of June, and the warmth and murmur of thefull-blown summer filled the air. The day had so far declined that therays of the sun, level in its setting, poured slantingly in throughthe big window to the north, and shining through the foliage of theplane-trees outside made a diaper of rosy illuminated spots and angledshadows on the whitewashed wall. As the leaves stirred in the eveningbreeze, this pattern shifted and twinkled; now, as the wind blew aside abunch 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 againfaintly stirring. Through the window to the south, which Hermann hadcaused to be cut there, since the studio was not used for paintingpurposes, Michael could see into the patch of high-walled garden, whereMrs. Falbe was sitting in a low basket chair, completely absorbed in abook of high-born and ludicrous adventures. She had made a mild attemptwhen she found that Michael intended to wait for Sylvia's return toentertain him till she came; but, with a little oblique encouragement,remarking on the beauty and warmth of the evening, and the pleasure ofsitting out of doors, Michael had induced her to go out again, and leavehim alone in the studio, free to live over again that which, twenty-fourhours ago, had changed life for him.
He reconstructed it as he sat on the sofa and dwelt on the pearl-momentsof 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 oppositethe fireplace they had come face to face. She held in her hand a smallwhite rose which she had plucked in the tiny garden here in the middleof London. It was not a very fine specimen, but it was a rose, and shehad said in answer to his depreciatory glance: "But you must see it whenI have washed it. One has to wash London flowers."
Then . . . the miracle happened. Michael, with the hand that had justtaken hers, stroked a petal of this prized vegetable, with no thought inhis mind stronger than the thoughts that had been indigenous there sinceChristmas. As his finger first touched the rim of the town-bred petals,undersized yet not quite lacking in "rose-quality," he had intendednothing more than to salute the flower, as Sylvia made her apology forit. "One has to wash London flowers." But as he touched it he lookedup at her, and the quiet, usual song of his thoughts towards her grewsuddenly loud and stupefyingly sweet. It was as if from the vacanthive-door the bees swarmed. In her eyes, as they met his, he thoughthe saw an expectancy, a welcome, and his hand, instead of stroking therose-petals, closed on the rose and on the hand that held it, and keptthem close imprisoned and strongly gripped. He could not remember if hehad spoken any word, but he had seen that in her face which rendered allspeech unnecessary, and, knowing in the bones and the blood of him thathe was right, he kissed her. And then she had said, "Yes, Michael."
His hand still was tight on hers that held the crumpled rose, and whenhe opened it, lover-like, to stroke and kiss it, there was a spot ofblood in the palm of it, where a rose-thorn had pricked her, just onedrop of Sylvia's blood. As he kissed it, he had wiped it away withthe tip of his tongue between his lips, and she smiling had said, "Oh,Michael, how silly!"
They had sat together on the sofa where this afternoon he sat alonewaiting for her. Every moment of that half hour was as distinct as theoutline of trees and hills just before a storm, and yet it was stillentirely dream-like. He knew it had happened, for nothing but thehappening of it would account now for the fact of himself; but, thoughthere was nothing in the world so true, there was nothing so incredible.Yet it was all as clean-cut in his mind as etched lines, and roundeach line sprang flowers and singing birds. For a long space there wassilence after they had sat down, and then she said, "I think I alwaysloved you, Michael, only I didn't know it. . . ." Thereafter, foolishlove talk: he had claimed a superiority there, for he had always lovedher and had always known it. Much time had been wasted owing to herignorance . . . she ought to have known. But all the time that existedwas theirs now. In all the world there was no more time than what theyhad. The crumpled rose had its petals rehabilitated, the thorn that hadpricked her was peeled off. They wondered if Hermann had come in yet.Then, by some vague process of locomotion, they found themselves atthe piano, and with her arm around his neck Sylvia has whispered half averse of the song of herself. . . .
They became a little more definite over lover-confessions. Michael had,so to speak, nothing to confess: he had loved all along--he had wantedher all along; there never had been the least pretence or nonsense aboutit. Her path was a little more difficult to trace, but once it had beentraversed it was clear enough. She had liked him always; she had feltsister-like from the moment when Hermann brought him to the house, andsister-like she had continued to feel, even when Michael had definitelydeclared there was "no thoroughfare" there. She had missed thatrelationship when it stopped: she did not mind telling him that now,since it was abandoned by them both; but not for the world would shehave confessed before that she had missed it. She had loved being askedto come and see his mother, and it was during those visits that she hadhelped to pile the barricade across the "sister-thoroughfare" with herown hands. She began to share Michael's sense of the impossibility ofthat road. They could not walk down it together, for they had to beeither more or less to each other than that. And, during these visits,she had begun to understand (and her face a little hid itself) whatMichael's love meant. She saw it manifested towards his mother; she wastaught 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, andif he still wanted anything else, she supposed (so she supposed) thatsome time he would mention that fact. Yes: she began to hope that hewould not be very long about it. . . .
Michael went over this very deliberately as he sat waiting for hertwenty-four hours later. He rehearsed this moment and that over and overagain: in mind he followed himself and Sylvia across to the piano, nothurrying their steps, and going through the verse of the song shesang at the pace at which she actually sang it. And, as he dreamed andrecollected, he heard a little stir in the quiet house, and Sylvia came.
They met just as they met yesterday in front of the fireplace.
"Oh, Michael, have you been waiting long?" she said.
"Yes, hours, or perhaps a couple of minutes. I don't know."
"Ah, but which? If hours, I shall apologise, and then excuse myself bysaying that you must have come earlier than you intended. If minutes Ishall praise myself for being so exceedingly punctual."
"Minutes, then," said he. "I'll praise you instead. Praise is moreconvincing if somebody else does it."
"Yes, but you aren't somebody else. Now be sensible. Have you done allthe things you told me you were going to do?"
"Yes."
Sylvia released her hands from his.
"Tell me, then," she said. "You've seen your father?"
There was no cloud on Michael's face. There was such sunlight where hissoul sat that no shadow could fall across it.
"Oh, yes, I saw him," he said.
He captured Sylvia's hand again.
"And what is more he saw me, so to speak," he said. "He realised that Ihad an existence independent of him. I used to be a--a sort of clock tohim; he could put its hands to point to any hour he chose. Well, he hasrealised--he has really--that I am ticking along on my own account.He was quite respectful, not only to me, which doesn't matter, but toyou--which does." Michael laughed, as he plaited his fingers in withhers.
"My father is so comic," he said, "and unlike most great humourists hishumour is absolutely unconscious. He was perfectly well aware that Imeant to marry you, for I told him that last Christmas, adding that youdid not mean to marry me. So since then I think he's got used to you.Used to you--fancy getting used to you!"
"Especially since he had never seen me," said the girl.
"That makes it less odd. Getting used to you after seeing you would bemuch more incredible. I was saying that in a way he had got used toyou, just as he's got used to my being a person, and not a clock on hischimney-piece, and what seems to have made so much difference is whatAunt Barbara told him la
st night, namely, that your mother was a Tracy.Sylvia, don't let it be too much for you, but in a certain far-awaymanner he realises that you are 'one of us.' Isn't he a comic? He'sgoing to make the best of you, it appears. To make the best of you! Youcan't beat that, you know. In fact, he told me to ask if he might comeand pay his respects to your mother to-morrow.
"And what about my singing, my career?" she asked.
Michael laughed again.
"He was funny about that also," he said. "My father took it absolutelyfor granted that having made this tremendous social advance, youwould bury your past, all but the Tracy part of it, as if it hadbeen something disgraceful which the exalted Comber family agreed tooverlook."
"And what did you say?"
"I? Oh, I told him that, of course, you would do as you pleased aboutthat, but that for my part I should urge you most strongly to do nothingof the kind."
"And he?"
"He got four inches taller. What is so odd is that as long as I neveropposed my father's wishes, as long as I was the clock on the chimneypiece, I was terrified at him. The thought of opposing myself to himmade my knees quake. But the moment I began doing so, I found there wasnothing to be frightened at."
Sylvia got up and began walking up and down the long room.
"But what am I to do about it, Michael?" she asked. "Oh, I blush whenI think of a conversation I had with Hermann about you, just beforeChristmas, when I knew you were going to propose to me. I said that Icould never give up my singing. Can you picture the self-importance ofthat? Why, it doesn't seem to me to matter two straws whether I door not. Naturally, I don't want to earn my living by it any more, butwhether I sing or not doesn't matter. And even as the words are in mymouth I try to imagine myself not singing any more, and I can't. It'sbecome part of me, and while I blush to think of what I said to Hermann,I wonder whether it's not true."
She came and sat down by him again.
"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'sart 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'svery best, whether one is singing professionally or not, but itis hardly possible. Why, the whole difference between amateurs andprofessionals is that amateurs sing charmingly and professionals justsing. Only they sing as well as they possibly can, not only because theylove it, but because if they don't they will be dropped on to, and ifthey continue not singing their best, will lose their place which theyhave 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 myselfcoming down to the Drill Hall at Brixton, extremely beautifullydressed, with rows of pearls, and arriving rather late, and just singingcharmingly. It's such a spur to know that serious musicians judge one'sperformance by the highest possible standard. It's so relaxing to thinkthat one can easily sing well enough, that one can delight ninety-ninehundredths of the audience without any real effort. I could sing 'TheLost Chord' and move the whole Drill Hall at Brixton to tears. But theremight be one man there who knew, you or Hermann or some other, and atthe end he would just shrug his shoulders ever so slightly, and I wouldwish I had never been born."
She paused a moment.
"I'll not sing any more at all, ever," she said, "or I must sing tothose who will take me seriously and judge me ruthlessly. To sing justwell 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, butotherwise as purposeless as a wandering mist.
"I was afraid it might be going to get chilly," she remarked. "After ahot day there is often a cool evening. Will you stop and dine, Lord--Imean, Michael?"
"Please; certainly!" said Michael.
"Then I hope there will be something for you to eat. Sylvia, is theresomething to eat? No doubt you will see to that, darling. I shall justrest upstairs for a little before dinner, and perhaps finish my book. Sopleased you are stopping."
She drifted towards the studio door, in thistledown fashion catching atcorners a little, and then moving smoothly on again, talking gently halfto herself, half to the others.
"And Hermann's not in yet, but if Lord--I mean, Michael, is going tostop here till dinnertime, it won't matter whether Hermann comes in intime to dress or not, as Michael is not dressed either. Oh, there is thepostman's knock! What a noise! I am not expecting any letters."
The knock in question, however, proved to be Hermann, who, as wasgenerally the case, had forgotten his latchkey. He ran into his motherat the studio door, and came and sat down, regardless of whether he waswanted or not, between the two on the sofa, and took an arm of each.
"I probably intrude," he said, "but such is my intention. I've just seenLady Barbara, who says that the shock has not been too much for Mike'sfather. That is a good thing; she says he is taking nourishment much asusual. I suppose I oughtn't to jest on so serious a subject, but Itook 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 timeof King John flirted, if no more, with a Comber. And what about yourcareer, Sylvia? Are you going to continue to urge your wild career,or not? I ask with a purpose, as Blackiston proposes we should give aconcert together in the third week in July. The Queen's Hall is vacantone afternoon, and he thinks we might sing and play to them. I'm on ifyou are. It will be about the last concert of the season, too, so weshall have to do our best. Otherwise we, or I, anyhow, will start againin the autumn with a black mark. By the way, are you going to startagain in the autumn? It wouldn't surprise me one bit to hear that youand Mike had been talking about just that."
"Don't be too clever to live, Hermann," said Sylvia.
"I don't propose to die, if you mean that. Oh, Blackiston had anothersuggestion also. He wanted to know if we would consider making a shorttour in Germany in the autumn. He says that the beloved Fatherland israther disposed to be interested in us. He thinks we should havegood audiences at Leipzig, and so on. There's a tendency, he says, torecognise poor England, a cordial intention, anyhow. I said that in yourcase there might be domestic considerations which--But I think I shallgo in any case. Lord, fancy playing in Germany to Germans again. Fancybeing listened to by a German audience; fancy if they approved."
Michael leaned forward, putting his elbow into Hermann's chest. EarlyDecember had already been mentioned as a date for their marriage, and asa pre-nuptial journey, this seemed to him a plan ecstatically ideal.
"Yes, Sylvia," he said. "The answer is yes. I shall come with you, youknow. I can see it; a triumphal procession, you two making noises, andme listening. A month's tour, Hermann. Middle of October till middle ofNovember. Yes, yes."
All his tremendous pride in her singing, dormant for the moment underthe wonder of his love, rose to the surface. He knew what her singingmeant to her, and, from their conversation together just now, how keenwas her eagerness for the strict judgment of those who knew, how sheloved that austere pinnacle of daylight. Here was an ideal opportunity;never yet, since she had won her place as a singer, had she sung inGermany, that Mecca of the musical artist, and in her case, the landfrom which she sprung. Had the scheme implied a postponement of theirmarriage, he would still have declared himself for it, for he unerringlyfelt for her in this; he knew intuitively what delicious beckoning thisheld for her.
"Yes, yes," he repeated, "I must have you do that, Sylvia. I don't carewhat Hermann wants or what you want. I want it."
"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, andrudely interrupted.
"No," he said. "It's a question for me. When the Fatherland hears thatI 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 withpride!"
It required, then, little debate, since all three wer
e agreed, beforeHermann was empowered with authority to make arrangements, and theyremained simultaneously talking till Mrs. Falbe, again drifting in,announced that the bell for dinner had sounded some minutes before. Shehad her finger in the last chapter of "Lady Ursula's Ordeal," and laidit face downwards on the table to resume again at the earliest possiblemoment. This opportunity was granted her when, at the close of dinner,coffee and the evening paper came in together. This Hermann opened atthe middle page.
"Hallo!" he said. "That's horrible! The Heir Apparent of the AustrianEmperor has been murdered at Serajevo. Servian plot, apparently."
"Oh, what a dreadful thing," said Mrs. Falbe, opening her book. "Poorman, what had he done?"
Hermann took a cigarette, frowning.
"It may be a match--" he began.
Mrs. Falbe diverted her attention from "Lady Ursula" for a moment.
"They are on the chimney-piece, dear," she said, thinking he spoke ofmaterial matches.
Michael felt that Hermann saw something, or conjectured somethingominous in this news, for he sat with knitted brow reading, and lettingthe match burn down.
"Yes; it seems that Servian officers are implicated," he said. "Andthere are materials enough already for a row between Austria and Serviawithout this."
"Those tiresome Balkan States," said Mrs. Falbe, slowly immersingherself like a diving submarine in her book. "They are alwaysquarrelling. Why doesn't Austria conquer them all and have done withit?"
This simple and striking solution of the whole Balkan question washer final contribution to the topic, for at this moment she becamecompletely submerged, and cut off, so to speak, from the outer world, inthe lucent depths of Lady Ursula.
Hermann glanced through the other pages, and let the paper slide to thefloor.
"What will Austria do?" he said. "Supposing she threatens Servia in someoutrageous way and Russia says she won't stand it? What then?"
Michael looked across to Sylvia; he was much more interested in the wayshe dabbled the tips of her hands in the cool water of her finger bowlthan in what Hermann was saying. Her fingers had an extraordinary lifeof their own; just now they were like a group of maidens by a fountain.. . . But Hermann repeated the question to him personally.
"Oh, I suppose there will be a lot of telegraphing," he said, "andperhaps a board of arbitration. After all, one expected a Europeanconflagration over the war in the Balkan States, and again over theirrow with Turkey. I don't believe in European conflagrations. We are alltoo much afraid of each other. We walk round each other like collie dogson the tips of their toes, gently growling, and then quietly get back toour own territories and lie down again."
Hermann laughed.
"Thank God, there's that wonderful fire-engine in Germany ready to turnthe hose on conflagrations."
"What fire-engine?" asked Michael.
"The Emperor, of course. We should have been at war ten times over butfor him."
Sylvia dried her finger-tips one by one.
"Lady Barbara doesn't quite take that view of him, does she, Mike?" sheasked.
Michael suddenly remembered how one night in the flat Aunt Barbara hadsuddenly turned the conversation from the discussion of cognate topics,on hearing that the Falbes were Germans, only to resume it again whenthey had gone.
"I don't fancy she does," he said. "But then, as you know, Aunt Barbarahas original views on every subject."
Hermann did not take the possible hint here conveyed to drop the matter.
"Well, then, what do you think about him?" he asked.
Michael laughed.
"My dear Hermann," he said, "how often have you told me that we Englishdon't pay the smallest attention to international politics. I am awarethat 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 on him, and walked across to thewindow.
"Well, long may ignorance be bliss," he said. "Lord, what a divineevening! 'Uber allen gipfeln ist Ruhe.' At least, there is peace on theonly summits visible, which are house roofs. There's not a breath ofwind in the trees and chimney-pots; and it's hot, it's really hot."
"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 outfor 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 yearwhen the hour after sunset is warm like this. It's such a pity towaste one indoors. The young people"--and he pointed to Sylvia andMichael--"will gaze into each other's hearts, and Mamma's will beat inunison with Lady Ursula's, and I will sit and look at the sky and becomeprofoundly sentimental, like a good German."
Hermann and Michael bestirred themselves, and presently the whole littleparty had encamped on chairs placed in an oasis of rugs (this was doneat the special request of Mrs. Falbe, since Lady Ursula had caught achill that developed into consumption) in the small, high-walled garden.Beyond at the bottom lay the road along the embankment and the grey-blueThames, and the dim woods of Battersea Park across the river. When theycame out, sparrows were still chirping in the ivy on the studio walland in the tall angle-leaved planes at the bottom of the little plot,discussing, no doubt, the domestic arrangements for their comfortduring the night. But presently a sudden hush fell upon them, and theirshrillness was sharp no more against the drowsy hum of the city. Thesky overhead was of veiled blue, growing gradually more toneless as thelight faded, and was unflecked by any cloud, except where, high in thezenith, a fleece of rosy vapour still caught the light of the sunkensun, and flamed with the soft radiance of some snow-summit. Near itthere burned a molten planet, growing momentarily brighter as the nightgathered and presently beginning to be dimmed again as a tawny moonthree days past the full rose in the east above the low river horizon.Occasionally a steamer hooted from the Thames and the noise of churnedwaters sounded, or the crunch of a motor's wheels, or the tapping ofthe heels of a foot passenger on the pavement below the garden wall. Butsuch evidence of outside seemed but to accentuate the perfect peace ofthis secluded little garden where the four sat: the hour and the placewere cut off from all turmoil and activities: for a moment the streamof all their lives had flowed into a backwater, where it rested immobilebefore 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 eveningwhen the tawny moon grew golden as it climbed the empty heavens, dimmingthe stars around it.
What they talked of, even though it was Sylvia who spoke, seemedexternal to the spirit of the hour. They seemed to have reached a point,some momentary halting-place, where speech and thought even lay outside,and the need of the spirit was merely to exist and be conscious ofits existence. Sometimes for a moment his past life with itsself-repression, its mute yearnings, its chrysalis stirrings, formed amist that dispersed again, sometimes for a moment in wonder at whatthe future held, what joys and troubles, what achings, perhaps, andanguishes, the unknown knocked stealthily at the door of his mind, butthen stole away unanswered and unwelcome, and for that hour, while Mrs.Falbe finished with Lady Ursula, while Hermann smoked and sighed like asentimental German, and while he and Sylvia sat, speaking occasionally,but more often silent, he was in some kind of Nirvana for which its ownexistence was everything. Movement had ceased: he held his breath whilethat divine pause lasted.
When it was broken, there was no shattering of it: it simply died awaylike a long-drawn chord as Mrs. Falbe closed her book.
"She died," she said, "I knew she would."
Hermann gave a great shout of laughter.
"Darling mother, I'm ever so much obliged," he said. "We had to returnto earth somehow. Where has everybody else been?"
Michael stirred in his chair.
"I've been here," he said.
"How dull! Oh, I suppose that's not polite to Sylvia. I've
been inLeipzig 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."
His sentimentalism had apparently not quite passed from him.
"Ah, we've stolen this hour!" he said. "We've taken it out of thehurly-burly and had it to ourselves. It's been ripping. But I'm backfrom the rim of the world. Oh, I've been there, too, and looked out overthe immortal sea. Lieber Gott, what a sea, where we all come from, andwhere we all go to! We're just playing on the sand where the waves havecast 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 intothe house, and gave a hand on each side to Michael and Sylvia.
"Ah, it was a good thing I just caught that train at Victoria nearlya year ago," he said. "If I had been five seconds later, I should havemissed it, and so I should have missed my friend, and Sylvia would havemissed 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 amfilled with a German desire for beer. Let us come into the studio, liebeKinder, and have beer and music and laughter. We cannot recapture thishour or prolong it. But it was good, oh, so good! I thank God for thishour."
Sylvia put her hand on her brother's arm, looking at him with just ashade of anxiety.
"Nothing wrong, Hermann?" she asked.
"Wrong? There is nothing wrong unless it is wrong to be happy. But wehave to go forward: my only quarrel with life is that. I would stop itnow if I could, so that time should not run on, and we should stay justas we are. Ah, what does the future hold? I am glad I do not know."
Sylvia laughed.
"The immediate future holds beer apparently," she said. "It also holda great deal of work for you and me, if it is to hold Leipzig andFrankfort and Munich. Oh, Hermann, what glorious days!"
They walked