help it. At least, I couldn't.It's--it's such a glory to be fond like that."
He stopped.
"We won't talk about it," he said--"or, rather, I can't talk about it,if you don't understand."
"But she had refused you," said the sensible Francis.
"That makes no difference. She shines through everything, through theinfernal awfulness of these days, through my father's anger, and mymother's illness, whatever it proves to be--I think about them reallywith all my might, and at the end I find I've been thinking aboutSylvia. Everything is she--the woods, the tide--oh, I can't explain."
They had walked across the marshy land at the edge of the estuary, andnow in front of them was the steep and direct path up to the house,and the longer way through the woods. At this point the estuary madea sudden turn to the left, sweeping directly seawards, and round thecorner, immediately in front of them was the long reach of deep waterup which, even when the tide was at its lowest, an ocean-going steamercould penetrate if it knew the windings of the channel. To-day, in thewindless, cold calm of mid-winter, though the sun was brilliant in ablue sky overhead, an opaque mist, thick as cotton-wool, lay over thesurface of the water, and, taking the winding road through the woods,which, following the estuary, turned the point, they presently foundthemselves, as they mounted, quite clear of the mist that lay below themon the river. Their steps were noiseless on the mossy path, and almostimmediately after they had turned the corner, as Francis paused to lighta cigarette, they heard from just below them the creaking of oars intheir rowlocks. It caught the ears of them both, and without consciouscuriosity they listened. On the moment the sound of rowing ceased, andfrom the dense mist just below them there came a sound which was quiteunmistakable, namely, the "plop" of something heavy dropped into thewater. That sound, by some remote form of association, suddenly recalledto Michael's mind certain questions Aunt Barbara had asked him about theEmperor's stay at Ashbridge, and his own recollection of his having goneup and down the river in a launch. There was something further, which hedid not immediately recollect. Yes, it was the request that if when hewas here at Christmas he found strangers hanging about the deep-waterreach, of which the chart was known only to the Admiralty, he shouldlet her know. Here at this moment they were overlooking the mist-swathedwater, and here at this moment, unseen, was a boat rowing stealthily,stopping, and, perhaps, making soundings.
He laid his hand on Francis's arm with a gesture for silence, then,invisible below, someone said, "Fifteen fathoms," and again the oarscreaked audibly in the rowlocks.
Michael took a step towards his cousin, so that he could whisper to him.
"Come back to the boat," he said. "I want to row round and see who thatis. Wait a moment, though."
The oars below made some half-dozen strokes, and then were still again.Once more there came the sound of something heavy dropped into thewater.
"Someone is making soundings in the channel there," he said. "Come."
They went very quietly till they were round the point, then quickenedtheir steps, and Michael spoke.
"That's the uncharted channel," he said; "at least, only the Admiraltyhave the soundings. The water's deep enough right across for a shipof moderate draught to come up, but there is a channel up which anyman-of-war can pass. Of course, it may be an Admiralty boat making freshsoundings, but not likely on Boxing Day."
"What are you going to do?" asked Francis, striding easily along byMichael's short steps.
"Just see if we can find out who it is. Aunt Barbara asked me about it.I'll tell you afterwards. Now the tide's going out we can drop downwith it, and we shan't be heard. I'll row just enough to keep her headstraight. Sit in the bow, Francis, and keep a sharp look-out."
Foot by foot they dropped down the river, and soon came into the thickmist that lay beyond the point. It was impossible to see more thana yard or two ahead, but the same dense obscurity would prevent anyfurther range of vision from the other boat, and, if it was still at itswork, the sound of its oars or of voices, Michael reflected, might guidehim to it. From the lisp of little wavelets lapping on the shore belowthe woods, he knew he was quite close in to the bank, and close also tothe place where the invisible boat had been ten minutes before. Then,in the bewildering, unlocalised manner in which sound without thecorrective guidance of sight comes to the ears, he heard as before thecreaking of invisible oars, somewhere quite close at hand. Next momentthe dark prow of a rowing-boat suddenly loomed into sight on theirstarboard, and he took a rapid stroke with his right-hand scull to bringthem up to it. But at the same moment, while yet the occupants of theother boat were but shadows in the mist, they saw him, and a quick wordof command rang out.
"Row--row hard!" it cried, and with a frenzied churning of oars in thewater, the other boat shot by them, making down the estuary. Next momentit had quite vanished in the mist, leaving behind it knots of swirlingwater from its oar-blades.
Michael started in vain pursuit; his craft was heavy and clumsy, andfrom the retreating and faint-growing sound of the other, it was clearthat he could get no pace to match, still less to overtake them. Soon hepantingly desisted.
"But an Admiralty boat wouldn't have run away," he said. "They'd haveasked us who the devil we were."
"But who else was it?" asked Francis.
Michael mopped his forehead.
"Aunt Barbara would tell you," he said. "She would tell you that theywere German spies."
Francis laughed.
"Or Timbuctoo niggers," he remarked.
"And that would be an odd thing, too," said Michael.
But at that moment he felt the first chill of the shadow thatmenaced, if by chance Aunt Barbara was right, and if already the cleartranquillity of the sky was growing dim as with the mist that laythat afternoon on the waters of the deep reach, and covered mysteriousmovements which were going on below it. England and Germany--there wasso much of his life and his heart there. Music and song, and Sylvia.
CHAPTER X
Michael had heard the verdict of the brain specialist, who yesterday hadseen his mother, and was sitting in his room beside his unopenedpiano quietly assimilating it, and, without making plans of his owninitiative, contemplating the forms into which the future was beginningto fall, mapping itself out below him, outlining itself as when objectsin a room, as the light of morning steals in, take shape again. And evenas they take the familiar shapes, so already he felt that he had guessedall this in that week down at Ashbridge, from which he had returned withhis father and mother a couple of days before.
She was suffering, without doubt, from some softening of the brain;nothing of remedial nature could possibly be done to arrest or cure theprogress of the disease, and all that lay in human power was to securefor her as much content and serenity as possible. In her presentcondition there was no question of putting her under restraint, nor,indeed, could she be certified by any doctor as insane. She would haveto have a trained attendant, she would live a secluded life, from whichmust be kept as far as possible anything that could agitate or distressher, and after that there was nothing more that could be done exceptto wait for the inevitable development of her malady. This might comequickly or slowly; there was no means of forecasting that, though therapid deterioration of her brain, which had taken place during thoselast two months, made it, on the whole, likely that the progress of thedisease would be swift. It was quite possible, on the other hand, thatit might remain stationary for months. . . . And in answer to a questionof Michael's, Sir James had looked at him a moment in silence. Then heanswered.
"Both for her sake and for the sake of all of you," he had said, "onehopes that it will be swift."
Lord Ashbridge had just telephoned that he was coming round to seeMichael, a message that considerably astonished him, since it would havebeen more in his manner, in the unlikely event of his wishing to see hisson, to have summoned him to the house in Curzon Street. However, he hadannounced his advent, and thus, waiting for him, and not much concerninghimself about that, Michael let th
e future map itself. Already it wassharply defined, its boundaries and limits were clear, and though it wasyet untravelled it presented to him a familiar aspect, and he felt thathe could find his allotted road without fail, though he had never yettraversed it. It was strongly marked; there could be no difficulty orquestion about it. Indeed, a week ago, when first the recognition of hismother's condition, with the symptoms attached to it, was known to him,he had seen the signpost that directed him into the future.
Lord Ashbridge made his usual flamboyant entry, prancing and swinginghis elbows. Whatever happened he would still be Lord Ashbridge, with hisgrey top-hat and his large carnation and his enviable position.
"You will have heard what Sir James's opinion is about