Michael [12]
pattern. Only this morning his father had received a letter from him that summed Michael up, that fulfilled all the doubts and fears that had hung about him; for after three years in the Guards he had, without consultation with anybody, resigned his commission on the inexplicable grounds that he wanted to do something with his life. To begin with that was rankly heretical; if you were a Comber there was no need to do anything with your life; life did everything for you. . . . And what this un-Comberish young man wanted to do with his life was to be a musician. That musicians, artists, actors, had a right to exist Lord Ashbridge did not question. They were no doubt (or might be) very excellent people in their way, and as a matter of fact he often recognised their existence by going to the opera, to the private view of the Academy, or to the play, and he took a very considerable pride of proprietorship in his own admirable collection of family portraits. But then those were pictures of Combers; Reynolds and Romney and the rest of them had enjoyed the privilege of perpetuating on their canvases these big, fine men and charming women. But that a Comber--and that one positively the next Lord Ashbridge--should intend to devote his energies to an artistic calling, and allude to that scheme as doing something with his life, was a thing as unthinkable as if the butler had developed a fixed idea that he was "one of us."
The blow was a recent one; Michael's letter had only reached his father this morning, and at the present moment Lord Ashbridge was attempting over a cup of tea on the long south terrace overlooking the estuary to convey--not very successfully--to his wife something of his feelings on the subject. She, according to her custom, was drinking a little hot water herself, and providing her Chinese pug with a mixture of cream and crumbled rusks. Though the dog was of undoubtedly high lineage, Lord Ashbridge rather detested her.
"A musical career!" he exclaimed, referring to Michael's letter. "What sort of a career for a Comber is a musical career? I shall tell Michael pretty roundly when he arrives this evening what I think of it all. We shall have Francis next saying that he wants to resign, too, and become a dentist."
Lady Ashbridge considered this for a moment in her stunned mind.
"Dear me, Robert, I hope not," she said. "I do not think it the least likely that Francis would do anything of the kind. Look, Petsy is better; she has drunk her cream and rusks quite up. I think it was only the heat."
He gave a little good-humoured giggle of falsetto laughter.
"I wish, Marion," he said, "that you could manage to take your mind off your dog for a moment and attend to me. And I must really ask you not to give your Petsy any more cream, or she will certainly be sick."
Lady Ashbridge gave a little sigh.
"All gone, Petsy," she said.
"I am glad it has all gone," said he, "and we will hope it won't return. But about Michael now!"
Lady Ashbridge pulled herself together.
"Yes, poor Michael!" she said. "He is coming to-night, is he not? But just now you were speaking of Francis, and the fear of his wanting to be a dentist!"
"Well, I am now speaking of Michael's wanting to be a musician. Of course that is utterly out of the question. If, as he says, he has sent in his resignation, he will just have to beg them to cancel it. Michael seems not to have the slightest idea of the duties which his birth and position entail on him. Unfitted for the life he now leads . . . waste of time. . . . Instead he proposes to go to Baireuth in August, and then to settle down in London to study!"
Lady Ashbridge recollected the almanac.
"That will be in September, then," she said. "I do not think I was ever in London in September. I did not know that anybody was."
"The point, my dear, is not how or where you have been accustomed to spend your Septembers," said her husband. "What we are talking about is--"
"Yes, dear, I know quite well what we are talking about," said she. "We are talking
The blow was a recent one; Michael's letter had only reached his father this morning, and at the present moment Lord Ashbridge was attempting over a cup of tea on the long south terrace overlooking the estuary to convey--not very successfully--to his wife something of his feelings on the subject. She, according to her custom, was drinking a little hot water herself, and providing her Chinese pug with a mixture of cream and crumbled rusks. Though the dog was of undoubtedly high lineage, Lord Ashbridge rather detested her.
"A musical career!" he exclaimed, referring to Michael's letter. "What sort of a career for a Comber is a musical career? I shall tell Michael pretty roundly when he arrives this evening what I think of it all. We shall have Francis next saying that he wants to resign, too, and become a dentist."
Lady Ashbridge considered this for a moment in her stunned mind.
"Dear me, Robert, I hope not," she said. "I do not think it the least likely that Francis would do anything of the kind. Look, Petsy is better; she has drunk her cream and rusks quite up. I think it was only the heat."
He gave a little good-humoured giggle of falsetto laughter.
"I wish, Marion," he said, "that you could manage to take your mind off your dog for a moment and attend to me. And I must really ask you not to give your Petsy any more cream, or she will certainly be sick."
Lady Ashbridge gave a little sigh.
"All gone, Petsy," she said.
"I am glad it has all gone," said he, "and we will hope it won't return. But about Michael now!"
Lady Ashbridge pulled herself together.
"Yes, poor Michael!" she said. "He is coming to-night, is he not? But just now you were speaking of Francis, and the fear of his wanting to be a dentist!"
"Well, I am now speaking of Michael's wanting to be a musician. Of course that is utterly out of the question. If, as he says, he has sent in his resignation, he will just have to beg them to cancel it. Michael seems not to have the slightest idea of the duties which his birth and position entail on him. Unfitted for the life he now leads . . . waste of time. . . . Instead he proposes to go to Baireuth in August, and then to settle down in London to study!"
Lady Ashbridge recollected the almanac.
"That will be in September, then," she said. "I do not think I was ever in London in September. I did not know that anybody was."
"The point, my dear, is not how or where you have been accustomed to spend your Septembers," said her husband. "What we are talking about is--"
"Yes, dear, I know quite well what we are talking about," said she. "We are talking