in Michael's mind from all that had gone before, and all that might follow, like a little piece of

blue sky in the midst of storm clouds. The limitations of man's consciousness, which forbid him to think

poignantly about two things at once, hedged that day in with an impenetrable barrier, so that while it lasted,

and afterwards for ever in memory, it was unflecked by trouble or anxiety, and hung between heaven and

The coffin lay that night in his mother's bedroom, which was next to Michael's, and when he went up to bed

he found himself listening for any sound that came from there. It seemed but yesterday when he had gone

rather early upstairs, and after sitting a minute or two in front of his fire, had heard that timid knock on the

door, which had meant the opening of a mother's heart to him. He felt it would scarcely be strange if 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 down to him; he entered his bedroom as if he entered a sanctuary that was scented with

the incense of her love. He knew exactly how her knock had sounded 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 against the frame of his

open window, and, though knowing it was that, he heard himself whisperfor she could hear his whisper

"Come in, mother," and sat up in his deep chair, looking towards the door. But only the blind tapped again,

He remembered she liked owls. Once, when they lived alone in Curzon Street, some noise outside reminded

her of the owls that hooted at Ashbridgeshe had imitated their note, saying it sounded like sleep. . . . She

had sat in a chintzcovered chair close to him when at Christmas she paid him that visit, and now he again

drew it close to his own, and laid his hand on its arm. Petsy II. had come in with her, and she had hoped that

There were steps in the passage outside his room, and he heard a little shrill 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 dog was

curled up against it, and now and then he turned round scratching at it, asking to enter. "He won't come away,

The dog looked at him for a moment as if weighing his trustworthiness. Then he got up and, with grotesque

He took Petsy into his room next door, and laid him on the chair in which 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, and lay

awake about a couple of minutes, not thinking, but only being, while the owls hooted outside.

He awoke into complete consciousness, knowing that something had aroused him, even as three days ago

when the telephone rang to summon him to his mother's deathbed. Then he did not know what had awakened

him, but now he was sure that there had been a tapping on his door. And after he had sat up in bed completely

awake, he heard Petsy give a little welcoming bark. Then came the noise of his small, soft tail beating against

Michael had no feeling of fright at all, only of longing for something that physically could not be. And

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 no

He woke again a little after dawn. Petsy between the window and the door had jumped on to his bed to get

That morning the coffin was carried down the long winding path above the deepwater reach, where Michael

and Francis at Christmas had heard the sound of stealthy rowing, and on to the boat that awaited it to ferry it

across to the church. There was high tide, and, as they passed over the estuary, the stillness of supreme noon

bore to them the tolling of the bell. The mourners from the house followed, just three of them, Lord

Ashbridge, Michael, and Aunt Barbara, for the rest were to assemble at the church. But of all that, one

moment stood out for Michael above all others, when, as they entered the graveyard, someone whom he

could not see said: "I am the Resurrection and the Life," and he heard that his father, by whom he walked,

All that day there persisted that sense of complete detachment from all but her whose body they had laid to

rest on the windy hill overlooking the broad water. His father, Aunt Barbara, the cousins and relations who

thronged the church were no more than inanimate shadows compared with her whose presence had come last

night into his room, and had not left him since. The affairs of the world, drums and the torch of war, had

passed for those hours from his knowledge, as at the centre of a cyclone there was a windless calm.

Tomorrow he knew he would pass out into the tumult again, and the minutes slipped like pearls from a

He went back to town next morning, after a short interview with his father, who was coming up later in the

day, when he told him that he intended to go back to his regiment as soon as possible. But, knowing that he

meant to go by the slow midday train, his father proposed to stop the express for him that went through a few

It was but a day or two after the outbreak of the war that it was believed that an expeditionary force was to be

sent to France, to help in arresting the Teutonic tide that was now breaking over Belgium; but no public and

authoritative news came till after the first draft of the force had actually set foot on French soil. From the

regiment of the Guards which Michael had rejoined, Francis was among the first batch of officers to go, and

that evening Michael took down the news to Sylvia. Already stories of German barbarity were rife, of women

violated, of defenceless civilians being shot down for no object except to terrorise, and to bring home to the

Belgians the unwisdom of presuming to cross the will of the sovereign people. Tonight, in the evening

papers, there had been a fresh batch of these revolting stories, and when Michael entered the studio where

Sylvia and her mother were sitting, he saw the girl let drop behind the sofa the paper she had been reading.

He guessed what she must have found there, for he had already seen the paper himself, and her silence, her

"I've brought you a little news tonight," he said. "The first draft from the regiment went off today."

"Well, that does look like business, then," she said, "though I must say I should feel safer if they didn't send

Michael saw that her nerves were sharply on edge. She had given him no greeting, and now as he sat down

"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. I saw it in the paper, though; I read it."

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 on better with her book, for she found conversation rather distracting. But tonight

It was clear that for some reason she did not want to be left alone with Michael, for never had she done this

before. Nor did it avail anything now, for Mrs. Falbe, who was quite determined to pursue her reading

"But I am sure Michael wants to talk to you, dear," she said, "and you have not seen him all day. I think I

Sylvia made no further effort to detain her, but when she had gone, the silence in which they had so often sat

"And what have you been doing?" she said. "Tell me about your day. No, don't. I know it has all been

"I dined with Aunt Barbara," said Michael. "She sent you her love. She also wondered why you hadn't been

"Did she really?" she asked. "I should have thought she could have guessed. She set every nerve in my body

jangling last time I saw her by the way she talked about Germans. And then suddenly she pulled herself up

and apologised, saying she had forgotten. That made it worse! Michael, when you are unhappy, kindness is

even more intolerable than unkindness. I would sooner have Lady Barbara abusing my people than saying

how sorry she is for me. Don't let's talk about it! Let's do something. Will you play, or shall I sing? Let's

"Come, then, let's sing and forget," she said. "Hermann always said the artist was of no nationality. Let's

begin quick. These are all German songs: don't let's have those. Ah, and these, too! What's to be done? All

"But we've just settled that artists have no nationality, so I suppose art hasn't either," he said.

Sylvia pulled herself together, conscious of a want of control, and laid her 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 musicstand, and opening it at random he found "Du Bist die

"I can't keep silence," she said, "though I know we settled not to talk of those things when necessarily we

cannot feel absolutely at one. But, just before you came in, I was reading the evening paper. Michael, how

can 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?"

"But aren't you indignant?" she said. "Doesn't your blood boil to read of such infamous falsehoods? You don't

know Germans, but I do, and it is impossible that such things can have happened."

Michael felt profoundly uncomfortable. Some of these stories which Sylvia called lies were vouched for,

"Well, I can't live up to that wisdom," she said. "When I think of this war day and night and night and day,

how can I prevent talking to you about it? And those lies! Germans couldn't do such things. It's a campaign of

"If that is so, I should be just as indignant about the German Press," said she. "But it is only your guess that it

"Ah, do leave it alone, Sylvia," he said. "I know no more of the truth or falsity of it than you. I have seen just

"No, I don't. There seems to have been sworn testimony. War is a cruel thing; I hate it as much as you. When

men are maddened with war, you can't tell what they would do. They are not the Germans you know, nor the

Germans I know, who did such thingsnot the people I saw when I was with Hermann in Baireuth and

Munich a year ago. They are no more the same than a drunken man is the same as that man when he is sober.

They are two different people; drink has made them different. And war has done the same for Germany."

"Then you think, I suppose, that Hermann may be concerned in those atrocities," she said.

"Not at all. It is a logical inference, just an application of the principle you have stated."

Michael's instinct was just to take her in his arms and make the final appeal, saying, "We love each other,

that's all," but his reason prevented him. Sylvia had said a monstrous thing in cold blood, when she suggested

that he thought Hermann might be concerned in these deeds, and in cold blood, not by appealing to her

"I'm not going to argue about it," he said. "I want you to tell me at once that I am right, that it was sheer

nonsense, to put no other name to it, when you suggested that I thought that of Hermann."

Truly this hellish nightmare of war and hate which had arisen brought with it a brood not less terrible. A day

ago, an hour ago he would have merely laughed at the possibility of such a situation between Sylvia and

She looked up at him flashing with indignation, and a retort as stinging as his rose to her lips. And then quite

suddenly, all her anger went from 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 Michael refrained from making was made by her to

herself. Remorse held her on its spikes for her abominable suggestion, and with it came a sense of utter

desolation and misery, of hatred for herself in having thus quietly and deliberately said what she had said.

She could not account for 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 in the knowledge that she must have wounded

Her lips so quivered that when she first tried to speak no words would come. That she was truly ashamed

brought no relief, no ease to her surrender, for she knew that it was her real self who had spoken thus

"I beg your pardon, Michael," she said. "I was atrocious. Will you forgive me? Because I am so miserable."

Just for the moment of their reconciliation, it seemed to both that they came closer to each other than they had

ever been before, and the chance of the need of any such another reconciliation was impossible to the verge

of laughableness, so that before five minutes were past he could make the smile break through her tears at the

absurdity of the moment that now seemed quite unreal. Yet that which was at the root of their temporary

antagonism was not removed by the reconciliation; at most they had succeeded in cutting off the poisonous

shoot that had suddenly sprouted from it. The truth of this in the days that followed was horribly

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 of them, but times without number they had to sheer off, and not approach

the ground where these poisoned tendrils trailed. And in that sense of having to take care, to be watchful lest

a chance word should bring the peril close to them, the atmosphere of complete ease and confidence, in

which alone love can flourish, was tainted. Love was there, but its flowers could not expand, it could not

grow in the midst of this bitter air. And what made the situation more and increasingly difficult was the fact

that, next to their love for each other, the emotion that most filled the mind of each was this sense of

raceantagonism. It was impossible that the news of the war should not be mentioned, for that would have

created an intolerable unreality, and all that was in their power was to avoid all discussion, to suppress from

speech all the feelings with which the news filled them. Every day, too, there came fresh stories of German

abominations committed on the Belgians, and each knew that the other had seen them, and yet neither could

mention them. For while Sylvia could not believe them, Michael could not help doing so, and thus there was

no common ground on which they could speak of them. Often Mrs. Falbe, in whose blood, it would seem, no

sense of race 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 of not believing all she saw in the newspapers, or at another

ejaculating, "Well, the Germans do seem to have behaved very cruelly again!" But no emotion appeared to

colour these speeches, while all the emotion of the world surged and bubbled behind the silence of the other

Then followed the darkest days that England perhaps had ever known, when the German armies, having

overcome the resistance of Belgium, suddenly swept forward again across France, pushing before them like

the jetsam and flotsam on the rim of the advancing tide the allied armies. Often in these appalling weeks,

Michael would hesitate as to whether he should go to see Sylvia or not, so unbearable seemed the fact that

she did not and could not feel or understand what England was going through. So far from blaming her for it,

he knew that it could not be otherwise, for her blood called to her, even as his to him, while somewhere in the

onrush of those advancing and devouring waves was her brother, with whom, so it had often seemed to him,

she was one soul. Thus, while in that his whole sympathy and whole comprehension of her love was with

him, there was as well all that deep, silent English patriotism of which till now he had scarcely been

conscious, praying with mute entreaty that disaster and destruction and defeat might overwhelm those

advancing hordes. Once, when the anxiety and peril were at their height, he made up his mind not to see her

that day, and spent the evening by himself. But later, when he was actually on his way to bed, he knew he

could not keep away from her, and though it was already midnight, he drove down to Chelsea, and found her

For a moment, as she greeted him and he kissed her silently, they escaped from the encompassing horror.

"Ah, you have come," she said. "I thought perhaps you might. I have wanted you dreadfully."

The roar of artillery, the internecine strife were still. Just for a few seconds there was nothing in the world for

And then the roar and the horror began again. Her words were the simplest, the most directly spoken to him,

yet could not but evoke the spectres that for the moment had vanished. She had meant to let her love for him

speak; it had spoken, and instantly through the momentary sunlight of it, there loomed the fierce and

enormous shadow. It could not be banished from their most secret hearts; even when the doors were shut and

they were alone together thus, it made its entrance, ghostlike, terrible, and all love's bolts and bars could not

keep it out. Here was the tragedy of it, that they could not stand embraced with clasped 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 in

its presence they were forced to stand apart. In his heart, as surely as he knew her love, Michael knew that

this great shadow under which England lay was shot with sunlight for Sylvia, that the anxiety, the awful

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 the tramp of advancing feet that marched ever forward leaving the glittering Rhine leagues

upon leagues in their rear. The Bavarian corps in which Hermann served was known to be somewhere on the

Western front, for the Emperor had addressed them ten days before on their departure from Munich, and

Sylvia and Michael were both aware of that. But they who loved Hermann best could not speak of it to each

other, and the knowledge of it had to be hidden in silence, as if it had been some guilty secret in which they

were the terrified accomplices, instead of its being a bond of love which bound them both to Hermann.

In addition to the national anxiety, there was the suspense of those whose sons and husbands and fathers were

in the fighting line. Columns of casualty lists were published, and each name appearing there was a sword

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 rest of the day with Sylvia, and the first name that he read there was that of

Francis. For a moment, as he remembered afterwards, the print had danced before his eyes, as if seen through

He turned and drove back to his rooms in Half Moon Street, feeling that strange 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, in all the anxiety and suspense of those days,

thought of Francis's death as 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 had ever made a

habit of it. . . . They had had a lot of marching, always in the wrong direction, but everyone knew that would

soon be over. . . . Wasn't London very beastly in August? . . . Would Michael see if he could get some proper

cigarettes out to him? Here there was nothing but little black French affairs (and not many of them) which

tied a knot in the throat of the smoker. . . . And now Francis, with all his gaiety and his affection, and his light

pleasant dealings with life, lay dead somewhere on the sunny plains of France, killed in action by shell or

bullet in the midst of his youth and strength and joy in life, to gratify the damned dreams of the man who had

been the honoured guest at Ashbridge, and those who had advised and flattered and at the end perhaps just

used him as their dupe. To their insensate greed and swollen headed lust for worldpower was this

hecatomb of sweet and pleasant lives offered, and in their onward course through the vines and corn of

France they waded through the blood of the slain whose only crime was that they had dared to oppose the

will of Germany, as voiced by the War Lord. And as milestones along the way they had come were set the

records of their infamy, in rapine and ruthless slaughter of the innocent. Just at first, as he sat alone in his

room, Michael but contemplated images that seemed to form in his mind without his volition, and,

emotionnumb from the shock, they seemed external to him. Sometimes he had a vision of Francis lying

without mark or wound or violence on him in some vineyard on the hillside, with face as quiet as in sleep

turned towards a moonlit sky. Then came another picture, and Francis was walking across the terrace at

Ashbridge with his gun over his shoulder, towards Lord Ashbridge and the Emperor, who stood together, just

as Michael had seen the three of them when they came in from the shootingparty. As Francis came near, the

Emperor put a cartridge into his gun and shot him. . . . Yes, that was it: that was what had happened. The

marvellous peacemaker of Europe, the fireengine who, as Hermann had said, was ready to put out all

conflagrations, the fatuous mountebank who pretended to be a friend to England, who conducted his own

balderdash which he called music, had changed his role and shown his black heart and was out to kill.

Wild panoramas like these streamed through Michael's head, as if projected there by some magic lantern, and

while they lasted he was conscious 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 that moment if he could have gone out into the

night and killed a German, and met his death himself in the doing of it, he would have gone to his doom as to

a bridalbed. But by degrees, as the stress of these unsought imaginings abated, his thoughts turned to

Francis himself again, who, through all his boyhood and early manhood, had been to him a sort of ideal and

inspiration. How he had loved and admired him, yet never with a touch of jealousy! And Francis, whose letter

lay open by him on the table, 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 its gay scrawl in pencil, asking for proper cigarettes.

And, with a pang of 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 so yesterday afternoon but something had put it out of his

head. Never again would Francis ask him to send out cigarettes. Michael laid his head on his arms, so that his

Soon he raised himself again, not ashamed of his sorrow, but somehow ashamed of the black hate that before

had filled him. That was gone for the present, anyhow, and Michael was glad to find it vanished. Instead there

was an aching pity, not for Francis alone nor for himself, but for all those concerned in this hideous business.

A hundred and a thousand homes, thrown suddenly today into mourning, were there: no doubt there were

houses in that Bavarian village in the pine woods above which he and Hermann had spent the day when there

was no opera at Baireuth where a son or a brother or a father were mourned, and in the kinship of sorrow he

found himself at peace with all who had suffered loss, with all who were living through days of deadly

suspense. There was nothing effeminate or sentimental about it; he had never been manlier than in this

moment when he claimed his right to be one with them. It was right to pause like this, with his hand clasped

in the hands of friends and foes 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 own turn to come, when he would go out to help

in the grim work that lay in front of him. He was perfectly ready to die if necessary, and if not, to kill as many

Germans as possible. And somehow the two aspects of it all, the pity and the desire to kill, existed side by

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 see me. I have seen the news, and I want

to tell you how sorry I am. But if you 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, he did not hesitate now.

She came up immediately, and once again as they met, the world and the war 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.

Butbut I had to. I had just to find out whether you wouldn't see me, and let me tell you how sorry I am."

"Thank you for coming," he said; "I'm so glad you came. But I had to be alone just a little."

Already the shadow threatened again. It was just the fact that he loved Francis that had made it impossible for

him to go to her, and he could not explain that. And as the shadow began to fall she gave a little shudder.

"Oh, Michael, I know you did," she said. "It's just that which concerns us, 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. He was

Michael felt, with Sylvia's hand in his, they were both running desperately away from the shadow that

pursued them. Desperately he tried with her to evade it. But every word spoken between them seemed but to

"I only came to say that," she said. "I had to tell you myself, to see you as I told you, so that you could know

Across that shadow that had again fallen between them they looked and yearned for each other.

"No, don't godon't go," he said. "I want you more than ever. We are here, here and now, you and I, and

what else matters in comparison of that? I loved Francis, as you know, and I love Hermann, but there is our

love, the greatest thing of all. We've got itit's here. Oh, Sylvia, we must be wise and simple, we must

separate things, sort them out, not let them get mixed with one another. We can do it; I know we can. There's

There was just that ray of sun peering over the black cloud that illumined their faces to each other, while

already the sharp peaked shadow of it had come between them. For that second, while he spoke, it seemed

possible that, in the middle of welter and chaos and death and enmity, these two souls could stand apart, in

the passionate serene of love, and the moment lasted for just as long as she flung herself into his arms. And

then, even while her face was pressed to his, and while the riotous blood of their pressed lips sang to them,

the shadow fell across them. Even as he asserted the inviolability of the sanctuary in which they stood, he

knew it to be an impossible Utopiathat he should find with her the peace that should secure them from the

raging storm, the cold shadowand the loosening of her arms about his neck but endorsed the message of

his own heart. For such heavenly security cannot come except to those who have been through the ultimate

bitterness that the world can bring; it is not arrived at but through complete surrender to the trial of fire, and

as yet, in spite of their opposed patriotism, in spite of her sincerest sympathy with Michael's loss, the assault

on the most intimate lines of the fortress had not yet been delivered. Before they could reach the peace that

passed understanding, a fiercer attack had to be repulsed, they had to stand and look at each other

But still they clung, while in their eyes there passed backwards and forwards the message that said, "It is not

yet; it is not thus!" They had been like two children springing together at the report of some thunderclap, not

knowing in the presence of what elemental outpouring of force they hid their faces together. As yet it but

boomed on the horizon, though messages of its havoc reached them, and the test would come when it roared

and lightened overhead. Already the tension of the approaching tempest had so wrought on them that for a

month past they had been unreal to each other, wanting ease, wanting confidence; and now, when the first

real shock had come, though for a moment it threw them into each other's arms, this was not, as they knew,

the real, the final reconciliation, the touchstone that proved the gold. Francis's death, the cousin whom

Michael loved, at the hands of one of the nation to whom Sylvia belonged, had momentarily made them feel

that all else but their love was but external circumstance; and, even in the moment of their feeling this, the

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 yet no word had been said since Michael asserted that nothing else mattered, and

in the silence of their gradual estrangement the sanguine falsity of that grew and grew and grew.

"Michael, where are you?" she cried. "No, don't touch me; I didn't mean that. 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's like

A minute before Michael, in soul and blood and mind and bones, had said that nothing but Sylvia and himself

had any real existence. He had clung to her, even as she to him, hoping that this individual love would prove

itself capable of overriding all else that existed. But it had not needed that she should speak to show him how

pathetically he had erred. Before she had made a concrete instance he knew how hopeless his wish had been:

the silence, the loosening of hands had told him that. And when she spoke there was a brutality in what she

There was no question now of her going away at once, as she had proposed, 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 so short a way

ahead was the cataract that ran with blood. On each side at present were fine, green landingplaces; he at the

oar, she at the tiller, could, if they were of one mind, still put ashore, could run their 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 pull

on a rope of the rudder, and a step ashore. Here was a way out of the storm and the rapids.

A moment before, when, by their physical parting they had realised the strength of the bonds that held them

apart this solution had not occurred to Sylvia. Now, critically and forlornly hopeful, it flashed on her. She

felt, she almost feltfor the ultimate decision rested with himthat with him she would throw everything

else aside, and escape, just escape, if so he willed it, into some haven of neutrality, where he and she would

be together, leaving the rest of the world, her country and his, to fight over these irreconcilable quarrels. It did

not seem to matter what happened to anybody else, provided only she and Michael were together, out of risk,

out of harm. Other lives might be precious, other ideals and patriotisms might be at stake, but she wanted to

be with him and nothing else at all. No tie counted compared to that; there was but one 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

Michael had said, that nothing else mattered, that they would be right to realise themselves at any cost.

"Listen to me, Michael," she said. "I can't bear any longer that these horrors should keep rising up between

us, and, while we are here in the middle of it all, it can't be otherwise. I ask you, then, to come away with me,

to leave it all behind. It is not our quarrel. Already Hermann has gone; I can't lose you too."

She looked up at him for a moment, and then quickly away again, for she felt her case, which seemed to her

just now so imperative, slipping away from her in that glance she got of his eyes, that, for all the love that

burned there, were blank with astonishment. She must convince him; but her own convictions were weak

"Don't answer me yet," she said. "Hear what I have to say. Don't you see that while we are like this we are

lost to each other? And as you yourself said just now, nothing matters in comparison to our love. I want you

to take me away, out of it all, so that we can find each other again. These horrors thwart and warp us; they

spoil the best thing that the world holds for us. My patriotism is just as sound as yours, but I throw it away to

And then suddenly she found she could say no more at all. She had hoped that when she stated these things

she would convince him, and, behold, all she had done was to shake her own convictions so that they fell

clattering round her like an unstable cardhouse. Desperately she looked again at him, wondering if she had

convinced him at all, and then again she looked, wondering if she should see contempt in his eyes. After that

"Oh, my dear, how I love you for suggesting such a sweet impossibility," he said. "But how you would

"And I know you would. You would contrast me in your mind, whether you wished to or not, with Hermann,

They sat silent a little, but there was another question Sylvia had to ask for which she had to collect her

"Not for certain. Butit will be before many days are passed. And the question ariseswill you marry me

"Michael, I don't think I could bear to part with you if we were married," 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 to obey you

Michael had long debated this in his mind. It seemed to him that if he came back, as might easily happen,

hopelessly crippled, incurably invalid, it would be placing Sylvia in an unfairly difficult position, if she was

already his wife. He might be hideously disfigured; she would be bound to but a wreck of a man; he might be

utterly unfit to be her husband, and yet she would be tied to him. He had already talked the question over with

his father, who, with that curious posthumous anxiety to have a further direct heir, had urged that the

marriage should take place at once; but with his own feeling on the subject, as well as Sylvia's, he at once

Michael was sitting in the kitchen of a French farmhouse just outside the village of Laires, some three miles

behind the English front. The kitchen door was open, and on the flagged floor was cast an oblong of

primrosecoloured November sunshine, warm and pleasant, so that the bluebottle flies buzzed hopefully

about it, settling occasionally on the cracked green door, where they cleaned their wings, and generally

furbished themselves up, as if the warmth was that of a spring day that promised summer to follow. They

were there in considerable numbers, for just outside in the cobbled yard was a heap of manure, where they

hungrily congregated. Against the whitewashed wall of the house there lay a fat sow, basking contentedly,

and snorting in her dreams. The yard, bounded on two sides by the house walls, was shut in on the third by a

row of farmsheds, and the fourth was open. Just outside it stood a small copse half flooded with the

brimming water of a sluggish stream that meandered by the side of the farmroad leading out of the yard,

which turned to the left, and soon joined the highway. This farmroad was partly under water, though not

deeply, so that by skirting along its raised banks it was possible to go dryshod to the highway underneath

Through the kitchen window, set opposite the door, could be seen a broad stretch of country of the fenland

type, flat and bare, and intersected with dykes, where sedges stirred slightly in the southerly breeze. Here and

there were pools of overflowed rivulets, and here and there were plantations of stunted hornbeam, the russet

leaves of which still clung thickly to them. But in the main it was a bare and empty land, featureless and

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, for on each

side of the path leading up to the door ran a row of Michaelmas daisies, rather battered by the fortnight of

rain which had preceded this day of still warm sun, but struggling bravely to shake off the effect of the

The kitchen itself was extremely clean and orderly. Its flagged floor was still damp and brown in patches

from the washing it had received two hours before; but the draught between open window and open door was

fast drying it. Down the centre of the room was a deal table without a cloth, on which were laid some

halfdozen places, each marked with a knife and fork and spoon and a thick glass, ready for the serving of

the midday meal. On the white washed walls hung two photographs of family groups, in one of which

appeared the father and mother and three little children, in the other the same personages some ten years later,

and a lithograph of the Blessed Virgin. On each side of the table was a deal bench, at the head and foot two

wooden armchairs. A dresser stood against the wall, on the floor by the oven was a frayed rug, and most

important of all, to Michael's mind, was a big stewpot that stood on the top of the oven. From time to time a

fat, comfortable Frenchwoman bustled in, and took off the lid of this to stir it, or placed on the dresser a plate

of cheese, or a loaf of freshly cooked brown bread. Two or three of Michael's brotherofficers were there,

one sitting in the patch of sunlight with his back against the green door, another on the step outside. The post

had come in not long before, and all of them, Michael included, were occupied with letters and papers.

Today there happened to be no letters for Michael, and the paper which he 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 at the

front, did not interest him in the least. Perhaps in England people liked to know that a hundred yards of

trenches had been taken at one place, and that three German attacks had failed at another; but when you were

actually engaged (or had been or would soon again be) in taking part in those things, it seemed a waste of

paper and compositor's time to record them. There was a column of letters also from indignant Britons, using

violent language about the crimes and treachery of Germany. That also was uninteresting and farfetched.

Nothing that Germany had done mattered the least. There was no use in arguing and slinging wild

expressions about; it was a stale subject altogether when you were within earshot of that incessant booming

of guns. All the morning that had gone on without break, and no doubt they would get news of what had

happened before they set out again that evening for another spell in the trenches. But in all probability

nothing particular had happened. Probably the London papers would record it next day, a further tediousness

on their part. It would be much more interesting to hear what was going on there, whether there were any new

plays, whether there had been any fresh concerts, what the weather was like, or even who had been lunching

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 his

regiment, who, more politely, shifted his place a little so that Michael should pass. Outside the smell of

manure was acrid but not unpleasant, the old sow grunted in her sleep, and one of the green shutters outside

the upper windows slowly blew to. There was someone inside the room apparently, for the moment after a

hand and arm bare to the elbow were protruded, and fastened the latch of the shutter, so that it should not

A little further on was a rail that separated the copse from the roadway, and here out of the wind Michael sat

down, and lit a cigarette to stop his yearning for the bubbling stewpot, which would not be broached for half

an hour yet. The day, he believed, was Wednesday, but the whole quiet of the place, apart from that drowsy

booming on the eastern horizon, made it feel like Sunday. Nobody but the fat Frenchwoman who bustled

about had anything to do; there was a Sabbath leisure about everything, about the dozing sow, the buzzing

flies, the lounging figures that read letters and papers. When last they were here, it is true, there were rather

more of them. Eight officers had been billeted here last week, before they had been in the trenches and now

there were but six. This evening they would set out again for another fortyeight hours in that hellish inferno,

but tomorrow a fresh draft was arriving, so that when next they foregathered here, whatever had happened

It did not seem to matter much what six there would be, or whether there would be more than six or less. All

that mattered at this moment, as he inhaled the first incense of his cigarette, was that the rain was over for the

present, that the sun shone from a blue sky, that he felt extraordinarily well and tranquil, and that dinner

would soon be ready. But of all these agreeable things what pleased him most was the tranquillity; to be alive

here with the manure heap steaming in the sun, and the sow asleep by the house wall, and swallows settling

on the eaves, was "Paradise enow." Somewhere deep down in him were streams of yearning and of horror,

flowing like an underground river in the dark. He yearned for Sylvia, he thought with horror of the two days

in the trenches that had preceded this rest in the whitewashed farmhouse, and with horror he thought of the

days and nights that would succeed it. But both horror and yearnings were stupefied by the content that

flooded the present moment. No doubt it was reaction from what had gone before, but the reaction was

complete. Just now he asked for nothing but to sit in the sun and smoke his cigarette, and wait for dinner. As

far as he knew he did not think of anything particular; he just existed in the sun.

The wind must have shifted a little, for before long it came round the corner of the house, and slightly spoiled

the mellow warmth of the sunshine. This would never do. The Epicurean in him revolted at the idea of losing

a moment of this complete wellbeing, and arguing that if the wind blew here, it must be dead calm below

the kitchen window on the other side of the house, he got off his rail and walked along the slippery bank at

the edge of the flooded road in order to go there. It was hard to keep his footing here, and his progress was

slow, but he felt he would take any amount of trouble to avoid getting his feet wet in the flooded road. Then

there was a patch of kitchengarden to cross, where the mud clung rather annoyingly to his instep, and,

having gained the garden path, he very carefully wiped his boots and with a fallen twig dug away the clots of

He found that he had been quite right in supposing that the air would be windless here, and full of great

content he sat down with his back to the house wall. A tortoiseshell butterfly, encouraged by the warmth,

was flitting about among the Michaelmas daisies that bordered the path and settling on them, opening its

wings to the genial sun. Two or three bees buzzed there also; the summerlike tranquillity inserted into the

middle of November squalls and rain, deluded them as well as Michael into living completely in the present

hour. Gnats hovered about. One settled on Michael's hand, where he instantly killed it, and was sorry he had

done so. For the time the booming of guns which had sounded incessantly all the morning to the east, stopped

altogether, and absolute quiet reigned. Had he not been so hungry, and so unable to get the idea of the

stewpot out of his head, Michael would have been content to sit with his back to the sunwarmed wall for

The highroad, raised and embanked above the lowlying fields, ran eastwards in an undeviating straight

line. Just opposite the farm were the last outlying huts of the village, and from there onwards it lay

untenanted. But before many minutes were passed, the quiet of the autumn noon began to be overscored by

distant humming, faint at first, and then quickly growing louder, and he saw far away a little brown speck

coming swiftly towards him. It turned out to be a dispatchrider, mounted on a motorbicycle, who with a

hoot of his horn roared westward through the village. Immediately afterwards another humming, steadier and

more sonorous, grew louder, and Michael, recognising it, looked up instinctively 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 to mount in spirals, and when at a sufficient

height, it resumed its onward journey towards the German lines. Then three or four privates, billeted in the

village, and now resting after duty in the trenches, strolled along the road, laughing and talking. They sat

down not a hundred yards from Michael and one began to whistle "Tipperary." Another and another took it

up until all four were engaged on it. It was not precisely in tune nor were the performers in unison, but it

produced a vaguely pleasant effect, and if not in tune with the notes as the composer wrote them, the sight

and sound of those four whistling and idle soldiers was in tune with the air of security of Sunday morning.

Something far down the road caught Michael's eye, some moving line of brown wagons. As they came nearer

he saw that they were the motorambulances of the Red Cross, moving slowly along the ruts and holes which

the traffic had worn, so that the occupants should suffer as little jolting as was possible. They carried no

doubt the wounded who had been taken from the trenches last night, and now, after calling for them at the

first dressing station in the rear of the lines, were removing them to hospital. As they passed the four men

sitting by the roadside, one of them shouted, "Cheer, oh, mates!" and then they fell to whistling "Tipperary"

again. Then, oh, blessed moment! the fat Frenchwoman looked out of the kitchen window just above his

"Diner, m'sieu," she said, and Michael, without another thought of ambulance or aeroplane, scrambled to his

feet. Somewhere in the middle distance 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 yearning and of horror, but all his ordinary workaday

self was occupied with the immediate prospect of the stewpot. It was some sort of a ragout, he knew, and he

lusted for it. Red wine of the country would be there, and cheese and new brown bread. . . . It surprised him

to find how completely his bodily needs and the pleasure of their gratification had possession 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 before they 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 thickly overspread the heavens and below that arch of vapour that cut off the sun the wind was

blowing chilly. With that change in the weather, Michael's mood changed also, and the horror of the return to

the trenches began to come to the surface. He was not as yet aware of any physical fear of death or of wound,

rather, the feeling was one of some mental and spiritual shrinking from the whole of this vast business of

murder, where hundreds and thousands of men along the battle front that stretched halfway across Europe,

were employed, day and night, without having any quarrel with each other, in the unsleeping vigilant work of

killing. Most of them in all probability, were quite decent fellows, like those four who had whistled

"Tipperary" together, and yet they were spending months of young, sweet life up to the knees in water, in

foul and illsmelling trenches in order to kill others whom they had never seen except as specks on the sights

of their rifles. Somewhere behind that gruesome business, as he knew, there stood the Cause, calm and

serene, like some great statue, which made this insensate murdering necessary; but just for an hour today, as

he waited till they had to be on the move again, he found himself unable to make real to his own mind the

existence of that cause, and could not see beyond the bloody and hideous things that resulted from it.

Then, in this inaction of waiting, an attack of mere physical cowardice seized him, and he found himself

imagining the mutilation and torture that perhaps awaited him personally in those deathly ditches. He tried to

busy himself with the preparation of the few things that he would take with him, he tried to encourage

himself by remembering that in his previous experiences there he had not been conscious of any fear, by

telling himself that these were only the unreal anticipations that were always ready to pounce on one even

before such mildly alarming affairs as a visit to the dentist; but in spite of his efforts, he found his hands

growing clammy and cold at the thoughts which beset his brain. What if there happened to him what had

happened to another junior officer who was close to him at the moment, when a fragment of shell turned him

from a big gay boy into a writhing bundle at the bottom of the trench! He had lived for a couple of hours like

that, moaning and crying out, "For God's sake kill me!" What if, more mercifully, he was killed outright, so

that he would lie there in peace till next night they 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 suddenly realised how passionately he

wanted to live, to escape from this infernal butchery, to be safe again, gloriously or ingloriously, it mattered

not which, to be with Sylvia once more. He told himself that he had been an utter fool ever to reenter the

army again like this. He could certainly have got some appointment as dispatch carrier or had himself

attached to the headquarters staff, or even have shuffled out of it altogether. . . . But, above all, he wanted

Sylvia; he wanted to be allowed to lead the ordinary human life, safely and securely, with the girl he loved,

and with the musical pursuits that were his passion. He had hated soldiering in times of peace; he found now

that he was terrified of it in times of war. He felt physically sick, as with cold hands and trembling knees he

stood and waited, lighting cigarettes and throwing them away, in front of the kitchen fire, where the stewpot

was already bubbling again for those lucky devils who would return here to night.

The Major of his company was sitting in the window watching him, though Michael was unaware of it.

Suddenly he got up, and came across to the fire, and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Don't mind it, Comber," he said quietly. "We all get a touch of it sometimes. But you'll find it will pass all

"Not a bit. But it's damned beastly while it lasts. You'll be all right when we move. Don't forget to take your

Just after sunset they set out, marching in the gathering dusk down the road eastwards, where in a mile or two

they would strike the huge rabbit warren 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 to let ambulances or commissariat wagon go

by, but there was but little traffic here, as the main lines of communication lay on other roads. High above

them, scarcely visible in the dusk, an English aeroplane droned back from its reconnaissance, and once there

was the order given to scatter over the fields as a German Taube passed across them. This caused much

laughter and chaff among the men, and Michael heard one say, "Dove they call it, do they? I'd like to make a

pigeonpie of them doves." Soon they scrambled back on to the road again, and the interminable "Tipperary"

was resumed, in whistle and song. Michael remembered how Aunt Barbara had heard it at a musichall, and

had spoken of it as a new and catchy tune which you could carry away with you. Nowadays, it carried you

The trench which Michael's company were to occupy for the next fortyeight hours was in the first

firingline, and to reach it they had to pass in single file up a mile of communication trenches, from which on

all sides, like a vast rabbit warren, there opened out other galleries and passages that led to different parts of

this network of the lines. It ran not in a straight line but in short sections with angles intervening, so under

no circumstances could any considerable length of it be enfiladed, and was lit here and there by little oil

lamps placed in embrasures in one or other wall of it, or for some distance at a time it was dark except for the

vague twilight of the cloudy sky overhead. Then again, as they approached the firingline, it would suddenly

become intensely bright, when from the English lines, or from those of the Germans which lay not more than

two hundred yards in front of them, a fireball or starshell was sent up, that caused everything it shone upon

to leap into vivid illumination. Usually, when this happened, there came from one side or the other a volley of

rifle shots, that sounded like the crack of stockwhips, and once or twice a bullet passed over their heads with

the buzz as of some vicious stinging insect. Here and there, where the bottom lay in soft and clayey soil, they

walked through mud that came halfway up to the knee, and each foot had 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 days previously

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 with some stale odour which the breeze that swept across the lines from the southeast could

not carry away. There was a perpetual pervading reek that flowed along from the entrance of trenches to right

and left, that reminded Michael of the smell of a football scrimmage on a wet day, laden with the odours of

sweat and dripping clothes, and something deadlier and more acrid. Sometimes they passed under a section

covered in with boards, over which the earth and clods of turf had been replaced, so that reconnoitring

aeroplanes should not so easily spy it out, and here from dark excavations the smell hung overpoweringly.

Now and then the ground over which they passed yielded uneasily to the foot, where lay, only lightly covered

over, some corpse which it had been impossible to remove, and from time to time they passed a huddled

bundle of khaki not yet taken away. But except for the artillery duel that day they had heard going on that

morning, the last day or two had been quiet, and the wounded had all been got out, and for the most part the

After a long tramp in this communication trench they made a sharp turn to the right, and entered that which

they were going to hold for the next fortyeight hours. Here they relieved the regiment that had occupied it

till now, who filed out as they came in. Along it at intervals were excavations dug out in the side, some

propped up with boards and posts, others, where the ground was of sufficiently holding character, just

scooped out. In front, towards the German lines ran a parapet of excavated earth, with occasional peepholes

bored in it, so that the sentry going his rounds could look out and see if there was any sign of movement from

opposite without showing his head above the entrenchment. But even this was a matter of some risk, since the

enemy had located these peepholes, and from time to time fired a shot from a fixed rifle that came straight

through them and buried its bullet in the hinder wall of the trench. Other spyholes 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 to right or

In front, from just outside the parapet to a depth of some twenty yards, stretched the spiderweb of wire

entanglements, and a little farther down on the right there had been a copse of hornbeam saplings. An

attempt had been made by the enemy during the morning to capture and entrench this, thus advancing their

lines, but the movement had been seen, and the artillery fire, which had been so incessant all the morning,

denoted the searching of this and the rendering of it untenable. How thorough that searching had been was

clear, for that which had been an acre of wood was now but a heap of timber fit only for faggots. Scarcely a

tree was left standing, and Michael, looking out of one of the peepholes by the light of a starshell saw that

the wire entanglements were thick with leaves that the wind and the firing had detached from the broken

branches. In turn, the wire entanglements had come in for some shelling by the enemy, and a squad of men

were out now under cover of the darkness repairing these. There was a slight dip in the ground here, and by

crouching and lying they were out of sight of the trenches opposite; but there were some snipers in that which

had been a wood, from whom there came occasional shots. Then, from lower down to the right, there came a

fusillade from the English lines suddenly breaking out, and after a few minutes as suddenly stopping again.

Michael did not come on duty till six in the morning, and for the present he had nothing to do except eat his

rations and sleep as well as he could in his dugout. He had plenty of room to stretch his legs if he sat half

upright, and having taken his Major's advice in the matter of bringing his fur coat with him, he found himself

warm enough, in spite of the rather bitter wind that, striking an angle in the trench wall, eddied sharply into

his retreat, to sleep. But not less justified than the advice to bring his fur coat was his Major's assurance that

the attack of the horrors which had seized him after dinner that day, would pass off when the waiting was

over. Throughout the evening his nerves had been perfectly steady, and, when in their progress up the

communication trench they had passed a man half disembowelled by a fragment of a shell, and screaming, or

when, as he trod on one of the uneasy places an arm had stirred and jerked up suddenly through the handful

of earth that covered it, he had no firsthand sense of horror: he felt rather as if those things were happening

not to him but to someone else, and that, at the most, they were strange and odd, but no longer horrible. But

now, when reinforced by food again and comfortable beneath his fur cloak he let his mind do what it would,

not checking it, but allowing it its natural internal activity, he found that a mood transcending any he had

known yet was his. So far from these experiences being terrifying, so far from their being strange and unreal,

they suddenly became intensely real and shone with a splendour that he had never suspected. Originally he

had been pitchforked by his father into the army, and had left it to seek music. Sense of duty had made it easy

for him to return to it at a time of national peril; but during all the bitter anxiety of that he had never, as in the

light of the perception that came to him now, as the wind whistled round him in the dim lit darkness, had a

glimpse of the glory of service to his country. Here, out in this small, evilsmelling cavern, with the whole

grim business of war going on round him, he for the first time fully realised the reality of it all. He had been

in the trenches before, but until now that had seemed some vague, evil dream, of which he was incredulous.

Now in the darkness the darkness cleared, and the knowledge that this was the very thing itself, that a couple

of hundred yards away were the lines of the enemy, whose power, for the honour of England and for the

freedom of Europe, had to be broken utterly, filled him with a sense of firm, indescribable joy. The minor

problems which had worried him, the fact of millions of treasure that might have fed the poor and needy over

all Britain for a score of years, being outpoured in fire and steel, the fact of thousands of useful and happy

lives being sacrificed, of widows and orphans and childless mothers growing ever a greater companyall

these things, terrible to look at, if you looked at them alone, sank quietly into their sad appointed places when

you looked at the thing entire. His own case sank there, too; music and life and love for which he would so

rapturously have lived, were covered up now, and at this moment he would as rapturously have died, if, by

his death, he could have 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 plumped vertically into the trench. Once during it a sudden illumination blazed in the

sky, and he saw the pebbles in the wall opposite shining with the freshfalling drops. There were a dozen

rifle shots and he saw the sentry who had just passed brushing the edge of his coat against Michael's hand,

pause, and look out through the spyhole close by, and say something to himself. Occasionally he dozed for a

little, and woke again from dreaming of Sylvia, into complete consciousness of where he was, and of that

superb joy that pervaded him. By and by these dozings grew longer, and the intervals of wakefulness less,

and for a couple of hours 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 rather than refreshed him. In that hour of early morning, when vitality burns lowest,

and the dying part their hold on life, the thrill that had possessed him during the earlier hours of the night, had

died down. He knew, having once felt it, that it was there, and believed that it would come when called upon;

but it had drowsed as he slept, and was overlaid by the sense of the grim, inexorable side of the whole

business. A disconcerting bullet was plugged through a spyhole the second after he had passed it; it sounded

not angry, but merely businesslike, and Michael found himself thinking that shots "fired in anger," as the

phrase went, were much more likely to go wide than shots fired calmly. . . . That, in his sleepy brain, did not

sound nonsense: it seemed to contain 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 clouds overhead were becoming visible in outline with the light that filtered

through them, and on their thinner margin turning rosegrey, when the alarm of an attack came down the

line. Instantly the huddled, sleeping bodies that lay at the side of the trench started into being, and in the

moment's pause that followed, Michael found himself fumbling at the butt of his revolver, which he had

drawn out of its case. For that one moment he heard his heart thumping in his throat, and felt his mouth grow

dry with some sudden panic fear that came from he knew not where, and invaded him. A qualm of sickness

took him, something gurgled in his throat, and he spat on the floor of the trench. All this passed in one

second, for at once he was master of himself again, though not master of a savage joy that thrilled himthe

joy of this chance of killing those who fought against the peace and prosperity of the world. There was an

attack coming out of the dark, and thank God, he was among those who had to meet it.

He gave the order that had been passed to him, and on the word, this section of the trench was lined with men

ready to pour a volley over the low parapet. He was there, too, wildly excited, close to the spyhole that 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 but the dark ground of the dip in front, and the level lines of the German trenches

opposite. Then suddenly the grey emptiness was peopled; there sprang from the earth the advance line of the

surprise, who began hewing a way through the entanglements, while behind the silhouette of the trenches was

broken into a huddled, heaving line of men. Then came the order to fire, and he saw men dropping and falling

out of sight, and others coming on, and yet again others. These, again, fell, but others (and now he could see

the gleam of bayonets) came nearer, bursting and cutting their way through the wires. Then, from opposite to

right and left sounded the crack of rifles, and the man next to Michael gave one grunt, and fell back into the

Just immediately opposite were the few dozen men whose part it was to cut through the entanglements. They

kept falling and passing out of sight, while others took their places. And then, for some reason, Michael

found himself singling out just one of these, much in advance of the others, who was now close to the

parapet. He was coming straight on him, and with a leap he cleared the last line of wire and towered above

him. Michael shot him with his revolver as he stood but three yards from him, and he fell right across the

parapet with head and shoulders inside the trench. And, as he dropped, Michael shouted, "Got him!" and then

Next moment he had scaled the side of the trench and, exerting all his strength, was dragging him over into

safety. The advance of this section, who were to rush the trench, had been stopped, and again from right and

left the riflefire poured out on the heads that appeared above the parapet. That did not seem to concern him;

all he had to do that moment was to get Hermann out of fire, and just as he dragged his legs over the parapet,

so that his weight fell firm and solid on to him, he felt what seemed a sharp tap on his right arm, and could

not understand why it had become suddenly powerless. It dangled loosely from somewhere above the elbow,

Then came a stab of hideous pain, which was over almost as soon as he had felt it, and he heard a man close

It was evident that this surprise attack had failed, for five minutes afterwards all was quiet again. Out of the

grey of dawn it had come, and before dawn was rosy it was over, and Michael with his right arm numb but

for an occasional twinge of violent agony that seemed to him more like a scream or a colour than pain, was

leaning over Hermann, who lay on his back quite still, while on his tunic a splash of blood slowly grew

"Lieber Gott, Michael!" he whispered, his breath whistling in his throat. "Good morning, old boy!"

Three weeks later, Michael was sitting in his rooms in Half Moon Street, where he had arrived last night,

expecting Sylvia. Since that attack at dawn in the trenches, he had been in hospital in France while his arm

was mending. The bone had not been broken, but the muscles had been so badly torn that it was doubtful

whether he would ever recover more than a very feeble power in it again. In any case, it would take many

Those weeks had been a longdrawn continuous nightmare, not from the effect 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, that he had to tell Sylvia all that

had happened in those ten minutes while the grey morning grew rosy. This sense of compulsion was deaf to

all reasoning, however plausible. He knew perfectly well that unless he told Sylvia who it was whom he had

shot at pointblank range, as he leaped the last wire entanglement, no one else ever could. Hermann was

buried now in the same grave as others who had fallen that morning: his name would be given out as missing

from the Bavarian corps to which he belonged, and in time, after the war was over, she would grow to believe

But the sheer impossibility of letting this happen, though it entailed nothing on him except the mere

abstention from speech, took away the slightest temptation that silence offered. He knew that again and again

Sylvia would refer to Hermann, wondering where he was, praying for his safety, hoping perhaps even that,

like Michael, he would be wounded and thus escape from the inferno at the front, and it was so absolutely out

of the question that he should listen to this, try to offer little encouragements, wonder with her whether he

was not safe, that even in his most depressed and shrinking hours he never for a moment contemplated

silence. Certainly he had to tell her that Hermann was dead, and to account for the fact that he knew him to be

dead. And in the long watches of the wakeful night, when his mind moved in the twilight of drowsiness and

fever and pain, it was here that a certain temptation entered. For it was easy to say (and no one could ever

contradict him) that some man near him, that one perhaps who had fallen back with a grunt, had killed

Hermann on the edge of the trench. Humanly speaking, there was no chance at all of that innocent falsehood

being disproved. In the scurry and wild confusion of the attack none but he would remember exactly what

had happened, and as he thought of that tossing and turning, it seemed to one part of his mind that the

innocence of that falsehood would even be laudable, be heroic. It would save Sylvia the horrible shock of

knowing that her lover had killed her brother; it would save her all that piercing of the iron into her soul that

must inevitably be suffered by her if she knew the truth. And who could 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 bear to see him

again, still less sleep in the arms of the one who had killed her brother. That knowledge, even if she could put

it out of mind in pity and sorrow for Michael, would surely return and return again, and tear her from him

sobbing and trembling. There was all to risk in telling her the truth; sorrow and bitterness for her and for him

separation and a lifelong regret were piled up in the balance against the unknown weight of her love. Indeed,

there was love on both sides of that balance. Who could tell how the gold weighed against the gold?

Yet, after those drowsy, painstreaked nights, when the sober light of dawn crept in at the windows, then,

morning after morning, Michael knew that the inward compulsion was in no way weakened by all the reasons

that he had urged. It remained ruthless and tender, a still small voice that was heard after the whirlwind and

the fire. For the very reason why he longed to spare Sylvia this knowledge, namely, that they loved each

other, was precisely the reason why he could not spare her. Yet it seemed so wanton, so useless, so

unreasonable to tell her, so laden with a risk both for him and her that no standard could measure. But he no

more contemplatedexcept in vain imaginationmaking up some ingenious story of this kind which would

account for his knowledge of Hermann's death than he contemplated keeping silence altogether. It was not

possible for him not to tell her everything, though, when he pictured himself doing so, he found himself faced

by what seemed an inevitable impossibility. 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 in the paper, stories of German cruelty

and what not, had overclouded the serenity of their love. What would happen when this news, no report or

He had not heard her foot on the stairs, nor did she wait for his servant to announce her; but, a little before her

appointed time, she burst in upon him midway between smiles and tears, all tenderness.

"Michael, my dear, my dear," she cried, "what a morning for me! For the first time today when I woke, I

forgot about the war. And your poor arm? How goes it? Oh, I will take care, but I must and will have you in

He had risen to greet her, and softly and gently she put her arms round his 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 him like that again. He could not part with her at the very moment he had got

"You look ever so well, Michael," she said, "in spite of your wound. You're so brown and lean and strong.

Looking at her, feeling her arms round him, Michael felt that what he had to say was beyond the power of his

lips to utter. And yet, here in her presence, the absolute necessity of telling her climbed like some peak into

Suddenly Michael put up his left hand and took away from his neck the arm that encircled it. But he did not

"I have to tell you one thing at once," he said. She looked at him, and the smile that burned in her eyes was

extinguished. From his gesture, from his tone, she knew that he spoke of something as serious as their love.

He did not falter, but looked her full in the face. There was no breaking it to her, or letting her go through the

"It concerns Hermann," he said. "It concerns Hermann and me. The last morning that I was in the trenches,

there was an attack at dawn from the German lines. They tried to rush our trench in the dark. Hermann led

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 arm on the table by him and, leaning his

head on it, covering his eyes he went on. But his voice, up till now quite steady, faltered and failed, as the

"He fell across the parapet close to me, "he said. . . . "I lifted him somehow into our trench. . . . I was

wounded, then. . . . He lay at the bottom of the trench, Sylvia. . . . And I would to God it had been I who lay

there. . . . Because I loved him. . . . Just at the end he opened his eyes, and saw me, and knew me. And he

saidoh, Sylvia, Sylvia!he said 'Lieber Gott, Michael. Good morning, old boy.' And then he died. . . . I

And at that Michael broke down utterly and completely for the first time since the morning of which he

spoke, and sobbed his heart out, while, unseen to him, Sylvia sat with hands clasped together and stretched

towards him. Just for a little she let him weep his fill, but her yearning for him would not be withstood. She