CHAPTER XII
"Is Mr. Hilbery at home, or Mrs. Hilbery?" Denham asked, of theparlor-maid in Chelsea, a week later.
"No, sir. But Miss Hilbery is at home," the girl answered.
Ralph had anticipated many answers, but not this one, and now itwas unexpectedly made plain to him that it was the chance of seeingKatharine that had brought him all the way to Chelsea on pretence ofseeing her father.
He made some show of considering the matter, and was taken upstairs tothe drawing-room. As upon that first occasion, some weeks ago, the doorclosed as if it were a thousand doors softly excluding the world; andonce more Ralph received an impression of a room full of deep shadows,firelight, unwavering silver candle flames, and empty spaces to becrossed before reaching the round table in the middle of the room,with its frail burden of silver trays and china teacups. But this timeKatharine was there by herself; the volume in her hand showed that sheexpected no visitors.
Ralph said something about hoping to find her father.
"My father is out," she replied. "But if you can wait, I expect himsoon."
It might have been due merely to politeness, but Ralph felt that shereceived him almost with cordiality. Perhaps she was bored by drinkingtea and reading a book all alone; at any rate, she tossed the book on toa sofa with a gesture of relief.
"Is that one of the moderns whom you despise?" he asked, smiling at thecarelessness of her gesture.
"Yes," she replied. "I think even you would despise him."
"Even I?" he repeated. "Why even I?"
"You said you liked modern things; I said I hated them."
This was not a very accurate report of their conversation among therelics, perhaps, but Ralph was flattered to think that she rememberedanything about it.
"Or did I confess that I hated all books?" she went on, seeing him lookup with an air of inquiry. "I forget--"
"Do you hate all books?" he asked.
"It would be absurd to say that I hate all books when I've only readten, perhaps; but--' Here she pulled herself up short.
"Well?"
"Yes, I do hate books," she continued. "Why do you want to be for evertalking about your feelings? That's what I can't make out. And poetry'sall about feelings--novels are all about feelings."
She cut a cake vigorously into slices, and providing a tray with breadand butter for Mrs. Hilbery, who was in her room with a cold, she roseto go upstairs.
Ralph held the door open for her, and then stood with clasped hands inthe middle of the room. His eyes were bright, and, indeed, he scarcelyknew whether they beheld dreams or realities. All down the street andon the doorstep, and while he mounted the stairs, his dream of Katharinepossessed him; on the threshold of the room he had dismissed it, inorder to prevent too painful a collision between what he dreamt of herand what she was. And in five minutes she had filled the shell of theold dream with the flesh of life; looked with fire out of phantom eyes.He glanced about him with bewilderment at finding himself among herchairs and tables; they were solid, for he grasped the back of the chairin which Katharine had sat; and yet they were unreal; the atmosphere wasthat of a dream. He summoned all the faculties of his spirit to seizewhat the minutes had to give him; and from the depths of his mind thererose unchecked a joyful recognition of the truth that human naturesurpasses, in its beauty, all that our wildest dreams bring us hints of.
Katharine came into the room a moment later. He stood watching her cometowards him, and thought her more beautiful and strange than his dreamof her; for the real Katharine could speak the words which seemedto crowd behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes, and thecommonest sentence would be flashed on by this immortal light. And sheoverflowed the edges of the dream; he remarked that her softness waslike that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger.
"My mother wants me to tell you," she said, "that she hopes you havebegun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry.... All myrelations write poetry," she went on. "I can't bear to think of itsometimes--because, of course, it's none of it any good. But then oneneedn't read it--"
"You don't encourage me to write a poem," said Ralph.
"But you're not a poet, too, are you?" she inquired, turning upon himwith a laugh.
"Should I tell you if I were?"
"Yes. Because I think you speak the truth," she said, searching him forproof of this apparently, with eyes now almost impersonally direct. Itwould be easy, Ralph thought, to worship one so far removed, and yet ofso straight a nature; easy to submit recklessly to her, without thoughtof future pain.
"Are you a poet?" she demanded. He felt that her question had anunexplained weight of meaning behind it, as if she sought an answer to aquestion that she did not ask.
"No. I haven't written any poetry for years," he replied. "But all thesame, I don't agree with you. I think it's the only thing worth doing."
"Why do you say that?" she asked, almost with impatience, tapping herspoon two or three times against the side of her cup.
"Why?" Ralph laid hands on the first words that came to mind. "Because,I suppose, it keeps an ideal alive which might die otherwise."
A curious change came over her face, as if the flame of her mind weresubdued; and she looked at him ironically and with the expression whichhe had called sad before, for want of a better name for it.
"I don't know that there's much sense in having ideals," she said.
"But you have them," he replied energetically. "Why do we call themideals? It's a stupid word. Dreams, I mean--"
She followed his words with parted lips, as though to answer eagerlywhen he had done; but as he said, "Dreams, I mean," the door of thedrawing-room swung open, and so remained for a perceptible instant. Theyboth held themselves silent, her lips still parted.
Far off, they heard the rustle of skirts. Then the owner of the skirtsappeared in the doorway, which she almost filled, nearly concealing thefigure of a very much smaller lady who accompanied her.
"My aunts!" Katharine murmured, under her breath. Her tone had a hint oftragedy in it, but no less, Ralph thought, than the situation required.She addressed the larger lady as Aunt Millicent; the smaller was AuntCelia, Mrs. Milvain, who had lately undertaken the task of marryingCyril to his wife. Both ladies, but Mrs. Cosham (Aunt Millicent)in particular, had that look of heightened, smoothed, incarnadinedexistence which is proper to elderly ladies paying calls in London aboutfive o'clock in the afternoon. Portraits by Romney, seen through glass,have something of their pink, mellow look, their blooming softness, asof apricots hanging upon a red wall in the afternoon sun. Mrs. Coshamwas so appareled with hanging muffs, chains, and swinging draperies thatit was impossible to detect the shape of a human being in the mass ofbrown and black which filled the arm-chair. Mrs. Milvain was a muchslighter figure; but the same doubt as to the precise lines of hercontour filled Ralph, as he regarded them, with dismal foreboding.What remark of his would ever reach these fabulous and fantasticcharacters?--for there was something fantastically unreal in the curiousswayings and noddings of Mrs. Cosham, as if her equipment included alarge wire spring. Her voice had a high-pitched, cooing note, whichprolonged words and cut them short until the English language seemedno longer fit for common purposes. In a moment of nervousness, so Ralphthought, Katharine had turned on innumerable electric lights. But Mrs.Cosham had gained impetus (perhaps her swaying movements had that end inview) for sustained speech; and she now addressed Ralph deliberately andelaborately.
"I come from Woking, Mr. Popham. You may well ask me, why Woking? and tothat I answer, for perhaps the hundredth time, because of the sunsets.We went there for the sunsets, but that was five-and-twenty years ago.Where are the sunsets now? Alas! There is no sunset now nearer than theSouth Coast." Her rich and romantic notes were accompanied by a waveof a long white hand, which, when waved, gave off a flash of diamonds,rubies, and emeralds. Ralph wondered whether she more resembled anelephant, with a jeweled head-dress, or a superb cockatoo, balancedinsecurely upon its per
ch, and pecking capriciously at a lump of sugar.
"Where are the sunsets now?" she repeated. "Do you find sunsets now, Mr.Popham?"
"I live at Highgate," he replied.
"At Highgate? Yes, Highgate has its charms; your Uncle John lived atHighgate," she jerked in the direction of Katharine. She sank her headupon her breast, as if for a moment's meditation, which past, she lookedup and observed: "I dare say there are very pretty lanes in Highgate.I can recollect walking with your mother, Katharine, through lanesblossoming with wild hawthorn. But where is the hawthorn now? Youremember that exquisite description in De Quincey, Mr. Popham?--butI forget, you, in your generation, with all your activity andenlightenment, at which I can only marvel"--here she displayed both herbeautiful white hands--"do not read De Quincey. You have your Belloc,your Chesterton, your Bernard Shaw--why should you read De Quincey?"
"But I do read De Quincey," Ralph protested, "more than Belloc andChesterton, anyhow."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Cosham, with a gesture of surprise andrelief mingled. "You are, then, a 'rara avis' in your generation. I amdelighted to meet anyone who reads De Quincey."
Here she hollowed her hand into a screen, and, leaning towardsKatharine, inquired, in a very audible whisper, "Does your friendWRITE?"
"Mr. Denham," said Katharine, with more than her usual clearness andfirmness, "writes for the Review. He is a lawyer."
"The clean-shaven lips, showing the expression of the mouth! I recognizethem at once. I always feel at home with lawyers, Mr. Denham--"
"They used to come about so much in the old days," Mrs. Milvaininterposed, the frail, silvery notes of her voice falling with the sweettone of an old bell.
"You say you live at Highgate," she continued. "I wonder whether youhappen to know if there is an old house called Tempest Lodge still inexistence--an old white house in a garden?"
Ralph shook his head, and she sighed.
"Ah, no; it must have been pulled down by this time, with all the otherold houses. There were such pretty lanes in those days. That was howyour uncle met your Aunt Emily, you know," she addressed Katharine."They walked home through the lanes."
"A sprig of May in her bonnet," Mrs. Cosham ejaculated, reminiscently.
"And next Sunday he had violets in his buttonhole. And that was how weguessed."
Katharine laughed. She looked at Ralph. His eyes were meditative, andshe wondered what he found in this old gossip to make him ponder socontentedly. She felt, she hardly knew why, a curious pity for him.
"Uncle John--yes, 'poor John,' you always called him. Why was that?"she asked, to make them go on talking, which, indeed, they needed littleinvitation to do.
"That was what his father, old Sir Richard, always called him. PoorJohn, or the fool of the family," Mrs. Milvain hastened to informthem. "The other boys were so brilliant, and he could never pass hisexaminations, so they sent him to India--a long voyage in those days,poor fellow. You had your own room, you know, and you did it up. But hewill get his knighthood and a pension, I believe," she said, turning toRalph, "only it is not England."
"No," Mrs. Cosham confirmed her, "it is not England. In those days wethought an Indian Judgeship about equal to a county-court judgeship athome. His Honor--a pretty title, but still, not at the top of the tree.However," she sighed, "if you have a wife and seven children, and peoplenowadays very quickly forget your father's name--well, you have to takewhat you can get," she concluded.
"And I fancy," Mrs. Milvain resumed, lowering her voice ratherconfidentially, "that John would have done more if it hadn't been forhis wife, your Aunt Emily. She was a very good woman, devoted to him, ofcourse, but she was not ambitious for him, and if a wife isn't ambitiousfor her husband, especially in a profession like the law, clients soonget to know of it. In our young days, Mr. Denham, we used to say that weknew which of our friends would become judges, by looking at the girlsthey married. And so it was, and so, I fancy, it always will be. I don'tthink," she added, summing up these scattered remarks, "that any man isreally happy unless he succeeds in his profession."
Mrs. Cosham approved of this sentiment with more ponderous sagacity fromher side of the tea-table, in the first place by swaying her head, andin the second by remarking:
"No, men are not the same as women. I fancy Alfred Tennyson spoke thetruth about that as about many other things. How I wish he'd lived towrite 'The Prince'--a sequel to 'The Princess'! I confess I'm almosttired of Princesses. We want some one to show us what a good man can be.We have Laura and Beatrice, Antigone and Cordelia, but we have no heroicman. How do you, as a poet, account for that, Mr. Denham?"
"I'm not a poet," said Ralph good-humoredly. "I'm only a solicitor."
"But you write, too?" Mrs. Cosham demanded, afraid lest she shouldbe balked of her priceless discovery, a young man truly devoted toliterature.
"In my spare time," Denham reassured her.
"In your spare time!" Mrs. Cosham echoed. "That is a proof of devotion,indeed." She half closed her eyes, and indulged herself in a fascinatingpicture of a briefless barrister lodged in a garret, writing immortalnovels by the light of a farthing dip. But the romance which fell uponthe figures of great writers and illumined their pages was no falseradiance in her case. She carried her pocket Shakespeare about withher, and met life fortified by the words of the poets. How far she sawDenham, and how far she confused him with some hero of fiction, it wouldbe hard to say. Literature had taken possession even of her memories.She was matching him, presumably, with certain characters in the oldnovels, for she came out, after a pause, with:
"Um--um--Pendennis--Warrington--I could never forgive Laura," shepronounced energetically, "for not marrying George, in spite ofeverything. George Eliot did the very same thing; and Lewes was a littlefrog-faced man, with the manner of a dancing master. But Warrington,now, had everything in his favor; intellect, passion, romance,distinction, and the connection was a mere piece of undergraduate folly.Arthur, I confess, has always seemed to me a bit of a fop; I can'timagine how Laura married him. But you say you're a solicitor, Mr.Denham. Now there are one or two things I should like to ask you--aboutShakespeare--" She drew out her small, worn volume with some difficulty,opened it, and shook it in the air. "They say, nowadays, thatShakespeare was a lawyer. They say, that accounts for his knowledge ofhuman nature. There's a fine example for you, Mr. Denham. Study yourclients, young man, and the world will be the richer one of these days,I have no doubt. Tell me, how do we come out of it, now; better or worsethan you expected?"
Thus called upon to sum up the worth of human nature in a few words,Ralph answered unhesitatingly:
"Worse, Mrs. Cosham, a good deal worse. I'm afraid the ordinary man is abit of a rascal--"
"And the ordinary woman?"
"No, I don't like the ordinary woman either--"
"Ah, dear me, I've no doubt that's very true, very true." Mrs. Coshamsighed. "Swift would have agreed with you, anyhow--" She looked at him,and thought that there were signs of distinct power in his brow. Hewould do well, she thought, to devote himself to satire.
"Charles Lavington, you remember, was a solicitor," Mrs. Milvaininterposed, rather resenting the waste of time involved in talking aboutfictitious people when you might be talking about real people. "But youwouldn't remember him, Katharine."
"Mr. Lavington? Oh, yes, I do," said Katharine, waking from otherthoughts with her little start. "The summer we had a house near Tenby. Iremember the field and the pond with the tadpoles, and making haystackswith Mr. Lavington."
"She is right. There WAS a pond with tadpoles," Mrs. Coshamcorroborated. "Millais made studies of it for 'Ophelia.' Some say thatis the best picture he ever painted--"
"And I remember the dog chained up in the yard, and the dead snakeshanging in the toolhouse."
"It was at Tenby that you were chased by the bull," Mrs. Milvaincontinued. "But that you couldn't remember, though it's true you werea wonderful child. Such eyes she had, Mr. Denham! I used to say to herfather, 'She's watching
us, and summing us all up in her little mind.'And they had a nurse in those days," she went on, telling her story withcharming solemnity to Ralph, "who was a good woman, but engaged to asailor. When she ought to have been attending to the baby, her eyes wereon the sea. And Mrs. Hilbery allowed this girl--Susan her name was--tohave him to stay in the village. They abused her goodness, I'm sorryto say, and while they walked in the lanes, they stood the perambulatoralone in a field where there was a bull. The animal became enraged bythe red blanket in the perambulator, and Heaven knows what might havehappened if a gentleman had not been walking by in the nick of time, andrescued Katharine in his arms!"
"I think the bull was only a cow, Aunt Celia," said Katharine.
"My darling, it was a great red Devonshire bull, and not long after itgored a man to death and had to be destroyed. And your mother forgaveSusan--a thing I could never have done."
"Maggie's sympathies were entirely with Susan and the sailor, Iam sure," said Mrs. Cosham, rather tartly. "My sister-in-law," shecontinued, "has laid her burdens upon Providence at every crisis in herlife, and Providence, I must confess, has responded nobly, so far--"
"Yes," said Katharine, with a laugh, for she liked the rashness whichirritated the rest of the family. "My mother's bulls always turn intocows at the critical moment."
"Well," said Mrs. Milvain, "I'm glad you have some one to protect youfrom bulls now."
"I can't imagine William protecting any one from bulls," said Katharine.
It happened that Mrs. Cosham had once more produced her pocket volumeof Shakespeare, and was consulting Ralph upon an obscure passage in"Measure for Measure." He did not at once seize the meaning of whatKatharine and her aunt were saying; William, he supposed, referred tosome small cousin, for he now saw Katharine as a child in a pinafore;but, nevertheless, he was so much distracted that his eye could hardlyfollow the words on the paper. A moment later he heard them speakdistinctly of an engagement ring.
"I like rubies," he heard Katharine say.
"To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world...."
Mrs. Cosham intoned; at the same instant "Rodney" fitted itself to"William" in Ralph's mind. He felt convinced that Katharine was engagedto Rodney. His first sensation was one of violent rage with her forhaving deceived him throughout the visit, fed him with pleasant oldwives' tales, let him see her as a child playing in a meadow, sharedher youth with him, while all the time she was a stranger entirely, andengaged to marry Rodney.
But was it possible? Surely it was not possible. For in his eyes she wasstill a child. He paused so long over the book that Mrs. Cosham had timeto look over his shoulder and ask her niece:
"And have you settled upon a house yet, Katharine?"
This convinced him of the truth of the monstrous idea. He looked up atonce and said:
"Yes, it's a difficult passage."
His voice had changed so much, he spoke with such curtness and even withsuch contempt, that Mrs. Cosham looked at him fairly puzzled. Happilyshe belonged to a generation which expected uncouthness in its men, andshe merely felt convinced that this Mr. Denham was very, very clever.She took back her Shakespeare, as Denham seemed to have no more to say,and secreted it once more about her person with the infinitely patheticresignation of the old.
"Katharine's engaged to William Rodney," she said, by way of filling inthe pause; "a very old friend of ours. He has a wonderful knowledge ofliterature, too--wonderful." She nodded her head rather vaguely. "Youshould meet each other."
Denham's one wish was to leave the house as soon as he could; but theelderly ladies had risen, and were proposing to visit Mrs. Hilbery inher bedroom, so that any move on his part was impossible. At the sametime, he wished to say something, but he knew not what, to Katharinealone. She took her aunts upstairs, and returned, coming towards himonce more with an air of innocence and friendliness that amazed him.
"My father will be back," she said. "Won't you sit down?" and shelaughed, as if now they might share a perfectly friendly laugh at thetea-party.
But Ralph made no attempt to seat himself.
"I must congratulate you," he said. "It was news to me." He saw her facechange, but only to become graver than before.
"My engagement?" she asked. "Yes, I am going to marry William Rodney."
Ralph remained standing with his hand on the back of a chair in absolutesilence. Abysses seemed to plunge into darkness between them. He lookedat her, but her face showed that she was not thinking of him. No regretor consciousness of wrong disturbed her.
"Well, I must go," he said at length.
She seemed about to say something, then changed her mind and saidmerely:
"You will come again, I hope. We always seem"--she hesitated--"to beinterrupted."
He bowed and left the room.
Ralph strode with extreme swiftness along the Embankment. Every musclewas taut and braced as if to resist some sudden attack from outside. Forthe moment it seemed as if the attack were about to be directedagainst his body, and his brain thus was on the alert, but withoutunderstanding. Finding himself, after a few minutes, no longer underobservation, and no attack delivered, he slackened his pace, the painspread all through him, took possession of every governing seat, and metwith scarcely any resistance from powers exhausted by their first effortat defence. He took his way languidly along the river embankment, awayfrom home rather than towards it. The world had him at its mercy. Hemade no pattern out of the sights he saw. He felt himself now, as he hadoften fancied other people, adrift on the stream, and far removed fromcontrol of it, a man with no grasp upon circumstances any longer. Oldbattered men loafing at the doors of public-houses now seemed to be hisfellows, and he felt, as he supposed them to feel, a mingling of envyand hatred towards those who passed quickly and certainly to a goal oftheir own. They, too, saw things very thin and shadowy, and were waftedabout by the lightest breath of wind. For the substantial world, withits prospect of avenues leading on and on to the invisible distance,had slipped from him, since Katharine was engaged. Now all his lifewas visible, and the straight, meager path had its ending soon enough.Katharine was engaged, and she had deceived him, too. He felt forcorners of his being untouched by his disaster; but there was nolimit to the flood of damage; not one of his possessions was safe now.Katharine had deceived him; she had mixed herself with every thought ofhis, and reft of her they seemed false thoughts which he would blush tothink again. His life seemed immeasurably impoverished.
He sat himself down, in spite of the chilly fog which obscured thefarther bank and left its lights suspended upon a blank surface, uponone of the riverside seats, and let the tide of disillusionment sweepthrough him. For the time being all bright points in his life wereblotted out; all prominences leveled. At first he made himself believethat Katharine had treated him badly, and drew comfort from the thoughtthat, left alone, she would recollect this, and think of him and tenderhim, in silence, at any rate, an apology. But this grain of comfortfailed him after a second or two, for, upon reflection, he had to admitthat Katharine owed him nothing. Katharine had promised nothing, takennothing; to her his dreams had meant nothing. This, indeed, was thelowest pitch of his despair. If the best of one's feelings means nothingto the person most concerned in those feelings, what reality is leftus? The old romance which had warmed his days for him, the thoughts ofKatharine which had painted every hour, were now made to appear foolishand enfeebled. He rose, and looked into the river, whose swift race ofdun-colored waters seemed the very spirit of futility and oblivion.
"In what can one trust, then?" he thought, as he leant there. So feebleand insubstantial did he feel himself that he repeated the word aloud.
"In what can one trust? Not in men and women. Not in one's dreams aboutthem. There's nothing--nothing, nothing left at all."
Now Denham had reason to know that he could bring to birth and keepalive a fine anger when he chose. Rodney provided a good target forthat emotion. And yet
at the moment, Rodney and Katharine herself seemeddisembodied ghosts. He could scarcely remember the look of them. Hismind plunged lower and lower. Their marriage seemed of no importance tohim. All things had turned to ghosts; the whole mass of the world wasinsubstantial vapor, surrounding the solitary spark in his mind, whoseburning point he could remember, for it burnt no more. He had oncecherished a belief, and Katharine had embodied this belief, and she didso no longer. He did not blame her; he blamed nothing, nobody; he sawthe truth. He saw the dun-colored race of waters and the blank shore.But life is vigorous; the body lives, and the body, no doubt, dictatedthe reflection, which now urged him to movement, that one may castaway the forms of human beings, and yet retain the passion which seemedinseparable from their existence in the flesh. Now this passion burnt onhis horizon, as the winter sun makes a greenish pane in the west throughthinning clouds. His eyes were set on something infinitely far andremote; by that light he felt he could walk, and would, in future, haveto find his way. But that was all there was left to him of a populousand teeming world.