But Michael was toowise to put himself into places where he could be pointedly ignored, andthe resplendent dinner, with its six footmen and its silver service,was not really more joyless than usual. But his father's majesticdispleasure was more apparent when the three men sat alone afterwards,and it was in dead silence that port was pushed round and cigaretteshanded. Francis, it is true, made a couple of efforts to enliven things,but his remarks produced no response whatever from his uncle, and hesubsided into himself, thinking with regret of what an amusing eveninghe would have had if he had only stopped in town. But when they roseMichael signed to his cousin to go on, and planted himself firmly in thepath to the door. It was evident that his father did not mean to speakto him, but he could not push by him or walk over him.
"There is one thing I want to say to you, father," said he. "I have toldmy mother that our interview this morning was quite amicable. I do notsee why she should be distressed by knowing that it was not."
His father's face softened a moment.
"Yes, I agree to that," he said.
As far as that went, the compact was observed, and whenever LadyAshbridge was present her husband made a point of addressing a fewremarks to Michael, but there their intercourse ended. Michael foundopportunity to explain to Aunt Barbara what had happened, suggestingas a consolatory simile the domestic difficulties of the seals at theZoological Gardens, and was pleased to find her recognise the aptness ofthis description. But heaviest of all on the spirits of the whole partysat the anxiety about Lady Ashbridge. There could be no doubt thatsome cerebral degeneration was occurring, and Lady Barbara's urgentrepresentation to her brother had the effect of making him promiseto take her up to London without delay after Christmas, and let aspecialist see her. For the present the pious fraud practised on herthat Michael and his father had had "a good talk" together, and wereexcellent friends, sufficed to render her happy and cheerful. Shehad long, dim talks, full of repetition, with Michael, whose presenceappeared to make her completely content, and when he was out or awayfrom her she would sit eagerly waiting for his return. Petsy, to thegreat benefit of his health, got somewhat neglected by her; her wholenature and instincts were alight with the mother-love that had burntso late into flame, with this tragic accompaniment of derangement. Sheseemed to be groping her way back to the days when Michael was a littleboy, and she was a young woman; often she would seat herself at herpiano, if Michael was not there to play to her, and in a thin, quaveringvoice sing the songs of twenty years ago. She would listen to hisplaying, beating time to his music, and most of all she loved the hourwhen the day was drawing in, and the first shadow and flame of dusk andfirelight; then, with her hand in his, sitting in her room, wherethey would not be interrupted, she would whisper fresh inquiries aboutSylvia, offering to go herself to the girl and tell her how lovableher suitor was. She lived in a dim, subaqueous sort of consciousness,physically quite well, and mentally serene in the knowledge that Michaelwas in the house, and would presently come and talk to her.
For the others it was dismal enough; this shadow, that was to her awatery sunlight, lay over them all--this, and the further quarrel,unknown to her, between Michael and his father. When they all met, asat meal times, there was the miserable pretence of friendliness andcomfortable ease kept up, for fear of distressing Lady Ashbridge. Itwas dreary work for all concerned, but, luckily, not difficult ofaccomplishment. A little chatter about the weather, the merest smallchange of conversation, especially if that conversation was held betweenMichael and his father, was sufficient to wreathe her in smiles, andshe would, according to habit, break in with some wrecking remark, thatentailed starting this talk all afresh. But when she left the room aglowering silence would fall; Lord Ashbridge would pick up a book orleave the room with his high-stepping walk and erect head, the pictureof insulted dignity.
Of the three he was far most to be pitied, although the situationwas the direct result of his own arrogance and self-importance; butarrogance and self-importance were as essential ingredients of hischaracter as was humour of Aunt Barbara's. They were very awkward andtiresome qualities, but this particular Lord Ashbridge would haveno existence without them. He was deeply and mortally offended withMichael; that alone was sufficient to make a sultry and stiflingatmosphere, and in addition to that he had the burden of his anxietyabout his wife. Here came an extra sting, for in common humanity he had,by appearing to be friends with Michael, to secure her serenity, andthis could only be done by the continued profanation of his own highlyproper and necessary attitude towards his son. He had to addressfriendly words to Michael that really almost choked him; he had topractise cordiality with this wretch who wanted to marry the sister ofa music-master. Michael had pulled up all the old traditions, thatcarefully-tended and pompous flower-garden, as if they had been weeds,and thrown them in his father's face. It was indeed no wonder that, inhis wife's absence, he almost burst with indignation over the desecratedbeds. More than that, his own self-esteem was hurt by his wife's fear ofhim, just as if he had been a hard and unkind husband to her, which hehad not been, but merely a very self-absorbed and dominant one, whilethe one person who could make her quite happy was his despised son.Michael's person, Michael's tastes, Michael's whole presence andcharacter were repugnant to him, and yet Michael had the power which, todo Lord Ashbridge justice, he would have given much to be possessed ofhimself, of bringing comfort and serenity to his wife.
On the afternoon of the day following Christmas the two cousins had beenacross the estuary to Ashbridge together. Francis, who, in spite of hishabitual easiness of disposition and general good temper, had found theconditions of anger and anxiety quite intolerable, had settled to leavenext day, instead of stopping till the end of the week, and Michaelacquiesced in this without any sense of desertion; he had really onlywondered why Francis had stopped three nights, instead of finding urgentprivate business in town after one. He realised also, somewhat withsurprise, that Francis was "no good" when there was trouble about; therewas no one so delightful when there was, so to speak, a contest of whoshould enjoy himself the most, and Francis invariably won. But ifthe subject of the contest was changed, and the prize given for theindividual who, under depressing circumstances, should contrive to showthe greatest serenity of aspect, Francis would have lost with an evengreater margin. Michael, in fact, was rather relieved than otherwiseat his cousin's immediate departure, for it helped nobody to see themartyred St. Sebastian, and it was merely odious for St. Sebastianhimself. In fact, at this moment, when Michael was rowing them backacross the full-flooded estuary, Francis was explaining this with hiscustomary lucidity.
"I don't do any good here, Mike," he said. "Uncle Robert doesn't speakto me any more than he does to you, except when Aunt Marion is there.And there's nothing going on, is there? I practically asked if I mightgo duck-shooting to-day, and Uncle Robert merely looked out of thewindow. But if anybody, specially you, wanted me to stop, why, of courseI would."
"But I don't," said Michael.
"Thanks awfully. Gosh, look at those ducks! They're just wanting to beshot. But there it is, then. Certainly Uncle Robert doesn't want me, norAunt Marion. I say, what do they think is the matter with her?"
Michael looked round, then took, rather too late, another pull on hisoars, and the boat gently grated on the pebbly mud at the side of thelanding-place. Francis's question, the good-humoured insouciance of itgrated on his mind in rather similar fashion.
"We don't know yet," he said. "I expect we shall all go back to town ina couple of days, so that she may see somebody."
Francis jumped out briskly and gracefully, and stood with his hands inhis pockets while Michael pushed off again, and brought the boat intoits shed.
"I do hope it's nothing serious," he said. "She looks quite well,doesn't she? I daresay it's nothing; but she's been alone, hasn't she,with Uncle Robert all these weeks. That would give her the hump, too."
Michael felt a sudden spasm of impatience at these elegant and consolingreflections. But now, in the light of h
is own increasing maturity, hesaw how hopeless it was to feel Francis's deficiencies, his entire lackof deep feeling. He was made like that; and if you were fond of anybodythe only possible way of living up to your affection was to attachyourself to their qualities.
They strolled a little way in silence.
"And why did you tell Uncle Robert about Sylvia Falbe?" asked Francis."I can't understand that. For the present, anyhow, she had refused you.There was nothing to tell him about. If I was fond of a girl like that Ishould say nothing about it, if I knew my people would disapprove, untilI had got her."
Michael laughed.
"Oh, yes you would," he said, "if you were to use your own words,fond of her 'like that.' You couldn't