anxiety and alarm. Each separate thingthat his mother said was sensible enough, but in the sum they werenonsense.
"You have been in London since September," she went on. "That is a longtime to be in London. Tell me about your life there. Do you work hard?Not too hard, I hope?"
"No! hard enough to keep me busy," he said.
"Tell me about it all. I am afraid I have not been a very good mother toyou; I have not entered into your life enough. I want to do so now.But I don't think you ever wanted to confide in me. It is sad when sonsdon't confide in their mothers. But I daresay it was my fault, and now Iknow so little about you."
She paused a moment, stroking her dog's ears, which twitched under hertouch.
"I hope you are happy, Michael," she said. "I don't think I am so happyas I used to be. But don't tell your father; I feel sure he does notnotice it, and it would vex him. But I want you to be happy; you usednot to be when you were little; you were always sensitive and queer. Butyou do seem happier now, and that's a good thing."
Here again this was all sensible, when taken in bits, but its aspect wasdifferent when considered together. She looked at Michael anxiously amoment, and then drew her chair closer to him, laying her thin, veinedhand, sparkling with many rings, on his knee.
"But it wasn't I who made you happier," she said, "and that's sodreadful. I never made anybody happy. Your father always made himselfhappy, and he liked being himself, but I suspect you haven't liked beingyourself, poor Michael. But now that you're living the life you chose,which vexes your father, is it better with you?"
The shyness had gone from the gaze that he had seen her direct at himat dinner, which fugitively fluttered away when she saw that it wasobserved, and now that it was bent so unwaveringly on him he saw shiningthrough it what he had never seen before, namely, the mother-lovewhich he had missed all his life. Now, for the first time, he saw it;recognising it, as by divination, when, with ray serene and untroubled,it burst through the mists that seemed to hang about his mother's mind.Before, noticing her change of manner, her restless questions, he hadbeen vaguely alarmed, and as they went on the alarm had becomemore pronounced; but at this moment, when there shone forth themother-instinct which had never come out or blossomed in her life, buthad been overlaid completely with routine and conventionality, renderingit too indolent to put forth petals, Michael had no thought but for thatwhich she had never given him yet, and which, now it began to expandbefore him, he knew he had missed all his life.
She took up his big hand that lay on his knee and began timidly strokingit.
"Since you have been away," she said, "and since your father has beenvexed with you, I have begun to see how lonely you must have been. Whattaught me that, I am afraid, was only that I have begun to feel lonely,too. Nobody wants me; even Petsy, when she died, didn't want me to benear her, and then it began to strike me that perhaps you might want me.There was no one else, and who should want me if my son did not? I nevergave you the chance before, God forgive me, and now perhaps it is toolate. You have learned to do without me."
That was bitterly true; the truth of it stabbed Michael. On his side,as he knew, he had made no effort either, or if he had they had been butchildish efforts, easily repulsed. He had not troubled about it, and ifshe was to blame, the blame was his also. She had been slow to show themother-instinct, but he had been just as wanting in the tenderness ofthe son.
He was profoundly touched by this humble timidity, by the sincerity,vague but unquestionable, that lay behind it.
"It's never too late, is it?" he said, bending down and kissing the thinwhite hands that held his. "We are in time, after all, aren't we?"
She gave a little shiver.
"Oh, don't kiss my hands, Michael," she said. "It hurts me that youshould do that. But it is sweet of you to say that I am not too late,after all. Michael, may I just take you in my arms--may I?"
He half rose.
"Oh, mother, how can you ask?" he said.
"Then let me do it. No, my darling, don't move. Just sit still as youare, and let me just get my arms about you, and put my head on yourshoulder, and hold me close like that for a moment, so that I canrealise that I am not too late."
She got up, and, leaning over him, held him so for a moment, pressingher cheek close to his, and kissing him on the eyes and on the mouth.
"Ah, that is nice," she said. "It makes my loneliness fall away from me.I am not quite alone any more. And now, if you are not tired will youlet me talk to you a little more, and learn a little more about you?"
She pulled her chair again nearer him, so that sitting there she couldclasp his arm.
"I want your happiness, dear," she said, "but there is so little nowthat I can do to secure it. I must put that into other hands. You aretwenty-five, Michael; you are old enough to get married. All Combersmarry when they are twenty-five, don't they? Isn't there some girl youwould like to be yours? But you must love her, you know, you must wanther, you mustn't be able to do without her. It won't do to marry justbecause you are twenty-five."
It would no more have entered into Michael's head this morning to tellto his mother about Sylvia than to have discussed counterpoint with her.But then this morning he had not been really aware that he had a mother.But to tell her now was not unthinkable, but inevitable.
"Yes, there is a girl whom I can't do without," he said.
Lady Ashbridge's face lit up.
"Ah, tell me about her--tell me about her," she said. "You want her, youcan't do without her; that is the right wife for you."
Michael caught at his mother's hand as it stroked his sleeve.
"But she is not sure that she can do with me," he said.
Her face was not dimmed at this.
"Oh, you may be sure she doesn't know her own mind," she said. "Girls sooften don't. You must not be down-hearted about it. Who is she? Tell meabout her."
"She's the sister of my great friend, Hermann Falbe," he said, "whoteaches me music."
This time the gladness faded from her.
"Oh, my dear, it will vex your father again," she said, "that you shouldwant to marry the sister of a music-teacher. It will never do to vex himagain. Is she not a lady?"
Michael laughed.
"But certainly she is," he said. "Her father was German, her mother wasa Tracy, just as well-born as you or I."
"How odd, then, that her brother should have taken to giving musiclessons. That does not sound good. Perhaps they are poor, and certainlythere is no disgrace in being poor. And what is her name?"
"Sylvia," said Michael. "You have probably heard of her; she is the MissFalbe who made such a sensation in London last season by her singing."
The old outlook, the old traditions were beginning to come to thesurface again in poor Lady Ashbridge's mind.
"Oh, my dear!" she said. "A singer! That would vex your father terribly.Fancy the daughter of a Miss Tracy becoming a singer. And yet you wanther--that seems to me to matter most of all."
Then came a step at the door; it opened an inch or two, and Michaelheard his father's voice.
"Is your mother with you, Michael?" he asked.
At that Lady Ashbridge got up. For one second she clung to her son, andthen, disengaging herself, froze up like the sudden congealment of aspring.
"Yes, Robert," she said. "I was having a little talk to Michael."
"May I come in?"
"It's our secret," she whispered to Michael.
"Yes, come in, father," he said.
Lord Ashbridge stood towering in the doorway.
"Come, my dear," he said, not unkindly, "it's time for you to go tobed."
She had become the mask of herself again.
"Yes, Robert," she said. "I suppose it must be late. I will come. Oh,there's Petsy. Will you ring, Michael? then Fedden will come and takehim to bed. He sleeps with Fedden."
CHAPTER IX
Michael, in desperate conversational efforts next morning at breakfast,mentioned the fact that the German Emperor had engage
d him in asubstantial talk at Munich, and had recommended him to pass the winterat Berlin. It was immediately obvious that he rose in his father'sestimation, for, though no doubt primarily the fact that Michael washis son was the cause of this interest, it gave Michael a sort oftestimonial also to his respectability. If the Emperor had thoughtthat his taking up a musical career was indelibly disgraceful--as LordAshbridge himself had done--he would certainly not have made himselfso agreeable. On anyone of Lord Ashbridge's essential and deep-rootedsnobbishness this could not fail to make a certain effect; his chillypoliteness to Michael sensibly thawed; you