Michael
roundhis neck, fit to choke and drown him.
"Indeed, I am not jealous of Francis, father," he said, "and I speakquite truthfully when I say how I sympathise with you in having a sonlike me. I don't want to vex you. I want to make the best of myself."
Lord Ashbridge stood looking exactly like his statue in the market-placeat Ashbridge.
"If that is the case, Michael," he said, "it is within your power. Youwill write the letter I spoke about."
Michael paused a moment as if waiting for more. It did not seem to himpossible that his appeal should bear no further fruit than that. But itwas soon clear that there was no more to come.
"I will wish you good night, father," he said.
Sunday was a day on which Lord Ashbridge was almost more himself thanduring the week, so shining and public an example did he become ofthe British nobleman. Instead of having breakfast, according to themiddle-class custom, rather later than usual, that solid sausagy mealwas half an hour earlier, so that all the servants, except those whosepresence in the house was imperatively necessary for purposes of lunch,should go to church. Thus "Old George" and Lord Ashbridge's private boatwere exceedingly busy for the half-hour preceding church time, the lastboat-load holding the family, whose arrival was the signal for serviceto begin. Lady Ashbridge, however, always went on earlier, for shepresided at the organ with the long, camel-like back turned towards thecongregation, and started playing a slow, melancholy voluntary when theboy who blew the bellows said to her in an ecclesiastical whisper: "Hislordship has arrived, my lady." Those of the household who could sing(singing being construed in the sense of making a loud and cheerfulnoise in the throat) clustered in the choir-pews near the organ, whilethe family sat in a large, square box, with a stove in the centre, amplysupplied with prayer-books of the time when even Protestants might prayfor Queen Caroline. Behind them, separated from the rest of the churchby an ornamental ironwork grille, was the Comber chapel, in whichantiquarians took nearly as much pleasure as Lord Ashbridge himself.Here reclined a glorious company of sixteenth century knights, withtheir honourable ladies at their sides, unyielding marble bolsters attheir heads, and grotesque dogs at their feet. Later, when their peeragewas conferred, they lost a little of their yeoman simplicity, and becameperuked and robed and breeched; one, indeed, in the age of George III.,who was blessed with poetical aspirations, appeared in bare feet and aRoman toga with a scroll of manuscript in his hand; while later again,mere tablets on the walls commemorated their almost uncanny virtues.
And just on the other side of the grille, but a step away, sat thepresent-day representatives of the line, while Lady Ashbridge finishedthe last bars of her voluntary, Lord Ashbridge himself and his sister,large and smart and comely, and Michael beside them, short and heavy,with his soul full of the aspirations his father neither could nor caredto understand. According to his invariable custom, Lord Ashbridge readthe lessons in a loud, sonorous voice, his large, white hands graspingthe wing-feathers of the brass eagle, and a great carnation in hisbuttonhole; and when the time came for the offertory he put a sovereignin the open plate himself, and proceeded with his minuet-like step to goround the church and collect the gifts of the encouraged congregation.He followed all the prayers in his book, he made the responses in avoice nearly as loud as that in which he read the lessons; he sang thehymns with a curious buzzing sound, and never for a moment did he losesight of the fact that he was the head of the Comber family, doing hisduty as the custom of the Combers was, and setting an example of godlypiety. Afterwards, as usual, he would change his black coat, eat a goodlunch, stroll round the gardens (for he had nothing to say to golf onSunday), and in the evening the clergyman would dine with him, andwould be requested to say grace both before and after the meal. He knewexactly the proper mode of passing the Sunday for the landlord on hiscountry estate, and when Lord Ashbridge knew that a thing was proper hedid it with invariable precision.
Michael, of course, was in disgrace; his father, pending some furthercourse of action, neither spoke to him nor looked at him; indeed, itseemed doubtful whether he would hand him the offertory plate, andit was perhaps a pity that he unbent even to this extent, for Michaelhappened to have none of the symbols of thankfulness about his person,and he saw a slight quiver pass through Aunt Barbara's hymn-book. Aftera rather portentous lunch, however, there came some relief, for hisfather did not ask his company on the usual Sunday afternoon stroll, andAunt Barbara never walked at all unless she was obliged. In consequence,when the thunderstorm had stepped airily away across the park, Michaeljoined her on the terrace, with the intention of talking the situationover with her.
Aunt Barbara was perfectly willing to do this, and she opened thediscussion very pleasantly with peals of laughter.
"My dear, I delight in you," she said; "and altogether this is the mostentertaining day I have ever spent here. Combers are supposed to be veryserious, solid people, but for unconscious humour there isn't a familyin England or even in the States to compare with them. Our lunch justnow; if you could put it into a satirical comedy called The Aristocracyit would make the fortune of any theatre."
A dawning smile began to break through Michael's tragedy face.
"I suppose it was rather funny," he said. "But really I'm wretched aboutit, Aunt Barbara."
"My dear, what is there to be wretched about? You might have beenwretched if you had found you couldn't stand up to your father, but Igather, though I know nothing directly, that you did. At least, yourmother has said to me three times, twice on the way to church and oncecoming back: 'Michael has vexed his father very much.' And the offertoryplate, my dear, and, as I was saying, lunch! I am in disgrace too,because I said perfectly plainly yesterday that I was on your side; andthere we were at lunch, with your father apparently unable to see eitheryou or me, and unconscious of our presence. Fancy pretending not to seeme! You can't help seeing me, a large, bright object like me! And whatwill happen next? That's what tickles me to death, as they say on myside of the Atlantic. Will he gradually begin to perceive us again, likeobjects looming through a fog, or shall we come into view suddenly, asif going round a corner? And you are just as funny, my dear, with yourlong face, and air of depressed determination. Why be heavy, Michael? Somany people are heavy, and none of them can tell you why."
It was impossible not to feel the unfreezing effect of this. Michaelthawed to it, as he would have thawed to Francis.
"Perhaps they can't help it, Aunt Barbara," he said. "At least, I know Ican't. I really wish I could learn how to. I--I don't see the funny sideof things till it is pointed out. I thought lunch a sort of hell, youknow. Of course, it was funny, his appearing not to see either ofus. But it stands for more than that; it stands for his completemisunderstanding of me."
Aunt Barbara had the sense to see that the real Michael was speaking.When people were being unreal, when they were pompous or adoptingattitudes, she could attend to nothing but their absurdity, whichengrossed her altogether. But she never laughed at real things; realthings were not funny, but were facts.
"He quite misunderstands," went on Michael, with the eagerness withwhich the shy welcome comprehension. "He thinks I can make my mindlike his if I choose; and if I don't choose, or rather can't choose, hethinks that his wishes, his authority, should be sufficient to makeme act as if it was. Well, I won't do that. He may go on,"--and thatpleasant smile lit up Michael's plain face--"he may go on being unawareof my presence as long as he pleases. I am very sorry it should be so,but I can't help it. And the worst of it is, that opposition of thatsort--his sort--makes me more determined than ever."
Aunt Barbara nodded.
"And your friends?" she asked. "What will they think?"
Michael looked at her quite simply and directly.
"Friends?" he said. "I haven't got any."
"Ah, my dear, that's nonsense!" she said.
"I wish it was. Oh, Francis is a friend, I know. He thinks me an oddold thing, but he likes me. Other people don't. And I can't see why theyshould. I'm su
re it's my fault. It's because I'm heavy. You said I was,yourself."
"Then I was a great ass," remarked Aunt Barbara. "You wouldn't be heavywith people who understood you. You aren't heavy with me, for instance;but, my dear, lead isn't in it when you are with your father."
"But what am I to do, if I'm like that?" asked the boy.
She held up her large, fat hand, and marked the points off on herfingers.
"Three things," she said. "Firstly, get away from people who don'tunderstand you, and whom, incidentally, you don't understand. Secondly,try to see how ridiculous you and everybody else always are; and,thirdly, which is much the most