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plausible explanation of her attitude. She desired, in fact, that
Sylvia should not come to see her any more, and now, when she did
not, there was scarcely a day in which Lady Ashbridge would not
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talk in a pointed manner about pretended friends who leave you
alone, and won't even take the trouble to take a two-penny 'bus (if
they are so poor as all that) to come from Chelsea to Curzon
Street.
Michael knew that his mother's steps were getting nearer and nearer
to that border line which separates the sane from the insane, and
with all the wearing strain of the days as they passed, had but the
one desire in his heart, namely, to keep her on the right side for
as long as was humanly possible. But something might happen, some
new symptom develop which would make it impossible for her to go on
living with him as she did now, and the dread of that moment
haunted his waking hours and his dreams. Two months ago her doctor
had told him that, for the sake of everyone concerned, it was to be
hoped that the progress of her disease would be swift; but, for his
part, Michael passionately disclaimed such a wish. In spite of her
constant complaints and strictures, she was still possessed of her
love for him, and, wearing though every day was, he grudged the
passing of the hours that brought her nearer to the awful boundary
line. Had a deed been presented to him for his signature, which
bound him indefinitely to his mother's service, on the condition
that she got no worse, his pen would have spluttered with his
eagerness to sign.
In consequence of his mother's dislike to Sylvia, Michael had
hardly seen her during this last month. Once, when owing to some
small physical disturbance, Lady Ashbridge had gone to bed early on
a Sunday evening, he had gone to one of the Falbes' weekly parties,
and had tried to fling himself with enjoyment into the friendly
welcoming atmosphere. But for the present, he felt himself
detached from it all, for this life with his mother was close round
him with a sort of nightmare obsession, through which outside
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influence and desire could only faintly trickle. He knew that the
other life was there, he knew that in his heart he longed for
Sylvia as much as ever; but, in his present detachment, his desire
for her was a drowsy ache, a remote emptiness, and the veil that
lay over his mother seemed to lie over him also. Once, indeed,
during the evening, when he had played for her, the veil had lifted
and for the drowsy ache he had the sunlit, stabbing pang; but, as
he left, the veil dropped again, and he let himself into the big,
mute house, sorry that he had left it. In the same way, too, his
music was in abeyance: he could not concentrate himself or find it
worth while to make the effort to absorb himself in it, and he knew
that short of that, there was neither profit nor pleasure for him
in his piano. Everything seemed remote compared with the immediate
foreground: there was a gap, a gulf between it and all the rest of
the world.
His father wrote to him from time to time, laying stress on the
extreme importance of all he was doing in the country, and giving
no hint of his coming up to town at present. But he faintly
MICHAEL
140
adumbrated the time when in the natural course of events he would
have to attend to his national duties in the House of Lords, and
wondered whether it would not (about then) be good for his wife to
have a change, and enjoy the country when the weather became more
propitious. Michael, with an excusable unfilialness, did not
answer these amazing epistles; but, having basked in their
unconscious humour, sent them on to Aunt Barbara. Weekly reports
were sent by Lady Ashbridge's nurse to his father, and Michael had
nothing whatever to add to these. His fear of him had given place
to a quiet contempt, which he did not care to think about, and
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certainly did not care to express.
Every now and then Lady Ashbridge had what Michael thought of as a
good hour or two, when she went back to her content and childlike
joy in his presence, and it was clear, when presently she came
downstairs as he still lingered in the garden, reading the daily
paper in the sun, that one of these better intervals had visited
her. She, too, it appeared, felt the waving of the magic wand of
spring, and she noted the signs of it with a joy that was
infinitely pathetic.
"My dear," she said, "what a beautiful morning! Is it wise to sit
out of doors without your hat, Michael? Shall not I go and fetch
it for you? No? Then let us sit here and talk. It is spring, is
it not? Look how the birds are collecting twigs for their nests! I
wonder how they know that the time has come round again. Sweet
little birds! How bold and merry they are."
She edged her way a little nearer him, so that her shoulder leaned
on his arm.
"My dear, I wish you were going to nest, too," she said. "I
wonder--do you think I have been ill-natured and unkind to your
Sylvia, and that makes her not come to see me now? I do remember
being vexed at her for not wanting to marry you, and perhaps I
talked unkindly about her. I am sorry, for my being cross to her
will do no good; it will only make her more unwilling than ever to
marry a man who has such an unpleasant mamma. Will she come to see
me again, do you think, if I ask her?"
These good hours were too rare in their appearances and swift in
their vanishings to warrant the certainty that she would feel the
same this afternoon, and Michael tried to turn the subject.
"Ah, we shall have to think about that, mother," he said. "Look,
there is a quarrel going on between those two sparrows. They both
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want the same straw."
She followed his pointing finger, easily diverted.
"Oh, I wish they would not quarrel," she said. "It is so sad and
stupid to quarrel, instead of being agreeable and pleasant. I do
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