afternoon, while Michael moved into the house in CurzonStreet.
Michael entered upon his new life without the smallest sense of havingdone anything exceptional or even creditable. It was so perfectlyobvious to him that he had to be with his mother that he had noinclination to regard himself at all in the matter; the thing wasas simple as it had been to him to help Francis out of financialdifficulties with a gift of money. There was no effort of will, nosense of sacrifice about it, it was merely the assertion of a paramountinstinct. The life limited his freedom, for, for a great part of the dayhe was with his mother, and between his music and his attendance on her,he had but little leisure. Occasionally he went out to see his friends,but any prolonged absence on his part always made her uneasy, and hewould often find her, on his return, sitting in the hall, waitingfor him, so as to enjoy his presence from the first moment that here-entered the house. But though he found no food for reflection inhimself, Aunt Barbara, who came to see them some few days after Michaelhad been installed here, found a good deal.
They had all had tea together, and afterwards Lady Ashbridge's nurse hadcome down to fetch her upstairs to rest. And then Aunt Barbara surprisedMichael, for she came across the room to him, with her kind eyes full oftears, and kissed him.
"My dear, I must say it once," she said, "and then you will know that itis always in my mind. You have behaved nobly, Michael; it's a big word,but I know no other. As for your father--"
Michael interrupted her.
"Oh, I don't understand him," he said. "At least, that's the best way tolook at it. Let's leave him out."
He paused a moment.
"After all, it is a much better plan than our living all three of us atAshbridge. It's better for my mother, and for me, and for him."
"I know, but how he could consent to the better plan," she said. "Well,let us leave him out. Poor Robert! He and his golf. My dear, your fatheris a very ludicrous person, you know. But about you, Michael, do youthink you can stand it?"
He smiled at her.
"Why, of course I can," he said. "Indeed, I don't think I'll accept thatstatement of it. It's--it's such a score to be able to be of use, youknow. I can make my mother happy. Nobody else can. I think I'm gettingrather conceited about it."
"Yes, dear; I find you insufferable," remarked Aunt Barbaraparenthetically.
"Then you must just bear it. The thing is"--Michael took a moment tofind the words he searched for--"the thing is I want to be wanted. Well,it's no light thing to be wanted by your mother, even if--"
He sat down on the sofa by his aunt.
"Aunt Barbara, how ironically gifts come," he said. "This was rather asinister way of giving, that my mother should want me like this just asher brain was failing. And yet that failure doesn't affect the qualityof her love. Is it something that shines through the poor tatteredfabric? Anyhow, it has nothing to do with her brain. It is she herself,somehow, not anything of hers, that wants me. And you ask if I can standit?"
Michael with his ugly face and his kind eyes and his simple heart seemedextraordinarily charming just then to Aunt Barbara. She wished thatSylvia could have seen him then in all the unconsciousness of what hewas doing so unquestioningly, or that she could have seen him as shehad with his mother during the last hour. Lady Ashbridge had insistedon sitting close to him, and holding his hand whenever she could possessherself of it, of plying him with a hundred repeated questions, andnever once had she made Michael either ridiculous or self-conscious. Andthis, she reflected, went on most of the day, and for how many days itwould go on, none knew. Yet Michael could not consider even whether hecould stand it; he rejected the expression as meaningless.
"And your friends?" she said. "Do you manage to see them?"
"Oh, yes, occasionally," said Michael. "They don't come here, for thepresence of strangers makes my mother agitated. She thinks they havesome design of taking her or me away. But she wants to see Sylvia. Sheknows about--about her and me, and I can't make up my mind what to doabout it. She is always asking if I can't take her to see Sylvia, or gether to come here."
"And why not? Sylvia knows about your mother, I suppose."
"I expect so. I told Hermann. But I am afraid my mother will--well, youcan't call it arguing--but will try to persuade her to have me. I can'tlet Sylvia in for that. Nor, if it comes to that, can I let myself infor that."
"Can't you impress on your mother that she mustn't?"
Michael leaned forward to the fire, pondering this, and stretching outhis big hands to the blaze.
"Yes, I might," he said. "I should love to see Sylvia again, justsee her, you know. We settled that the old terms we were on couldn'tcontinue. At least, I settled that, and she understood."
"Sylvia is a gaby," remarked Aunt Barbara.
"I'm rather glad you think so."
"Oh, get her to come," said she. "I'm sure your mother will do as youtell her. I'll be here too, if you like, if that will do any good. Bythe way, I see your Hermann's piano recital comes off to-morrow."
"I know. My mother wants to go to that, and I think I shall take her.Will you come too, Aunt Barbara, and sit on the other side of her? My'Variations' are going to be played. If they are a success, Hermanntells me I shall be dragged screaming on to the platform, and have tobow. Lord! And if they're not, well, 'Lord' also."
"Yes, my dear, of course I'll come. Let me see, I shall have to lie, asI have another engagement, but a little thing like that doesn't botherme."
Suddenly she clapped her hands together.
"My dear, I quite forgot," she said. "Michael, such excitement. Youremember the boat you heard taking soundings on the deep-water reach? Ofcourse you do! Well, I sent that information to the proper quarter, andsince then watch has been kept in the woods just above it. Last nightonly the coastguard police caught four men at it--all Germans. Theytried to escape as they did before, by rowing down the river, but therewas a steam launch below which intercepted them. They had on them achart of the reach, with soundings, nearly complete; and when theysearched their houses--they are all tenants of your astute father, whomerely laughed at us--they found a very decent map of certain privateareas at Harwich. Oh, I'm not such a fool as I look. They thanked me, mydear, for my information, and I very gracefully said that my informationwas chiefly got by you."
"But did those men live in Ashbridge?" asked Michael.
"Yes; and your father will have four decorous houses on his hands. I amglad: he should not have laughed at us. It will teach him, I hope. Andnow, my dear, I must go."
She stood up, and put her hand on Michael's arm.
"And you know what I think of you," she said. "To-morrow evening, then.I hate music usually; but then I adore Mr. Hermann. I only wish hewasn't a German. Can't you get him to naturalise himself and hissister?"
"You wouldn't ask that if you had seen him in Munich," said Michael.
"I suppose not. Patriotism is such a degrading emotion when it is notEnglish."
Michael's "Variations" came some half-way down the programme nextevening, and as the moment for them approached, Lady Ashbridge got moreand more excited.
"I hope he knows them by heart properly, dear," she whispered toMichael. "I shall be so nervous for fear he'll forget them in themiddle, which is so liable to happen if you play without your notes."
Michael laid his hand on his mother's.
"Hush, mother," he said, "you mustn't talk while he's playing."
"Well, I was only whispering. But if you tell me I mustn't--"
The hall was crammed from end to end, for not only was Hermann a personof innumerable friends, but he had already a considerable reputation,and, being a German, all musical England went to hear him. And to-nighthe was playing superbly, after a couple of days of miserable nervousnessover his debut as a pianist; but his temperament was one of thosethat are strung up to their highest pitch by such nervous agonies; herequired just that to make him do full justice to his own personality,and long before he came to the "Variations," Michael felt quite at easea
bout his success. There was no question about it any more: thewhole audience knew that they were listening to a master. In the rowimmediately behind Michael's party were sitting Sylvia and her mother,who had not quite been torn away from her novels, since she had sought"The Love of Hermione Hogarth" underneath her cloak, and read itfurtively in pauses. They had come in after Michael, and until theinterval between the classical and the modern section of the concert hewas unaware of their presence; then idly turning round to look at thecrowded hall, he found himself face