Night and Day Part 22

'Do you mean, am I in love with him?' Ca.s.sandra asked, breathing quickly, and nervously moving her hands.

'Yes, in love with him,' Katharine repeated.

'How can I love the man you're engaged to marry?' Ca.s.sandra burst out.

'He may be in love with you.'

'I don't think you've any right to say such things, Katharine,' Ca.s.sandra exclaimed. 'Why do you say them? Don't you mind in the least how William behaves to other women? If I were engaged, I couldn't bear it!'

'We're not engaged,' said Katharine, after a pause.

'Katharine!' Ca.s.sandra cried.

'No, we're not engaged,' Katharine repeated. 'But no one knows it but ourselves.'

'But why-I don't understand-you're not engaged!' Ca.s.sandra said again. 'Oh, that explains it! You're not in love with him! You don't want to marry him!'

'We aren't in love with each other any longer,' said Katharine, as if disposing of something for ever and ever.

'How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you are, Katharine,' Ca.s.sandra said, her whole body and voice seeming to fall and collapse together, and no trace of anger or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude.

'You're not in love with him?'

'But I love him,' said Katharine.

Ca.s.sandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the revelation, for some little while longer. Nor did Katharine speak. Her att.i.tude was that of some one who wishes to be concealed as much as possible from observation. She sighed profoundly; she was absolutely silent, and apparently overcome by her thoughts.

'D'you know what time it is?' she said at length, and shook her pillow, as if making ready for sleep.

Ca.s.sandra rose obediently, and once more took up her candle. Perhaps the white dressing-gown, and the loosened hair, and something unseeing in the expression of the eyes gave her a likeness to a woman walking in her sleep. Katharine, at least, thought so.

'There's no reason why I should go home, then?' Ca.s.sandra said, pausing. 'Unless you want me to go, Katharine? What do do you want me to do?' you want me to do?'

For the first time their eyes met.

'You wanted us to fall in love,' Ca.s.sandra exclaimed, as if she read the certainty there. But as she looked she saw a sight that surprised her. The tears rose slowly in Katharine's eyes and stood there, br.i.m.m.i.n.g but contained-the tears of some profound emotion, happiness, grief, renunciation; an emotion so complex in its nature that to express it was impossible, and Ca.s.sandra, bending her head and receiving the tears upon her cheek, accepted them in silence as the consecration of her love.

'Please, miss,' said the maid, about eleven o'clock on the following morning, 'Mrs Milvain is in the kitchen.'

A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the country, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room, was sorting them while Ca.s.sandra watched her from an arm-chair, and absent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted. The maid's message had a curious effect upon Katharine.

She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, said emphatically and even tragically: 'You know what that means.'

Ca.s.sandra had understood nothing.

'Aunt Celia is in the kitchen,' Katharine repeated.

'Why in the kitchen?' Ca.s.sandra asked, not unnaturally.

'Probably because she's discovered something,' Katharine replied. Ca.s.sandra's thoughts flew to the subject of her preoccupation.

'About us?' she inquired.

'Heaven knows,' Katharine replied. 'I shan't let her stay in the kitchen, though. I shall bring her up here.'

The sternness with which this was said suggested that to bring Aunt Celia upstairs was, for some reason, a disciplinary measure.

'For goodness' sake, Katharine,' Ca.s.sandra exclaimed, jumping from her chair and showing signs of agitation, 'don't be rash. Don't let her suspect. Remember, nothing's certain-'

Katharine a.s.sured her by nodding her head several times, but the manner in which she left the room was not calculated to inspire complete confidence in her diplomacy.

Mrs Milvain was sitting, or rather perching, upon the edge of a chair in the servants' room. Whether there was any sound reason for her choice of a subterranean chamber, or whether it corresponded with the spirit of her quest, Mrs Milvain invariably came in by the back door and sat in the servants' room when she was engaged in confidential family transactions. The ostensible reason she gave was that neither Mr nor Mrs Hilbery should be disturbed. But, in truth, Mrs Milvain depended even more than most elderly women of her generation upon the delicious emotions of intimacy, agony, and secrecy, and the additional thrill provided by the bas.e.m.e.nt was one not to be lightly forfeited. She protested almost plaintively when Katharine proposed to go upstairs.

'I've something that I want to say to you in private,' private,' she said, hesitating reluctantly upon the threshold of her ambush. she said, hesitating reluctantly upon the threshold of her ambush.

'The drawing-room is empty-'

'But we might meet your mother upon the stairs. We might disturb your father,' Mrs Milvain objected, taking the precaution to speak in a whisper already.

But as Katharine's presence was absolutely necessary to the success of the interview, and as Katharine obstinately receded up the kitchen stairs, Mrs Milvain had no course but to follow her. She glanced furtively about her as she proceeded upstairs, drew her skirts together, and stepped with circ.u.mspection past all doors, whether they were open or shut.

'n.o.body will overhear us?' she murmured, when the comparative sanctuary of the drawing-room had been reached. 'I see that I have interrupted you,' she added, glancing at the flowers strewn upon the floor. A moment later she inquired, 'Was some one sitting with you?' noticing a handkerchief that Ca.s.sandra had dropped in her flight.

'Ca.s.sandra was helping me to put the flowers in water,' said Katharine, and she spoke so firmly and clearly that Mrs Milvain glanced nervously at the main door and then at the curtain which divided the little room with the relics from the drawing-room.

'Ah, Ca.s.sandra is still with you,' she remarked. And did William send you those lovely flowers?'

Katharine sat down opposite her aunt and said neither yes nor no. She looked past her, and it might have been thought that she was considering very critically the pattern of the curtains. Another advantage of the bas.e.m.e.nt, from Mrs Milvain's point of view, was that it made it necessary to sit very close together, and the light was dim compared with that which now poured through three windows upon Katharine and the basket of flowers, and gave even the slight angular figure of Mrs Milvain herself a halo of gold.

'They're from Stogdon House,' said Katharine abruptly, with a little jerk of her head.

Mrs Milvain felt that it would be easier to tell her niece what she wished to say if they were actually in physical contact, for the spiritual distance between them was formidable. Katharine, however, made no overtures, and Mrs Milvain, who was possessed of rash but heroic courage, plunged without preface: 'People are talking about you, Katharine. That is why I have come this morning. You forgive me for saying what I'd much rather not say? What I say is only for your own sake, my child.'

'There's nothing to forgive yet, Aunt Celia,' said Katharine, with apparent good humour.

'People are saying that William goes everywhere with you and Ca.s.sandra, and that he is always paying her attentions. At the Markhams' dance he sat out five dances with her. At the Zoo they were seen alone together. They left together. They never came back here till seven in the evening. But that is not all. They say his manner is very marked-he is quite different when she is there.'

Mrs Milvain, whose words had run themselves together, and whose voice had raised its tone almost to one of protest, here ceased, and looked intently at Katharine, as if to judge the effect of her communication. A slight rigidity had pa.s.sed over Katharine's face. Her lips were pressed together; her eyes were contracted, and they were still fixed upon the curtain. These superficial changes covered an extreme inner loathing such as might follow the display of some hideous or indecent spectacle. The indecent spectacle was her own action beheld for the first time from the outside; her aunt's words made her realize how infinitely repulsive the body of life is without its soul.

'Well?' she said at length.

Mrs Milvain made a gesture as if to bring her closer, but it was not returned.

'We all know how good you are-how unselfish-how you sacrifice yourself to others. But you've been too unselfish, Katharine. You have made Ca.s.sandra happy, and she has taken advantage of your goodness.'

'I don't understand, Aunt Celia,' said Katharine. 'What has Ca.s.sandra done?'

'Ca.s.sandra has behaved in a way that I could not have thought possible,' said Mrs Milvain warmly. 'She has been utterly selfish-utterly heartless. I must speak to her before I go.'

'I don't understand,' Katharine persisted.

Mrs Milvain looked at her. Was it possible that Katharine really doubted? that there was something that Mrs Milvain herself did not understand? She braced herself, and p.r.o.nounced the tremendous words: 'Ca.s.sandra has stolen William's love.'

Still the words seemed to have curiously little effect.

'Do you mean,' said Katharine, 'that he has fallen in love with her?'

'There are ways of making making men fall in love with one, Katharine.' men fall in love with one, Katharine.'

Katharine remained silent. The silence alarmed Mrs Milvain, and she began hurriedly: 'Nothing would have made me say these things but your own good. I have not wished to interfere; I have not wished to give you pain. I am a useless old woman. I have no children of my own. I only want to see you happy, Katharine.'

Again she stretched forth her arms, but they remained empty.

'You are not going to say these things to Ca.s.sandra,' said Katharine suddenly. 'You've said them to me; that's enough.'

Katharine spoke so low and with such restraint that Mrs Milvain had to strain to catch her words, and when she heard them she was dazed by them.

'I've made you angry! I knew I should!' she exclaimed. She quivered, and a kind of sob shook her; but even to have made Katharine angry was some relief, and allowed her to feel some of the agreeable sensations of martyrdom.

'Yes,' said Katharine, standing up, 'I'm so angry that I don't want to say anything more. I think you'd better go, Aunt Celia. We don't understand each other.'

At these words Mrs Milvain looked for a moment terribly apprehensive; she glanced at her niece's face, but read no pity there, whereupon she folded her hands upon a black velvet bag which she carried in an att.i.tude that was almost one of prayer. Whatever divinity she prayed to, if pray she did, at any rate she recovered her dignity in a singular way and faced her niece.

'Married love,' she said slowly and with emphasis upon every word, 'is the most sacred of all loves. The love of husband and wife is the most holy we know. That is the lesson Mamma's children learnt from her;1 that is what they can never forget. I have tried to speak as she would have wished her daughter to speak. You are her grandchild.' that is what they can never forget. I have tried to speak as she would have wished her daughter to speak. You are her grandchild.'

Katharine seemed to judge this defence upon its merits, and then to convict it of falsity.

'I don't see that there is any excuse for your behaviour,' she said.

At these words Mrs Milvain rose and stood for a moment beside her niece. She had never met with such treatment before, and she did not know with what weapons to break down the terrible wall of resistance offered her by one who, by virtue of youth and beauty and s.e.x, should have been all tears and supplications. But Mrs Milvain herself was obstinate; upon a matter of this kind she could not admit that she was either beaten or mistaken. She beheld herself the champion of married love in its purity and supremacy; what her niece stood for she was quite unable to say, but she was filled with the gravest suspicions. The old woman and the young woman stood side by side in unbroken silence. Mrs Milvain could not make up her mind to withdraw while her principles trembled in the balance and her curiosity remained unappeased. She ransacked her mind for some question that should force Katharine to enlighten her, but the supply was limited, the choice difficult, and while she hesitated the door opened and William Rodney came in. He carried in his hand an enormous and splendid bunch of white and purple flowers, and, either not seeing Mrs Milvain, or disregarding her, he advanced straight to Katharine, and presented the flowers with the words: 'These are for you, Katharine.'

Katharine took them with a glance that Mrs Milvain did not fail to intercept. But with all her experience, she did not know what to make of it. She watched anxiously for further illumination. William greeted her without obvious sign of guilt, and, explaining that he had a holiday, both he and Katharine seemed to take it for granted that his holiday should be celebrated with flowers and spent in Cheyne Walk. A pause followed; that, too, was natural; and Mrs Milvain began to feel that she laid herself open to a charge of selfishness if she stayed. The mere presence of a young man had altered her disposition curiously, and filled her with a desire for a scene which should end in an emotional forgiveness. She would have given much to clasp both nephew and niece in her arms. But she could not flatter herself that any hope of the customary exaltation remained.

'I must go,' she said, and she was conscious of an extreme flatness of spirit.

Neither of them said anything to stop her. William politely escorted her downstairs, and somehow, amongst her protests and embarra.s.sments, Mrs Milvain forgot to say good-bye to Katharine. She departed, murmuring words about ma.s.ses of flowers and a drawing-room always beautiful even in the depths of winter.

William came back to Katharine; he found her standing where he had left her.

'I've come to be forgiven,' he said. 'Our quarrel was perfectly hateful to me. I've not slept all night. You're not angry with me, are you, Katharine?'

She could not bring herself to answer him until she had rid her mind of the impression that her aunt had made on her. It seemed to her that the very flowers were contaminated, and Ca.s.sandra's pocket-handkerchief, for Mrs Milvain had used them for evidence in her investigations.

'She's been spying upon us,' she said, 'following us about London, overhearing what people are saying-'

'Mrs Milvain?' Rodney exclaimed. 'What has she told you?'

His air of open confidence entirely vanished.

'Oh, people are saying that you're in love with Ca.s.sandra, and that you don't care for me.'

'They have seen us?' he asked.

'Everything we've done for a fortnight has been seen.'

'I told you that would happen!' he exclaimed.

He walked to the window in evident perturbation. Katharine was too indignant to attend to him. She was swept away by the force of her own anger. Clasping Rodney's flowers, she stood upright and motionless.

Rodney turned away from the window.

'It's all been a mistake,' he said. 'I blame myself for it. I should have known better. I let you persuade me in a moment of madness. I beg you to forget my insanity, Katharine.'

'She wished even to persecute Ca.s.sandra!' Katharine burst out, not listening to him. 'She threatened to speak to her. She's capable of it-she's capable of anything!'

'Mrs Milvain is not tactful, I know, but you exaggerate, Katharine. People are talking about us. She was right to tell us. It only confirms my own feeling-the position is monstrous.'

At length Katharine realized some part of what he meant.

'You don't mean that this influences you, William?' she asked in amazement.

'It does,' he said, flus.h.i.+ng. 'It's intensely disagreeable to me. I can't endure that people should gossip about us. And then there's your cousin-Ca.s.sandra-' He paused in embarra.s.sment.

'I came here this morning, Katharine,' he resumed, with a change of voice, 'to ask you to forget my folly, my bad temper, my inconceivable behaviour. I came, Katharine, to ask whether we can't return to the position we were in before this-this season of lunacy. Will you take me back, Katharine, once more and for ever?'

No doubt her beauty, intensified by emotion and enhanced by the flowers of bright colour and strange shape which she carried wrought upon Rodney, and had its share in bestowing upon her the old romance. But a less n.o.ble pa.s.sion worked in him, too; he was inflamed by jealousy. His tentative offer of affection had been rudely and, as he thought, completely repulsed by Ca.s.sandra on the preceding day. Denham's confession was in his mind. And ultimately, Katharine's dominion over him was of the sort that the fevers of the night cannot exorcise.

'I was as much to blame as you were yesterday,' she said gently, disregarding his question. 'I confess, William, the sight of you and Ca.s.sandra together made me jealous, and I couldn't control myself. I laughed at you, I know.'

'You jealous!' William exclaimed. 'I a.s.sure you, Katharine, you've not the slightest reason to be jealous. Ca.s.sandra dislikes me, so far as she feels about me at all. I was foolish enough to try to explain the nature of our relations.h.i.+p. I couldn't resist telling her what I supposed myself to feel for her. She refused to listen, very rightly. But she left me in no doubt of her scorn.'

Katharine hesitated. She was confused, agitated, physically tired, and had already to reckon with the violent feeling of dislike aroused by her aunt which still vibrated through all the rest of her feelings. She sank into a chair and dropped her flowers upon her lap.

'She charmed me,' Rodney continued. 'I thought I loved her. But that's a thing of the past. It's all over, Katharine. It was a dream-an hallucination. We were both equally to blame, but no harm's done if you believe how truly I care for you. Say you believe me!'

He stood over her, as if in readiness to seize the first sign of her a.s.sent. Precisely at that moment, owing, perhaps, to her vicissitudes of feeling, all sense of love left her, as in a moment a mist lifts from the earth. And when the mist departed a skeleton world and blankness alone remained-a terrible prospect for the eyes of the living to behold. He saw the look of terror in her face, and without understanding its origin, took her hand in his. With the sense of companions.h.i.+p returned a desire, like that of a child for shelter, to accept what he had to offer her-and at that moment it seemed that he offered her the only thing that could make it tolerable to live. She let him press his lips to her cheek, and leant her head upon his arm. It was the moment of his triumph. It was the only moment in which she belonged to him and was dependent upon his protection.

'Yes, yes, yes,' he murmured, 'you accept me, Katharine. You love me.'

For a moment she remained silent. He then heard her murmur: 'Ca.s.sandra loves you more than I do.'

'Ca.s.sandra?' he whispered.

'She loves you,' Katharine repeated. She raised herself and repeated the sentence yet a third time. 'She loves you.'