it. He wanted to wear her publicly, though she wasnot his; he wanted to take his allegiance oath, though his sovereignheeded not.
"I have considered the question," he said, "and I have quite made up mymind whom I want to marry. She is Miss Falbe, Miss Sylvia Falbe, of whomyou may have heard as a singer. She is the sister of my music-master,and I can certainly marry nobody else."
It was not merely defiance of the dreadful old tradition, which LordAshbridge had announced in the manner of Moses stepping down from Sinai,that prompted this appalling statement of the case; it was the joyin the profession of his love. It had to be flung out like that. LordAshbridge looked at him a moment in dead silence.
"I have not the honour of knowing Miss--Miss Falbe, is it?" he said;"nor shall I have that honour."
Michael got up; there was that in his father's tone that stung him tofury.
"It is very likely that you will not," he said, "since when I proposedto her yesterday she did not accept me."
Somehow Lord Ashbridge felt that as an insult to himself. Indeed, it wasa double insult. Michael had proposed to this singer, and this singerhad not instantly clutched him. He gave his dreadful little treblegiggle.
"And I am to bind up your broken heart?" he asked.
Michael drew himself up to his full height. This was an indiscretion,for it but made his father recognise how short he was. It brought farceinto the tragic situation.
"Oh, by no means," he said. "My heart is not going to break yet. I don'tgive up hope."
Then, in a flash, he thought of his mother's pale, anxious face, herdesire that he should not vex his father.
"I am sorry," he said, "but that is the case. I wish--I wish you wouldtry to understand me."
"I find you incomprehensible," said Lord Ashbridge, and left the roomwith his high walk and his swinging elbows.
Well, it was done now, and Michael felt that there were no new vexationsto be sprung on his father. It was bound to happen, he supposed, sooneror later, and he was not sorry that it had happened sooner than heexpected or intended. Sylvia so held sway in him that he could not helpacknowledging her. His announcement had broken from him irresistibly,in spite of his mother's whispered word to him last night, "This is oursecret." It could not be secret when his father spoke like that. . . .And then, with a flare of illumination he perceived how intensely hisfather disliked him. Nothing but sheer basic antipathy could have beenresponsible for that miserable retort, "Am I to bind up your brokenheart?" Anger, no doubt, was the immediate cause, but so utterlyungenerous a rejoinder to Michael's announcement could not have beenconceived, except in a heart that thoroughly and rootedly disliked him.That he was a continual monument of disappointment to his father he knewwell, but never before had it been quite plainly shown him how essentialan object of dislike he was. And the grounds of the dislike were nowequally plain--his father disliked him exactly because he was hisfather. On the other hand, the last twenty-four hours had shown him thathis mother loved him exactly because he was her son. When these two newand undeniable facts were put side by side, Michael felt that he was aninfinite gainer.
He went rather drearily to the window. Far off across the field belowthe garden he could see Lord Ashbridge walking airily along on his wayto the links, with his head held high, his stick swinging in hishand, his two retrievers at his heels. No doubt already the soothinginfluences of Nature were at work--Nature, of course, standing for theportion of trees and earth and houses that belonged to him--and wereexpunging the depressing reflection that his wife and only son inspiredin him. And, indeed, such was actually the case: Lord Ashbridge, in hisamazing fatuity, could not long continue being himself without beingcheered and invigorated by that fact, and though when he set out hisbig white hands were positively trembling with passion, he carriedhis balsam always with him. But he had registered to himself, evenas Michael had registered, the fact that he found his son a mostintolerable person. And what vexed him most of all, what made him clangthe gate at the end of the field so violently that it hit one of hisretrievers shrewdly on the nose, was the sense of his own impotence. Heknew perfectly well that in point of view of determination (that qualitywhich in himself was firmness, and in those who opposed him obstinacy)Michael was his match. And the annoying thing was that, as his wife hadonce told him, Michael undoubtedly inherited that quality from him. Itwas as inalienable as the estates of which he had threatened to deprivehis son, and which, as he knew quite well, were absolutely entailed.Michael, in this regard, seemed no better than a common but successfulthief. He had annexed his father's firmness, and at his death wouldcertainly annex all his pictures and trees and acres and the red roofsof Ashbridge.
Michael saw the gate so imperially slammed, he heard the despairing howlof Robin, and though he was sorry for Robin, he could not help laughing.He remembered also a ludicrous sight he had seen at the ZoologicalGardens a few days ago: two seals, sitting bolt upright, quarrellingwith each other, and making the most absurd grimaces and noises. Theyneither of them quite dared to attack the other, and so sat with theirfaces close together, saying the rudest things. Aunt Barbara wouldcertainly have seen how inimitably his father and he had, in theirinterview just now, resembled the two seals.
And then he became aware that all the time, au fond, he had thoughtabout nothing but Sylvia, and of Sylvia, not as the subject of quarrel,but as just Sylvia, the singing Sylvia, with a hand on his shoulder.
The winter sun was warm on the south terrace of the house, when, an hourlater, he strolled out, according to arrangement, with his mother. Ithad melted the rime of the night before that lay now on the grass inthreads of minute diamonds, though below the terrace wall, and on thesunk rims of the empty garden beds it still persisted in outline ofwhite heraldry. A few monthly roses, weak, pink blossoms, weary withthe toil of keeping hope alive till the coming of spring, hung dejectedheads in the sunk garden, where the hornbeam hedge that carried itsrusset leaves unfallen, shaded them from the wind. Here, too, a fewbulbs had pricked their way above ground, and stood with stout, erecthorns daintily capped with rime. All these things, which for yearshad been presented to Lady Ashbridge's notice without attracting herattention; now filled her with minute childlike pleasure; they werediscoveries as entrancing and as magical as the first finding ofthe oval pieces of blue sky that a child sees one morning in ahedge-sparrow's nest. Now that she was alone with her son, all hersecret restlessness and anxiety had vanished, and she remarked almostwith glee that her husband had telephoned from the golf links to saythat he would not be back for lunch; then, remembering that Michaelhad gone to talk to his father after breakfast, she asked him about theinterview.
Michael had already made up his mind as to what to say here. Knowingthat his father was anxious about her, he felt it highly unlikely thathe would tell her anything to distress her, and so he represented theinterview as having gone off in perfect amity. Later in the day, onhis father's return, he had made up his mind to propose a truce betweenthem, as far as his mother was concerned. Whether that would be acceptedor not he could not certainly tell, but in the interval there wasnothing to be gained by grieving her.
A great weight was lifted off her mind.
"Ah, my dear, that is good," she said. "I was anxious. So now perhaps weshall have a peaceful Christmas. I am glad your Aunt Barbara and Francisare coming, for though your aunt always laughs at your father, she doesit kindly, does she not? And as for Francis--my dear, if God had givenme two sons, I should have liked the other to be like Francis. And shallwe walk a little farther this way, and see poor Petsy's grave?"
Petsy's grave proved rather agitating. There were doleful little storiesof the last days to be related, and Petsy II. was tiresome, and insistedon defying the world generally with shrill barkings from the top ofthe small mound, conscious perhaps that his helpless predecessor sleptbelow. Then their walk brought them to the band of trees that separatedthe links from the house, from which Lady Ashbridge retreated, fearful,as she vaguely phrased it, "of being seen," and by whom th
ere was noneed for her to explain. Then across the field came a group of childrenscampering home from school. They ceased their shouting and their gamesas the others came near, and demurely curtsied and took off their capsto Lady Ashbridge.
"Nice, well-behaved children," said she. "A merry Christmas to you all.I hope you are all good children to your mothers, as my son is to me."
She pressed his arm, nodded and smiled at the children, and walked onwith him. And Michael felt the lump in his throat.
The arrival of Aunt Barbara and Francis that afternoon did something, bythe mere addition of numbers to the party, to relieve the tension of thesituation. Lord Ashbridge said little but ate largely, and during theintervals of empty plates directed an impartial gaze at the portraits ofhis ancestors, while wholly ignoring his descendant.