thetop of the piano, and, playing for herself, emitted faint treble soundswhich they knew to be "The Soldier's Farewell."
Then presently her nurse came for her to lie down before dinner, and shewas inclined to be tearful and refuse to go till Michael made it clearthat it was his express and sovereign will that she should do so. Thenvery audibly she whispered to him. "May I ask her to give me a kiss?"she said. "She looks so kind, Michael, I don't think she would mind."
Sylvia went back home with a little heartache for Michael, wondering,if she was in his place, if her mother, instead of being absorbed in hernovels, demanded such incessant attentions, whether she had sufficientlove in her heart to render them with the exquisite simplicity, thetender patience that Michael showed. Well as she knew him, greatly asshe liked him, she had not imagined that he, or indeed any man couldhave behaved quite like that. There seemed no effort at all about it;he was not trying to be patient; he had the sense of "patience's perfectwork" natural to him; he did not seem to have to remind himself that hismother was ill, and thus he must be gentle with her. He was gentle withher because he was in himself gentle. And yet, though his behaviour wasno effort to him, she guessed how wearying must be the continual strainof the situation itself. She felt that she would get cross from merefatigue, however excellent her intentions might be, however willingthe spirit. And no one, so she had understood from Barbara, could takeMichael's place. In his occasional absences his mother was fretful andmiserable, and day by day Michael left her less. She would sit close tohim when he was practising--a thing that to her or to Hermann would haverendered practice impossible--and if he wrestled with one hand over adifficult bar, she would take the other into hers, would ask him if hewas not getting tired, would recommend him to rest for a little; and yetMichael, who last summer had so stubbornly insisted on leading his ownlife, and had put his determination into effect in the teeth of alldomestic opposition, now with more than cheerfulness laid his own lifeaside in order to look after his mother. Sylvia felt that the realheroisms of life were not so much the fine heady deeds which are soobviously admirable, as such serene steadfastness, such unvaryingpatience as that which she had just seen.
Her whole soul applauded Michael, and yet below her applause was thisheartache for him, the desire to be able to help him to bear the burdenwhich must be so heavy, though he bore it so blithely. But in the verynature of things there was but one way in which she could help him, andin that she was powerless. She could not give him what he wanted. Butshe longed to be able to.
CHAPTER XI
It was a morning of early March, and Michael, looking out from thedining-room window at the house in Curzon Street, where he had justbreakfasted alone, was smitten with wonder and a secret ecstasy, for hesuddenly saw and felt that it was winter no longer, but that spring hadcome. For the last week the skies had screamed with outrageous windsand had been populous with flocks of sullen clouds that dischargedthemselves in sleet and snowy rain, and half last night, for he hadslept very badly, he had heard the dashing of showers, as of wind-drivenspray, against the window-panes, and had listened to the fierce rattlingof the frames. Towards morning he had slept, and during those hours itseemed that a new heaven and a new earth had come into being; vitallyand essentially the world was a different affair altogether.
At the back of the house on to which these windows looked was a gardenof some half acre, a square of somewhat sooty grass, bounded by highwalls, with a few trees at the further end. Into it, too, had themessage that thrilled through his bones penetrated, and this littleoasis of doubtful grass and blackened shrubs had a totally differentaspect to-day from that which it had worn all those weeks. The sparrowsthat had sat with fluffed-up feathers in corners sheltered from thegales, were suddenly busy and shrilly vocal, chirruping and draggingabout straws, and flying from limb to limb of the trees with twigs intheir beaks. For the first time he noticed that little verdant cabochonsof folded leaf had globed themselves on the lilac bushes below thewindow, crocuses had budded, and in the garden beds had shot up thepushing spikes of bulbs, while in the sooty grass he could see specksand patches of vivid green, the first growth of the year.
He opened the window and strolled out. The whole taste and savour of theair was changed, and borne on the primrose-coloured sunshine came thesmell of damp earth, no longer dead and reeking of the decay of autumn,but redolent with some new element, something fertile and fecund,something daintily, indefinably laden with the secret of life andrestoration. The grey, lumpy clouds were gone, and instead chariots ofdazzling white bowled along the infinite blue expanse, harnessed to thesouthwest wind. But, above all, the sparrows dragged straws to and fro,loudly chirruping. All spring was indexed there.
For a moment Michael was entranced with the exquisite moment, and stoodsunning his soul in spring. But then he felt the fetters of his ownindividual winter heavy on him again, and he could only see what washappening without feeling it. For that moment he had felt the leap inhis blood, but the next he was conscious again of the immensefatigue that for weeks had been growing on him. The task which he hadvoluntarily taken on himself had become no lighter with habit, theincessant attendance on his mother and the strain of it got heavier dayby day. For some time now her childlike content in his presence hadbeen clouded and, instead, she was constantly depressed and constantlyquerulous with him, finding fault with his words and his silences, andin her confused and muffled manner blaming him and affixing sinistermotives to his most innocent actions. But she was still entirelydependent on him, and if he left her for an hour or two, she would waitin an agony of anxiety for his return, and when he came back overwhelmedhim with tearful caresses and the exaction of promises not to go awayagain. Then, feeling certain of him once more, she would start again oncomplaints and reproaches. Her doctor had warned him that it lookedas if some new phase of her illness was approaching, which mightnecessitate the complete curtailment of her liberty; but day hadsucceeded to day and she still remained in the same condition, neitherbetter nor worse, but making every moment a burden to Michael.
It had been necessary that Sylvia should discontinue her visits, forsome weeks ago Lady Ashbridge had suddenly taken a dislike to her, and,when she came, would sit in silent and lofty displeasure, speaking toher as little as possible, and treating her with a chilling and awfulpoliteness. Michael had enough influence with his mother to prevent hertelling the girl what her crime had been, which was her refusal tomarry him; but, when he was alone with his mother, he had to listen totorrents of these complaints. Lady Ashbridge, with a wealth of languagethat had lain dormant in her all her life, sarcastically supposed thatMiss Falbe was a princess in disguise ("very impenetrable disguise, forI'm sure she reminds me of a barmaid more than a princess"), and thoughtthat such a marriage would be beneath her. Or, another time, she hintedthat Miss Falbe might be already married; indeed, this seemed a veryplausible explanation of her attitude. She desired, in fact, that Sylviashould not come to see her any more, and now, when she did not, therewas scarcely a day in which Lady Ashbridge would not talk in a pointedmanner about pretended friends who leave you alone, and won't even takethe trouble to take a two-penny 'bus (if they are so poor as all that)to come from Chelsea to Curzon Street.
Michael knew that his mother's steps were getting nearer and nearer tothat border line which separates the sane from the insane, and with allthe wearing strain of the days as they passed, had but the one desirein his heart, namely, to keep her on the right side for as long as washumanly possible. But something might happen, some new symptom developwhich would make it impossible for her to go on living with him as shedid now, and the dread of that moment haunted his waking hours and hisdreams. Two months ago her doctor had told him that, for the sake ofeveryone concerned, it was to be hoped that the progress of her diseasewould be swift; but, for his part, Michael passionately disclaimed sucha wish. In spite of her constant complaints and strictures, she wasstill possessed of her love for him, and, wearing though every day was,he grudged the passing of the hours t
hat brought her nearer to the awfulboundary line. Had a deed been presented to him for his signature, whichbound him indefinitely to his mother's service, on the condition thatshe got no worse, his pen would have spluttered with his eagerness tosign.
In consequence of his mother's dislike to Sylvia, Michael had hardlyseen her during this last month. Once, when owing to some small physicaldisturbance, Lady Ashbridge had gone to bed early on a Sunday evening,he had gone to one of the Falbes' weekly parties, and had tried to flinghimself with enjoyment into the friendly welcoming atmosphere. But forthe present, he felt himself detached from it all, for this life withhis mother was close round him with a sort of nightmare obsession,through which outside influence and desire could only faintly trickle.He knew that the other life was there, he knew that in his heart helonged for Sylvia as much as ever; but, in his present detachment,