Night and Day Part 15

'It's all so simple,' she said to herself. 'There can't be any doubt. I've only got to speak now. I've only got to speak,' she went on saying, in time to her own footsteps, and completely forgot Mary Datchet.

William Rodney, having come back earlier from the office than he expected, sat down to pick out the melodies in 'The Magic Flute'cl upon the piano. Katharine was late, but that was nothing new, and, as she had no particular liking for music, and he felt in the mood for it, perhaps it was as well. This defect in Katharine was the more strange, William reflected, because, as a rule, the women of her family were unusually musical. Her cousin, Ca.s.sandra Otway, for example, had a very fine taste in music, and he had charming recollections of her in a light fantastic att.i.tude, playing the flute, in the morning-room at Stogdon House. He recalled with pleasure the amusing way in which her nose, long like all the Otway noses, seemed to extend itself into the flute, as if she were some inimitably graceful species of musical mole. The little picture suggested very happily her melodious and whimsical temperament. The enthusiasms of a young girl of distinguished upbringing appealed to William, and suggested a thousand ways in which, with his training and accomplishments, he could be of service to her. She ought to be given the chance of hearing good music, as it is played by those who have inherited the great tradition. Moreover, from one or two remarks let fall in the course of conversation, he thought it possible that she had what Katharine professed to lack, a pa.s.sionate, if untaught, appreciation of literature. He had lent her his play. Meanwhile, as Katharine was certain to be late, and 'The Magic Flute' is nothing without a voice, he felt inclined to spend the time of waiting in writing a letter to Ca.s.sandra, exhorting her to read Pope in preference to Dostoevsky, upon the piano. Katharine was late, but that was nothing new, and, as she had no particular liking for music, and he felt in the mood for it, perhaps it was as well. This defect in Katharine was the more strange, William reflected, because, as a rule, the women of her family were unusually musical. Her cousin, Ca.s.sandra Otway, for example, had a very fine taste in music, and he had charming recollections of her in a light fantastic att.i.tude, playing the flute, in the morning-room at Stogdon House. He recalled with pleasure the amusing way in which her nose, long like all the Otway noses, seemed to extend itself into the flute, as if she were some inimitably graceful species of musical mole. The little picture suggested very happily her melodious and whimsical temperament. The enthusiasms of a young girl of distinguished upbringing appealed to William, and suggested a thousand ways in which, with his training and accomplishments, he could be of service to her. She ought to be given the chance of hearing good music, as it is played by those who have inherited the great tradition. Moreover, from one or two remarks let fall in the course of conversation, he thought it possible that she had what Katharine professed to lack, a pa.s.sionate, if untaught, appreciation of literature. He had lent her his play. Meanwhile, as Katharine was certain to be late, and 'The Magic Flute' is nothing without a voice, he felt inclined to spend the time of waiting in writing a letter to Ca.s.sandra, exhorting her to read Pope in preference to Dostoevsky,t until her feeling for form was more highly developed. He set himself down to compose this piece of advice in a shape which was light and playful, and yet did no injury to a cause which he had near at heart, when he heard Katharine upon the stairs. A moment later it was plain that he had been mistaken; it was not Katharine; but he could not settle himself to his letter. His temper had changed from one of urbane contentment-indeed of delicious expansion-to one of uneasiness and expectation. The dinner was brought in, and had to be set by the fire to keep hot. It was now a quarter of an hour beyond the specified time. He bethought him of a piece of news which had depressed him in the earlier part of the day. Owing to the illness of one of his fellow-clerks, it was likely that he would get no holiday until later in the year, which would mean the postponement of their marriage. But this possibility, after all, was not so disagreeable as the probability which forced itself upon him with every tick of the clock that Katharine had completely forgotten her engagement. Such things had happened less frequently since Christmas, but what if they were going to begin to happen again? What if their marriage should turn out, as she had said, a farce? He acquitted her of any wish to hurt him wantonly, but there was something in her character which made it impossible for her to help hurting people. Was she cold? Was she self-absorbed? He tried to fit her with each of these descriptions, but he had to own that she puzzled him. until her feeling for form was more highly developed. He set himself down to compose this piece of advice in a shape which was light and playful, and yet did no injury to a cause which he had near at heart, when he heard Katharine upon the stairs. A moment later it was plain that he had been mistaken; it was not Katharine; but he could not settle himself to his letter. His temper had changed from one of urbane contentment-indeed of delicious expansion-to one of uneasiness and expectation. The dinner was brought in, and had to be set by the fire to keep hot. It was now a quarter of an hour beyond the specified time. He bethought him of a piece of news which had depressed him in the earlier part of the day. Owing to the illness of one of his fellow-clerks, it was likely that he would get no holiday until later in the year, which would mean the postponement of their marriage. But this possibility, after all, was not so disagreeable as the probability which forced itself upon him with every tick of the clock that Katharine had completely forgotten her engagement. Such things had happened less frequently since Christmas, but what if they were going to begin to happen again? What if their marriage should turn out, as she had said, a farce? He acquitted her of any wish to hurt him wantonly, but there was something in her character which made it impossible for her to help hurting people. Was she cold? Was she self-absorbed? He tried to fit her with each of these descriptions, but he had to own that she puzzled him.

'There are so many things that she doesn't understand,' he reflected, glancing at the letter to Ca.s.sandra which he had begun and laid aside. What prevented him from finis.h.i.+ng the letter which he had so much enjoyed beginning? The reason was that Katharine might, at any moment, enter the room. The thought, implying his bondage to her, irritated him acutely. It occurred to him that he would leave the letter lying open for her to see, and he would take the opportunity of telling her that he had sent his play to Ca.s.sandra for her to criticize. Possibly, but not by any means certainly, this would annoy her-and as he reached the doubtful comfort of this conclusion, there was a knock on the door and Katharine came in. They kissed each other coldly and she made no apology for being late. Nevertheless, her mere presence moved him strangely; but he was determined that this should not weaken his resolution to make some kind of stand against her; to get at the truth about her. He let her make her own disposition of clothes and busied himself with the plates.

'I've got a piece of news for you, Katharine,' he said directly they sat down to table; 'I shan't get my holiday in April. We shall have to put off our marriage.'

He rapped the words out with a certain degree of brusqueness. Katharine started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts.

'That won't make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn't signed,' she replied. 'But why? What has happened?'

He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock.

'It's a good thing we didn't take the house then,' she repeated thoughtfully.

'It'll mean, too, I'm afraid, that I shan't be as free for a considerable time as I have been,' he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with-she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal pa.s.sed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brus.h.i.+ng aside these thoughts with annoyance.

'Where should I address a letter to Ca.s.sandra?' he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other tonight, or was in some mood. 'We've struck up a friends.h.i.+p,' he added.

'She's at home, I think,' Katharine replied.

'They keep her too much at home,' said William. 'Why don't you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I'll just finish what I was saying, if you don't mind, because I'm particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow.'

Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. 'Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect '; but he was far more conscious of Katharine's eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess.

In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, att.i.tude on William's part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary's state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact, she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a part in all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for which her friends and family were so distinguished. For example, although she liked Ca.s.sandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struck her as purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms, now it was music-which last she supposed was the cause of William's sudden interest in her. Never before had William wasted the minutes of her presence in writing his letters. With a curious sense of light opening where all, hitherto, had been opaque, it dawned upon her that, after all, possibly, yes, probably, nay, certainly, the devotion which she had almost wearily taken for granted existed in a much slighter degree than she had suspected, or existed no longer. She looked at him attentively as if this discovery of hers must show traces in his face. Never had she seen so much to respect in his appearance, so much that attracted her by its sensitiveness and intelligence, although she saw these qualities as if they were those one responds to, dumbly, in the face of a stranger. The head bent over the paper, thoughtful as usual, had now a composure which seemed somehow to place it at a distance, like a face seen talking to some one else behind gla.s.s.

He wrote on, without raising his eyes. She would have spoken, but could not bring herself to ask him for signs of affection which she had no right to claim. The conviction that he was thus strange to her filled her with despondency, and ill.u.s.trated quite beyond doubt the infinite loneliness of human beings. She had never felt the truth of this so strongly before. She looked away into the fire; it seemed to her that even physically they were now scarcely within speaking distance; and spiritually there was certainly no human being with whom she could claim comrades.h.i.+p; no dream that satisfied her as she was used to be satisfied; nothing remained in whose reality she could believe, save those abstract ideas-figures, laws, stars, facts, which she could hardly hold to for lack of knowledge and a kind of shame.

When Rodney owned to himself the folly of this prolonged silence, and the meanness of such devices, and looked up ready to seek some excuse for a good laugh, or opening for a confession, he was disconcerted by what he saw. Katharine seemed equally oblivious of what was bad or of what was good in him. Her expression suggested concentration upon something entirely remote from her surroundings. The carelessness of her att.i.tude seemed to him rather masculine than feminine. His impulse to break up the constraint was chilled, and once more the exasperating sense of his own impotency returned to him. He could not help contrasting Katharine with his vision of the engaging, whimsical Ca.s.sandra; Katharine undemonstrative, inconsiderate, silent, and yet so notable that he could never do without her good opinion.

She veered round upon him a moment later, as if, when her train of thought was ended, she became aware of his presence.

'Have you finished your letter?' she asked. He thought he heard faint amus.e.m.e.nt in her tone, but not a trace of jealousy.

'No, I'm not going to write any more to-night,' he said. 'I'm not in the mood for it for some reason. I can't say what I want to say.'

'Ca.s.sandra won't know if it's well written or badly written,' Katharine remarked.

'I'm not so sure about that. I should say she has a good deal of literary feeling.'

'Perhaps,' said Katharine indifferently. 'You've been neglecting my education lately, by the way. I wish you'd read something. Let me choose a book.' So speaking, she went across to his bookshelves and began looking in a desultory way among his books. Anything, she thought, was better than bickering or the strange silence which drove home to her the distance between them. As she pulled one book forward and then another she thought ironically of her own certainty not an hour ago; how it had vanished in a moment, how she was merely marking time as best she could, not knowing in the least where they stood, what they felt, or whether William loved her or not. More and more the condition of Mary's mind seemed to her wonderful and enviable-if, indeed, it could be quite as she figured it if, indeed, simplicity existed for any one of the daughters of women.

'Swift,' she said, at last, taking out a volume at haphazard to settle this question at least. 'Let us have some Swift.'

Rodney took the book, held it in front of him, inserted one finger between the pages, but said nothing. His face wore a queer expression of deliberation, as if he were weighing one thing with another, and would not say anything until his mind were made up.

Katharine, taking her chair beside him, noted his silence and looked at him with sudden apprehension. What she hoped or feared, she could not have said; a most irrational and indefensible desire for some a.s.surance of his affection was, perhaps, uppermost in her mind. Peevishness, complaints, exacting cross-examination she was used to, but this att.i.tude of composed quiet, which seemed to come from the consciousness of power within, puzzled her. She did not know what was going to happen next.

At last William spoke.

'I think it's a little odd, don't you?' he said, in a voice of detached reflection. 'Most people, I mean, would be seriously upset if their marriage was put off for six months or so. But we aren't; now how do you account for that?'

She looked at him and observed his judicial att.i.tude as of one holding far aloof from emotion.

'I attribute it,' he went on, without waiting for her to answer, 'to the fact that neither of us is in the least romantic about the other. That may be partly, no doubt, because we've known each other so long; but I'm inclined to think there's more in it than that. There's something temperamental. I think you're a trifle cold, and I suspect I'm a trifle self-absorbed. If that were so it goes a long way to explaining our odd lack of illusion about each other. I'm not saying that the most satisfactory marriages aren't founded upon this sort of understanding. But certainly it struck me as odd this morning, when Wilson told me, how little upset I felt. By the way, you're sure we haven't committed ourselves to that house?'

'I've kept the letters, and I'll go through them to-morrow; but I'm certain we're on the safe side.'

'Thanks. As to the psychological problem,' he continued, as if the question interested him in a detached way, 'there's no doubt, I think, that either of us is capable of feeling what, for reasons of simplicity, I call romance for a third person-at least, I've little doubt in my own case.

It was, perhaps, the first time in all her knowledge of him that Katharine had known William enter thus deliberately and without sign of emotion upon a statement of his own feelings. He was wont to discourage such intimate discussions by a little laugh or turn of the conversation, as much as to say that men, or men of the world, find such topics a little silly, or in doubtful taste. His obvious wish to explain something puzzled her, interested her, and neutralized the wound to her vanity. For some reason, too, she felt more at ease with him than usual; or her ease was more the ease of equality-she could not stop to think of that at the moment though. His remarks interested her too much for the light that they threw upon certain problems of her own.

'What is this romance?' she mused.

'Ah, that's the question. I've never come across a definition that satisfied me, though there are some very good ones'-he glanced in the direction of his books.

'It's not altogether knowing the other person, perhaps-it's ignorance,' she hazarded.

'Some authorities say it's a question of distance-romance in literature, that is-'

'Possibly, in the case of art. But in the case of people it may be-' she hesitated.

'Have you no personal experience of it?' he asked, letting his eyes rest upon her swiftly for a moment.

'I believe it's influenced me enormously,' she said, in the tone of one absorbed by the possibilities of some view just presented to them; 'but in my life there's so little scope for it,' she added. She reviewed her daily task, the perpetual demands upon her for good sense, self-control, and accuracy in a house containing a romantic mother. Ah, but her romance wasn't that romance. It was a desire, an echo, a sound; she could drape it in colour, see it in form, hear it in music, but not in words; no, never in words. She sighed, teased by desires so incoherent, so incommunicable.

'But isn't it curious,' William resumed, 'that you should neither feel it for me, nor I for you?'

Katharine agreed that it was curious-very; but even more curious to her was the fact that she was discussing the question with William. It revealed possibilities which opened a prospect of a new relations.h.i.+p altogether. Somehow it seemed to her that he was helping her to understand what she had never understood; and in her grat.i.tude she was conscious of a most sisterly desire to help him, too-sisterly, save for one pang, not quite to be subdued, that for him she was without romance.

'I think you might be very happy with some one you loved in that way,' she said.

'You a.s.sume that romance survives a closer knowledge of the person one loves?'

He asked the question formally, to protect himself from the sort of personality which he dreaded. The whole situation needed the most careful management lest it should degenerate into some degrading and disturbing exhibition such as the scene, which he could never think of without shame, upon the heath among the dead leaves. And yet each sentence brought him relief. He was coming to understand something or other about his own desires. .h.i.therto undefined by him, the source of his difficulty with Katharine. The wish to hurt her, which had urged him to begin, had completely left him, and he felt that it was only Katharine now who could help him to be sure. He must take his time. There were so many things that he could not say without the greatest difficulty-that name, for example, Ca.s.sandra. Nor could he move his eyes from a certain spot, a fiery glen surrounded by high mountains, in the heart of the coals. He waited in suspense for Katharine to continue. She had said that he might be very happy with some one he loved in that way.

'I don't see why it shouldn't last with you,' she resumed. 'I can imagine a certain sort of person-' she paused; she was aware that he was listening with the greatest intentness, and that his formality was merely the cover for an extreme anxiety of some sort. There was some person then-some woman-who could it be? Ca.s.sandra? Ah, possibly-A person,' she added, speaking in the most matter-of-fact tone she could command, 'like Ca.s.sandra Otway, for instance. Ca.s.sandra is the most interesting of the Otways-with the exception of Henry. Even so, I like Ca.s.sandra better. She has more than mere cleverness. She is a character-a person by herself.'

'Those dreadful insects!' burst from William, with a nervous laugh, and a little spasm went through him as Katharine noticed. It was Ca.s.sandra then. Automatically and dully she replied, 'You could insist that she confined herself to-to-something else ... But she cares for music; I believe she writes poetry; and there can be no doubt that she has a peculiar charm-'

She ceased, as if defining to herself this peculiar charm. After a moment's silence William jerked out, 'I thought her affectionate?'

'Extremely affectionate. She wors.h.i.+ps Henry. When you think what a house that is-Uncle Francis always in one mood or another-'

'Dear, dear, dear,' William muttered.

And you have so much in common.'

'My dear Katharine!' William exclaimed, flinging himself back in his chair, and uprooting his eyes from the spot in the fire. 'I really don't know what we're talking about ... I a.s.sure you ... '

He was covered with an extreme confusion.

He withdrew the finger that was still thrust between the pages of Gulliver, opened the book, and ran his eye down the list of chapters, as though he were about to select the one most suitable for reading aloud. As Katharine watched him, she was seized with preliminary symptoms of his own panic. At the same time she was convinced that, should he find the right page, take out his spectacles, clear his throat, and open his lips, a chance that would never come again in all their lives would be lost to them both.

'We're talking about things that interest us both very much,' she said. 'Shan't we go on talking, and leave Swift for another time? I don't feel in the mood for Swift, and it's a pity to read any one when that's the case-particularly Swift.'

The pretence of wise literary speculation, as she calculated, restored William's confidence in his security, and he replaced the book in the bookcase, keeping his back turned to her as he did so, and taking advantage of this circ.u.mstance to summon his thoughts together.

But a second of introspection had the alarming result of showing him that his mind, when looked at from within, was no longer familiar ground. He felt, that is to say, what he had never consciously felt before; he was revealed to himself as other than he was wont to think him; he was afloat upon a sea of unknown and tumultuous possibilities. He paced once up and down the room, and then flung himself impetuously into the chair by Katharine's side. He had never felt anything like this before; he put himself entirely into her hands; he cast off all responsibility. He very nearly exclaimed aloud: 'You've stirred up all these odious and violent emotions, and now you must do the best you can with them.'

Her near presence, however, had a calming and rea.s.suring effect upon his agitation, and he was conscious only of an implicit trust that, somehow, he was safe with her, that she would see him through, find out what it was that he wanted, and procure it for him.

'I wish to do whatever you tell me to do,' he said. 'I put myself entirely in your hands, Katharine.'

'You must try to tell me what you feel,' she said.

'My dear, I feel a thousand things every second. I don't know, I'm sure, what I feel. That afternoon on the heath-it was then-then-' He broke off; he did not tell her what had happened then. 'Your ghastly good sense, as usual, has convinced me-for the moment but what the truth is, Heaven only knows!' he exclaimed.

'Isn't it the truth that you are, or might be, in love with Ca.s.sandra?' she said gently.

William bowed his head. After a moment's silence he murmured: 'I believe you're right, Katharine.'

She sighed, involuntarily. She had been hoping all this time, with an intensity that increased second by second against the current of her words, that it would not in the end come to this. After a moment of surprising anguish, she summoned her courage to tell him how she wished only that she might help him, and had framed the first words of her speech when a knock, terrific and startling to people in their overwrought condition, sounded upon the door.

'Katharine, I wors.h.i.+p you,' he urged, half in a whisper.

'Yes,' she replied, withdrawing with a little s.h.i.+ver, 'but you must open the door.'

CHAPTER XXIII.

WHEN RALPH DENHAM ENTERED the room and saw Katharine seated with her back to him, he was conscious of a change in the grade of the atmosphere such as a traveller meets with sometimes upon the roads, particularly after sunset, when, without warning, he runs from clammy chill to a h.o.a.rd of unspent warmth in which the sweetness of hay and beanfield is cherished, as if the sun still shone although the moon is up. He hesitated; he shuddered; he walked elaborately to the window and laid aside his coat. He balanced his stick most carefully against the folds of the curtain. Thus occupied with his own sensations and preparations, he had little time to observe what either of the other two was feeling. Such symptoms of agitation as he might perceive (and they had left their tokens in brightness of eye and pallor of cheeks) seemed to him well befitting the actors in so great a drama as that of Katharine Hilbery's daily life. Beauty and pa.s.sion were the breath of her being, he thought.

She scarcely noticed his presence, or only as it forced her to adopt a manner of composure, which she was certainly far from feeling. William, however, was even more agitated than she was, and her first instalment of promised help took the form of some commonplace upon the age of the building or the architect's name, which gave him an excuse to fumble in a drawer for certain designs, which he laid upon the table between the three of them.

Which of the three followed the designs most carefully it would be difficult to tell, but it is certain that not one of the three found for the moment anything to say. Years of training in a drawing-room came at length to Katharine's help, and she said something suitable, at the same moment withdrawing her hand from the table because she perceived that it trembled. William agreed effusively; Denham corroborated him, speaking in rather high-pitched tones; they thrust aside the plans, and drew nearer to the fireplace.

'I'd rather live here than anywhere in the whole of London,' said Denham.

(And I've got nowhere to live') Katharine thought, as she agreed aloud.

'You could get rooms here, no doubt, if you wanted to,' Rodney replied.

'But I'm just leaving London for good-I've taken that cottage I was telling you about.' The announcement seemed to convey very little to either of his hearers.

'Indeed?-that's sad ... You must give me your address. But you won't cut yourself off altogether, surely-'

'You'll be moving too, I suppose,' Denham remarked.

William showed such visible signs of floundering that Katharine collected herself and asked: 'Where is the cottage you've taken?'

In answering her, Denham turned and looked at her. As their eyes met, she realized for the first time that she was talking to Ralph Denham, and she remembered, without recalling any details, that she had been speaking of him quite lately, and that she had reason to think ill of him. What Mary had said she could not remember, but she felt that there was a ma.s.s of knowledge in her mind which she had not had time to examine-knowledge now lying on the far side of a gulf. But her agitation flashed the queerest lights upon her past. She must get through the matter in hand, and then think it out in quiet. She bent her mind to follow what Ralph was saying. He was telling her that he had taken a cottage in Norfolk,cm and she was saying that she knew, or did not know, that particular neighbourhood. But after a moment's attention her mind flew to Rodney, and she had an unusual, indeed unprecedented, sense that they were in touch and shared each other's thoughts. If only Ralph were not there, she would at once give way to her desire to take William's hand, then to bend his head upon her shoulder, for this was what she wanted to do more than anything at the moment, unless, indeed, she wished more than anything to be alone-yes, that was what she wanted. She was sick to death of these discussions; she s.h.i.+vered at the effort to reveal her feelings. She had forgotten to answer. William was speaking now. and she was saying that she knew, or did not know, that particular neighbourhood. But after a moment's attention her mind flew to Rodney, and she had an unusual, indeed unprecedented, sense that they were in touch and shared each other's thoughts. If only Ralph were not there, she would at once give way to her desire to take William's hand, then to bend his head upon her shoulder, for this was what she wanted to do more than anything at the moment, unless, indeed, she wished more than anything to be alone-yes, that was what she wanted. She was sick to death of these discussions; she s.h.i.+vered at the effort to reveal her feelings. She had forgotten to answer. William was speaking now.

'But what will you find to do in the country?' she asked at random, striking into a conversation which she had only half heard, in such a way as to make both Rodney and Denham look at her with a little surprise. But directly she took up the conversation, it was William's turn to fall silent. He at once forgot to listen to what they were saying, although he interposed nervously at intervals, 'Yes, yes, yes.' As the minutes pa.s.sed, Ralph's presence became more and more intolerable to him, since there was so much that he must say to Katharine; the moment he could not talk to her, terrible doubts, unanswerable questions acc.u.mulated, which he must lay before Katharine, for she alone could help him now. Unless he could see her alone, it would be impossible for him ever to sleep, or to know what he had said in a moment of madness, which was not altogether mad, or was it mad? He nodded his head, and said, nervously, 'Yes, yes,' and looked at Katharine and thought how beautiful she looked; there was no one in the world that he admired more. There was an emotion in her face which lent it an expression he had never seen there. Then, as he was turning over means by which he could speak to her alone, she rose, and he was taken by surprise, for he had counted on the fact that she would outstay Denham. His only chance, then, of saying something to her in private, was to take her downstairs and walk with her to the street. While he hesitated, however, overcome with the difficulty of putting one simple thought into words when all his thoughts were scattered about, and all were too strong for utterance, he was struck silent by something that was still more unexpected. Denham got up from his chair, looked at Katharine, and said: 'I'm going too. Shall we go together?'

And before William could see any way of detaining him-or would it be better to detain Katharine?-he had taken his hat, stick, , and was holding the door open for Katharine to pa.s.s out. The most that William could do was to stand at the head of the stairs and say good night. He could not offer to go with them. He could not insist that she should stay. He watched her descend, rather slowly, owing to the dusk of the staircase, and he had a last sight of Denham's head and of Katharine's head near together, against the panels, when suddenly a pang of acute jealousy overcame him, and had he not remained conscious of the slippers upon his feet, he would have run after them or cried out. As it was he could not move from the spot. At the turn of the staircase Katharine turned to look back, trusting to this last glance to seal their compact of good friends.h.i.+p. Instead of returning her silent greeting, William grinned back at her a cold stare of sarcasm or of rage.

She stopped dead for a moment, and then descended slowly into the court. She looked to the right and to the left, and once up into the sky. She was only conscious of Denham as a block upon her thoughts. She measured the distance that must be traversed before she would be alone. But when they came to the Strand no cabs were to be seen, and Denham broke the silence by saying: 'There seem to be no cabs. Shall we walk on a little?'

'Very well,' she agreed, paying no attention to him.

Aware of her preoccupation, or absorbed in his own thoughts, Ralph said nothing further; and in silence they walked some distance along the Strand. Ralph was doing his best to put his thoughts into such order that one came before the rest, and the determination that when he spoke he should speak worthily, made him put off the moment of speaking till he had found the exact words and even the place that best suited him. The Strand was too busy. There was too much risk, also, of finding an empty cab. Without a word of explanation he turned to the left, down one of the side streets leading to the river. On no account must they part until something of the very greatest importance had happened. He knew perfectly well what he wished to say, and had arranged not only the substance, but the order in which he was to say it. Now, however, that he was alone with her, not only did he find the difficulty of speaking almost insurmountable, but he was aware that he was angry with her for thus disturbing him, and casting, as it was so easy for a person of her advantages to do, these phantoms and pitfalls across his path. He was determined that he would question her as severely as he would question himself; and make them both, once and for all, either justify her dominance or renounce it. But the longer they walked thus alone, the more he was disturbed by the sense of her actual presence. Her skirt blew; the feathers in her hat waved; sometimes he saw her a step or two ahead of him, or had to wait for her to catch him up.

The silence was prolonged, and at length drew her attention to him. First she was annoyed that there was no cab to free her from his company; then she recalled vaguely something that Mary had said to make her think ill of him; she could not remember what, but the recollection, combined with his masterful ways-why did he walk so fast down this side street?-made her more and more conscious of a person of marked, though disagreeable, force by her side. She stopped and, looking round her for a cab, sighted one in the distance. He was thus precipitated into speech.

'Should you mind if we walked a little farther?' he asked. 'There's something I want to say to you.'

'Very well,' she replied, guessing that his request had something to do with Mary Datchet.

'It's quieter by the river,' he said, and instantly he crossed over. 'I want to ask you merely this,' he began. But he paused so long that she could see his head against the sky; the slope of his thin cheek and his large, strong nose were clearly marked against it. While he paused, words that were quite different from those he intended to use presented themselves.

'I've made you my standard ever since I saw you. I've dreamt about you; I've thought of nothing but you; you represent to me the only reality in the world.'

His words, and the queer strained voice in which he spoke them, made it appear as if he addressed some person who was not the woman beside him, but some one far away.

And now things have come to such a pa.s.s that, unless I can speak to you openly, I believe I shall go mad. I think of you as the most beautiful, the truest thing in the world,' he continued, filled with a sense of exaltation, and feeling that he had no need now to choose his words with pedantic accuracy, for what he wanted to say was suddenly become plain to him.

'I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything. Life, I tell you, would be impossible without you. And now I want '

She had heard him so far with a feeling that she had dropped some material word which made sense of the rest. She could hear no more of this unintelligible rambling without checking him. She felt that she was overhearing what was meant for another.

'I don't understand,' she said. 'You're saying things that you don't mean.

'I mean every word I say,' he replied, emphatically. He turned his head towards her. She recovered the words she was searching for while he spoke. 'Ralph Denham is in love with you.' They came back to her in Mary Datchet's voice. Her anger blazed up in her.

'I saw Mary Datchet this afternoon,' she exclaimed.

He made a movement as if he were surprised or taken aback, but answered in a moment: 'She told you that I had asked her to marry me, I suppose?'

'No!' Katharine exclaimed, in surprise.

'I did though. It was the day I saw you at Lincoln,' he continued. 'I had meant to ask her to marry me, and then I looked out of the window and saw you. After that I didn't want to ask any one to marry me. But I did it; and she knew I was lying, and refused me. I thought then, and still think, that she cares for me. I behaved very badly. I don't defend myself.'