Michael
blunt, remote contempt how itwas possible for him not to be here too; but, except for the one greatlonging that his mother should cleave to him once more in consciousmind, he observed rather than felt. The thought of Sylvia even was dim.He knew that she was somewhere in the world, but she had become for thepresent like some picture painted in his mind, without reality. Dim,too, was the tension of those last days. Somewhere in Europe was acountry called Germany, where was his best friend, drilling in the ranksto which he had returned, or perhaps already on his way to bloodierbattlefields than the world had ever dreamed of; and somewhere set inthe seas was Germany's arch-foe, who already stood in her path with opencannon mouths pointing. But all this had no real connection with him.From the moment when he had come into this quiet, orderly room and sawhis mother lying on the bed, nothing beyond those four walls reallyconcerned him.
But though the emotional side of his mind lay drugged and insensitiveto anything outside, he found himself observing the details of the roomwhere he waited with a curious vividness. There was a big window openingdown to the ground in the manner of a door on to the garden outside,where a smooth lawn, set with croquet hoops and edged with brightflower-beds, dozed in the haze of the August heat. Beyond was a rowof tall elms, against which a copper beech glowed metallically, andsomewhere out of sight a mowing-machine was being used, for Michaelheard the click of its cropping journey, growing fainter as it receded,followed by the pause as it turned, and its gradual crescendo as itapproached again. Otherwise everything outside was strangely silent; asthe hot hours of midday and early afternoon went by there was no note ofbird-music, nor any sound of wind in the elm-tops. Just a little breezestirred from time to time, enough to make the slats of the half-drawnVenetian blind rattle faintly. Earlier in the day there had come in fromthe window the smell of dew-damp earth, but now that had been sucked upby the sun.
Close beside the window, with her back to the light and facing the bed,which projected from one of the side walls out into the room, sat LadyAshbridge's nurse. She was reading, and the rustle of the turned pagewas regular; but regular and constant also were her glances towards thebed where her patient lay. At intervals she put down her book, markingthe place with a slip of paper, and came to watch by the bed for amoment, looking at Lady Ashbridge's face and listening to her breathing.Her eye met Michael's always as she did this, and in answer to hismute question, each time she gave him a little head-shake, or perhaps awhispered word or two, that told him there was no change. Opposite thebed was the empty fireplace, and at the foot of it a table, on whichstood a vase of roses. Michael was conscious of the scent of these everynow and then, and at intervals of the faint, rather sickly smell ofether. A Japan screen, ornamented with storks in gold thread, stoodnear the door and half-concealed the washing-stand. There was a chestof drawers on one side of the fireplace, a wardrobe with a looking-glassdoor on the other, a dressing-table to one side of the window, a fewprints on the plain blue walls, and a dark blue drugget carpet onthe floor; and all these ordinary appurtenances of a bedroom etchedthemselves into Michael's mind, biting their way into it by the acid ofhis own suspense.
Finally there was the bed where his mother lay. The coverlet of bluesilk upon it he knew was somehow familiar to him, and after fitfulgropings in his mind to establish the association, he remembered that ithad been on the bed in her room in Curzon Street, and supposed that ithad been brought here with others of her personal belongings. A littlecore of light, focused on one of the brass balls at the head of the bed,caught his eye, and he saw that the sun, beginning to decline, came inunder the Venetian blind. The nurse, sitting in the window, noticedthis also, and lowered it. The thought of Sylvia crossed his brain fora moment; then he thought of his father; but every train of reflectiondissolved almost as soon as it was formed, and he came back again andagain to his mother's face.
It was perfectly peaceful and strangely young-looking, as if the cool,soothing hand of death, which presently would quiet all trouble forher, had been already at work there erasing the marks that the years hadgraven upon it. And yet it was not so much young as ageless; it seemedto have passed beyond the register and limitations of time. Sometimesfor a moment it was like the face of a stranger, and then suddenly itwould become beloved and familiar again. It was just so she had lookedwhen she came so timidly into his room one night at Ashbridge, askinghim if it would be troublesome to him if she sat and talked with him fora little. The mouth was a little parted for her slow, even breathing;the corners of it smiled; and yet he was not sure if they smiled. Itwas hard to tell, for she lay there quite flat, without pillows, and helooked at her from an unusual angle. Sometimes he felt as if he had beensitting there watching for uncounted years; and then again the hoursthat he had been here appeared to have lasted but for a moment, as if hehad but looked once at her.
As the day declined the breeze of evening awoke, rattling the blind. Bynow the sun had swung farther west, and the nurse pulled the blind up.Outside in the bushes in the garden the call of birds to each other hadbegun, and a thrush came close to the window and sang a liquidphrase, and then repeated it. Michael glanced there and saw the bird,speckle-breasted, with throat that throbbed with the notes; and then,looking back to the bed, he saw that his mother's eyes were open.
She looked vaguely about the room for a moment, as if she had awoke fromsome deep sleep and found herself in an unfamiliar place. Then, turningher head slightly, she saw him, and there was no longer any questionas to whether her mouth smiled, for all her face was flooded with deep,serene joy.
He bent towards her and her lips parted.
"Michael, my dear," she said gently.
Michael heard the rustle of the nurse's dress as she got up and came tothe bedside. He slipped from his chair on to his knees, so that his facewas near his mother's. He felt in his heart that the moment he had solonged for was to be granted him, that she had come back to him, notonly as he had known her during the weeks that they had lived alonetogether, when his presence made her so content, but in a mannerinfinitely more real and more embracing.
"Have you been sitting here all the time while I slept, dear?" sheasked. "Have you been waiting for me to come back to you?"
"Yes, and you have come," he said.
She looked at him, and the mother-love, which before had been veiled andclouded, came out with all the tender radiance of evening sun, with theclear shining after rain.
"I knew you wouldn't fail me, my darling," she said. "You were sopatient with me in the trouble I have been through. It was a nightmare,but it has gone."
Michael bent forward and kissed her.
"Yes, mother," he said, "it has all gone."
She was silent a moment.
"Is your father here?" she said.
"No; but he will come at once, if you would like to see him."
"Yes, send for him, dear, if it would not vex him to come," she said;"or get somebody else to send; I don't want you to leave me."
"I'm not going to," said he.
The nurse went to the door, gave some message, and presently returned tothe other side of the bed. Then Lady Ashbridge spoke again.
"Is this death?" she asked.
Michael raised his eyes to the figure standing by the bed. She nodded tohim.
He bent forward again.
"Yes, dear mother," he said.
For a moment her eyes dilated, then grew quiet again, and the smilereturned to her mouth.
"I'm not frightened, Michael," she said, "with you there. It isn'tlonely or terrible."
She raised her head.
"My son!" she said in a voice loud and triumphant. Then her head fellback again, and she lay with face close to his, and her eyelids quiveredand shut. Her breath came slow and regular, as if she slept. Then heheard that she missed a breath, and soon after another. Then, withoutstruggle at all, her breathing ceased. . . . And outside on the lawnclose by the open window the thrush still sang.
It was an hour later when Michael left, having waited for his father'sa
rrival, and drove to town through the clear, falling dusk. He wasconscious of no feeling of grief at all, only of a complete pervadinghappiness. He could not have imagined so perfect a close, nor could hehave desired anything different from that imperishable moment when hismother, all trouble past, had come back to him in the serene calm oflove. . . .
As he entered London he saw the newsboards all placarded with one fact:England had declared war on Germany.
He went, not to his own flat, but straight to Maidstone Crescent. Withthose few minutes in which his mother had known him, the stupor that hadbeset his emotions all day passed off, and he felt himself longing, ashe had never longed before, for Sylvia's presence. Long ago he had givenher all that he knew of as himself; now there was a fresh gift. He hadto give her all that those moments had taught him. Even as already theywere