Night and Day

  CHAPTER XVI

  Into that same black night, almost, indeed, into the very same layer ofstarlit air, Katharine Hilbery was now gazing, although not with a viewto the prospects of a fine day for duck shooting on the morrow. She waswalking up and down a gravel path in the garden of Stogdon House, hersight of the heavens being partially intercepted by the light leaflesshoops of a pergola. Thus a spray of clematis would completely obscureCassiopeia, or blot out with its black pattern myriads of miles of theMilky Way. At the end of the pergola, however, there was a stone seat,from which the sky could be seen completely swept clear of any earthlyinterruption, save to the right, indeed, where a line of elm-trees wasbeautifully sprinkled with stars, and a low stable building had a fulldrop of quivering silver just issuing from the mouth of the chimney. Itwas a moonless night, but the light of the stars was sufficient to showthe outline of the young woman's form, and the shape of her face gazinggravely, indeed almost sternly, into the sky. She had come out intothe winter's night, which was mild enough, not so much to look withscientific eyes upon the stars, as to shake herself free from certainpurely terrestrial discontents. Much as a literary person in likecircumstances would begin, absent-mindedly, pulling out volume aftervolume, so she stepped into the garden in order to have the stars athand, even though she did not look at them. Not to be happy, when shewas supposed to be happier than she would ever be again--that, as far asshe could see, was the origin of a discontent which had begun almost assoon as she arrived, two days before, and seemed now so intolerablethat she had left the family party, and come out here to consider it byherself. It was not she who thought herself unhappy, but her cousins,who thought it for her. The house was full of cousins, much of her age,or even younger, and among them they had some terribly bright eyes. Theyseemed always on the search for something between her and Rodney, whichthey expected to find, and yet did not find; and when they searched,Katharine became aware of wanting what she had not been conscious ofwanting in London, alone with William and her parents. Or, if shedid not want it, she missed it. And this state of mind depressed her,because she had been accustomed always to give complete satisfaction,and her self-love was now a little ruffled. She would have liked tobreak through the reserve habitual to her in order to justify herengagement to some one whose opinion she valued. No one had spoken aword of criticism, but they left her alone with William; not that thatwould have mattered, if they had not left her alone so politely; and,perhaps, that would not have mattered if they had not seemed so queerlysilent, almost respectful, in her presence, which gave way to criticism,she felt, out of it.

  Looking now and then at the sky, she went through the list of hercousins' names: Eleanor, Humphrey, Marmaduke, Silvia, Henry, Cassandra,Gilbert, and Mostyn--Henry, the cousin who taught the young ladiesof Bungay to play upon the violin, was the only one in whom she couldconfide, and as she walked up and down beneath the hoops of the pergola,she did begin a little speech to him, which ran something like this:

  "To begin with, I'm very fond of William. You can't deny that. I knowhim better than any one, almost. But why I'm marrying him is, partly,I admit--I'm being quite honest with you, and you mustn't tell anyone--partly because I want to get married. I want to have a house of myown. It isn't possible at home. It's all very well for you, Henry; youcan go your own way. I have to be there always. Besides, you know whatour house is. You wouldn't be happy either, if you didn't do something.It isn't that I haven't the time at home--it's the atmosphere." Here,presumably, she imagined that her cousin, who had listened withhis usual intelligent sympathy, raised his eyebrows a little, andinterposed:

  "Well, but what do you want to do?"

  Even in this purely imaginary dialogue, Katharine found it difficult toconfide her ambition to an imaginary companion.

  "I should like," she began, and hesitated quite a long time before sheforced herself to add, with a change of voice, "to study mathematics--toknow about the stars."

  Henry was clearly amazed, but too kind to express all his doubts; heonly said something about the difficulties of mathematics, and remarkedthat very little was known about the stars.

  Katharine thereupon went on with the statement of her case.

  "I don't care much whether I ever get to know anything--but I want towork out something in figures--something that hasn't got to do withhuman beings. I don't want people particularly. In some ways, Henry, I'ma humbug--I mean, I'm not what you all take me for. I'm not domestic, orvery practical or sensible, really. And if I could calculate things, anduse a telescope, and have to work out figures, and know to a fractionwhere I was wrong, I should be perfectly happy, and I believe I shouldgive William all he wants."

  Having reached this point, instinct told her that she had passed beyondthe region in which Henry's advice could be of any good; and, having ridher mind of its superficial annoyance, she sat herself upon the stoneseat, raised her eyes unconsciously and thought about the deeperquestions which she had to decide, she knew, for herself. Would she,indeed, give William all he wanted? In order to decide the question, sheran her mind rapidly over her little collection of significant sayings,looks, compliments, gestures, which had marked their intercourse duringthe last day or two. He had been annoyed because a box, containing someclothes specially chosen by him for her to wear, had been taken to thewrong station, owing to her neglect in the matter of labels. The box hadarrived in the nick of time, and he had remarked, as she came downstairson the first night, that he had never seen her look more beautiful. Sheoutshone all her cousins. He had discovered that she never made an uglymovement; he also said that the shape of her head made it possible forher, unlike most women, to wear her hair low. He had twice reprovedher for being silent at dinner; and once for never attending to what hesaid. He had been surprised at the excellence of her French accent, buthe thought it was selfish of her not to go with her mother to callupon the Middletons, because they were old family friends and very nicepeople. On the whole, the balance was nearly even; and, writing down akind of conclusion in her mind which finished the sum for the present,at least, she changed the focus of her eyes, and saw nothing but thestars.

  To-night they seemed fixed with unusual firmness in the blue, andflashed back such a ripple of light into her eyes that she found herselfthinking that to-night the stars were happy. Without knowing or caringmore for Church practices than most people of her age, Katharine couldnot look into the sky at Christmas time without feeling that, at thisone season, the Heavens bend over the earth with sympathy, and signalwith immortal radiance that they, too, take part in her festival.Somehow, it seemed to her that they were even now beholding theprocession of kings and wise men upon some road on a distant part ofthe earth. And yet, after gazing for another second, the stars did theirusual work upon the mind, froze to cinders the whole of our shorthuman history, and reduced the human body to an ape-like, furry form,crouching amid the brushwood of a barbarous clod of mud. This stage wassoon succeeded by another, in which there was nothing in the universesave stars and the light of stars; as she looked up the pupils of hereyes so dilated with starlight that the whole of her seemed dissolvedin silver and spilt over the ledges of the stars for ever andever indefinitely through space. Somehow simultaneously, thoughincongruously, she was riding with the magnanimous hero upon the shoreor under forest trees, and so might have continued were it not for therebuke forcibly administered by the body, which, content with the normalconditions of life, in no way furthers any attempt on the part of themind to alter them. She grew cold, shook herself, rose, and walkedtowards the house.

  By the light of the stars, Stogdon House looked pale and romantic, andabout twice its natural size. Built by a retired admiral in the earlyyears of the nineteenth century, the curving bow windows of the front,now filled with reddish-yellow light, suggested a portly three-decker,sailing seas where those dolphins and narwhals who disport themselvesupon the edges of old maps were scattered with an impartial hand. Asemicircular flight of shallow steps led to a very large door, whichKath
arine had left ajar. She hesitated, cast her eyes over the front ofthe house, marked that a light burnt in one small window upon an upperfloor, and pushed the door open. For a moment she stood in the squarehall, among many horned skulls, sallow globes, cracked oil-paintings,and stuffed owls, hesitating, it seemed, whether she should open thedoor on her right, through which the stir of life reached her ears.Listening for a moment, she heard a sound which decided her, apparently,not to enter; her uncle, Sir Francis, was playing his nightly game ofwhist; it appeared probable that he was losing.

  She went up the curving stairway, which represented the one attempt atceremony in the otherwise rather dilapidated mansion, and down a narrowpassage until she came to the room whose light she had seen from thegarden. Knocking, she was told to come in. A young man, Henry Otway,was reading, with his feet on the fender. He had a fine head, the browarched in the Elizabethan manner, but the gentle, honest eyes wererather skeptical than glowing with the Elizabethan vigor. He gavethe impression that he had not yet found the cause which suited histemperament.

  He turned, put down his book, and looked at her. He noticed her ratherpale, dew-drenched look, as of one whose mind is not altogether settledin the body. He had often laid his difficulties before her, and guessed,in some ways hoped, that perhaps she now had need of him. At the sametime, she carried on her life with such independence that he scarcelyexpected any confidence to be expressed in words.

  "You have fled, too, then?" he said, looking at her cloak. Katharine hadforgotten to remove this token of her star-gazing.

  "Fled?" she asked. "From whom d'you mean? Oh, the family party. Yes, itwas hot down there, so I went into the garden."

  "And aren't you very cold?" Henry inquired, placing coal on the fire,drawing a chair up to the grate, and laying aside her cloak. Herindifference to such details often forced Henry to act the partgenerally taken by women in such dealings. It was one of the tiesbetween them.

  "Thank you, Henry," she said. "I'm not disturbing you?"

  "I'm not here. I'm at Bungay," he replied. "I'm giving a music lessonto Harold and Julia. That was why I had to leave the table with theladies--I'm spending the night there, and I shan't be back till late onChristmas Eve."

  "How I wish--" Katharine began, and stopped short. "I think theseparties are a great mistake," she added briefly, and sighed.

  "Oh, horrible!" he agreed; and they both fell silent.

  Her sigh made him look at her. Should he venture to ask her why shesighed? Was her reticence about her own affairs as inviolable as it hadoften been convenient for rather an egoistical young man to think it?But since her engagement to Rodney, Henry's feeling towards her hadbecome rather complex; equally divided between an impulse to hurt herand an impulse to be tender to her; and all the time he suffered acurious irritation from the sense that she was drifting away from himfor ever upon unknown seas. On her side, directly Katharine got into hispresence, and the sense of the stars dropped from her, she knew that anyintercourse between people is extremely partial; from the whole mass ofher feelings, only one or two could be selected for Henry's inspection,and therefore she sighed. Then she looked at him, and their eyesmeeting, much more seemed to be in common between them than had appearedpossible. At any rate they had a grandfather in common at any ratethere was a kind of loyalty between them sometimes found betweenrelations who have no other cause to like each other, as these two had.

  "Well, what's the date of the wedding?" said Henry, the malicious moodnow predominating.

  "I think some time in March," she replied.

  "And afterwards?" he asked.

  "We take a house, I suppose, somewhere in Chelsea."

  "It's very interesting," he observed, stealing another look at her.

  She lay back in her arm-chair, her feet high upon the side of the grate,and in front of her, presumably to screen her eyes, she held a newspaperfrom which she picked up a sentence or two now and again. Observingthis, Henry remarked:

  "Perhaps marriage will make you more human."

  At this she lowered the newspaper an inch or two, but said nothing.Indeed, she sat quite silent for over a minute.

  "When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem tomatter very much, do they?" she said suddenly.

  "I don't think I ever do consider things like the stars," Henry replied."I'm not sure that that's not the explanation, though," he added, nowobserving her steadily.

  "I doubt whether there is an explanation," she replied rather hurriedly,not clearly understanding what he meant.

  "What? No explanation of anything?" he inquired, with a smile.

  "Oh, things happen. That's about all," she let drop in her casual,decided way.

  "That certainly seems to explain some of your actions," Henry thought tohimself.

  "One thing's about as good as another, and one's got to do something,"he said aloud, expressing what he supposed to be her attitude, much inher accent. Perhaps she detected the imitation, for looking gently athim, she said, with ironical composure:

  "Well, if you believe that your life must be simple, Henry."

  "But I don't believe it," he said shortly.

  "No more do I," she replied.

  "What about the stars?" he asked a moment later. "I understand that yourule your life by the stars?"

  She let this pass, either because she did not attend to it, or becausethe tone was not to her liking.

  Once more she paused, and then she inquired:

  "But do you always understand why you do everything? Ought one tounderstand? People like my mother understand," she reflected. "Now Imust go down to them, I suppose, and see what's happening."

  "What could be happening?" Henry protested.

  "Oh, they may want to settle something," she replied vaguely, puttingher feet on the ground, resting her chin on her hands, and looking outof her large dark eyes contemplatively at the fire.

  "And then there's William," she added, as if by an afterthought.

  Henry very nearly laughed, but restrained himself.

  "Do they know what coals are made of, Henry?" she asked, a moment later.

  "Mares' tails, I believe," he hazarded.

  "Have you ever been down a coal-mine?" she went on.

  "Don't let's talk about coal-mines, Katharine," he protested. "We shallprobably never see each other again. When you're married--"

  Tremendously to his surprise, he saw the tears stand in her eyes.

  "Why do you all tease me?" she said. "It isn't kind."

  Henry could not pretend that he was altogether ignorant of her meaning,though, certainly, he had never guessed that she minded the teasing. Butbefore he knew what to say, her eyes were clear again, and the suddencrack in the surface was almost filled up.

  "Things aren't easy, anyhow," she stated.

  Obeying an impulse of genuine affection, Henry spoke.

  "Promise me, Katharine, that if I can ever help you, you will let me."

  She seemed to consider, looking once more into the red of the fire, anddecided to refrain from any explanation.

  "Yes, I promise that," she said at length, and Henry felt himselfgratified by her complete sincerity, and began to tell her now about thecoal-mine, in obedience to her love of facts.

  They were, indeed, descending the shaft in a small cage, and could hearthe picks of the miners, something like the gnawing of rats, in theearth beneath them, when the door was burst open, without any knocking.

  "Well, here you are!" Rodney exclaimed. Both Katharine and Henry turnedround very quickly and rather guiltily. Rodney was in evening dress. Itwas clear that his temper was ruffled.

  "That's where you've been all the time," he repeated, looking atKatharine.

  "I've only been here about ten minutes," she replied.

  "My dear Katharine, you left the drawing-room over an hour ago."

  She said nothing.

  "Does it very much matter?" Henry asked.

  Rodney found it hard to be unreasonable in the presence of an
other man,and did not answer him.

  "They don't like it," he said. "It isn't kind to old people to leavethem alone--although I've no doubt it's much more amusing to sit up hereand talk to Henry."

  "We were discussing coal-mines," said Henry urbanely.

  "Yes. But we were talking about much more interesting things beforethat," said Katharine.

  From the apparent determination to hurt him with which she spoke, Henrythought that some sort of explosion on Rodney's part was about to takeplace.

  "I can quite understand that," said Rodney, with his little chuckle,leaning over the back of his chair and tapping the woodwork lightlywith his fingers. They were all silent, and the silence was acutelyuncomfortable to Henry, at least.

  "Was it very dull, William?" Katharine suddenly asked, with a completechange of tone and a little gesture of her hand.

  "Of course it was dull," William said sulkily.

  "Well, you stay and talk to Henry, and I'll go down," she replied.

  She rose as she spoke, and as she turned to leave the room, she laidher hand, with a curiously caressing gesture, upon Rodney's shoulder.Instantly Rodney clasped her hand in his, with such an impulse ofemotion that Henry was annoyed, and rather ostentatiously opened a book.

  "I shall come down with you," said William, as she drew back her hand,and made as if to pass him.

  "Oh no," she said hastily. "You stay here and talk to Henry."

  "Yes, do," said Henry, shutting up his book again. His invitation waspolite, without being precisely cordial. Rodney evidently hesitated asto the course he should pursue, but seeing Katharine at the door, heexclaimed:

  "No. I want to come with you."

  She looked back, and said in a very commanding tone, and with anexpression of authority upon her face:

  "It's useless for you to come. I shall go to bed in ten minutes. Goodnight."

  She nodded to them both, but Henry could not help noticing that her lastnod was in his direction. Rodney sat down rather heavily.

  His mortification was so obvious that Henry scarcely liked to open theconversation with some remark of a literary character. On the otherhand, unless he checked him, Rodney might begin to talk about hisfeelings, and irreticence is apt to be extremely painful, at any rate inprospect. He therefore adopted a middle course; that is to say, hewrote a note upon the fly-leaf of his book, which ran, "The situationis becoming most uncomfortable." This he decorated with those flourishesand decorative borders which grow of themselves upon these occasions;and as he did so, he thought to himself that whatever Katharine'sdifficulties might be, they did not justify her behavior. She had spokenwith a kind of brutality which suggested that, whether it is natural orassumed, women have a peculiar blindness to the feelings of men.

  The penciling of this note gave Rodney time to recover himself. Perhaps,for he was a very vain man, he was more hurt that Henry had seen himrebuffed than by the rebuff itself. He was in love with Katharine,and vanity is not decreased but increased by love; especially, one mayhazard, in the presence of one's own sex. But Rodney enjoyed the couragewhich springs from that laughable and lovable defect, and when he hadmastered his first impulse, in some way to make a fool of himself, hedrew inspiration from the perfect fit of his evening dress. He chose acigarette, tapped it on the back of his hand, displayed his exquisitepumps on the edge of the fender, and summoned his self-respect.

  "You've several big estates round here, Otway," he began. "Any goodhunting? Let me see, what pack would it be? Who's your great man?"

  "Sir William Budge, the sugar king, has the biggest estate. He boughtout poor Stanham, who went bankrupt."

  "Which Stanham would that be? Verney or Alfred?"

  "Alfred.... I don't hunt myself. You're a great huntsman, aren't you?You have a great reputation as a horseman, anyhow," he added, desiringto help Rodney in his effort to recover his complacency.

  "Oh, I love riding," Rodney replied. "Could I get a horse down here?Stupid of me! I forgot to bring any clothes. I can't imagine, though,who told you I was anything of a rider?"

  To tell the truth, Henry labored under the same difficulty; he did notwish to introduce Katharine's name, and, therefore, he replied vaguelythat he had always heard that Rodney was a great rider. In truth, hehad heard very little about him, one way or another, accepting him asa figure often to be found in the background at his aunt's house, andinevitably, though inexplicably, engaged to his cousin.

  "I don't care much for shooting," Rodney continued; "but one has to doit, unless one wants to be altogether out of things. I dare say there'ssome very pretty country round here. I stayed once at Bolham Hall. YoungCranthorpe was up with you, wasn't he? He married old Lord Bolham'sdaughter. Very nice people--in their way."

  "I don't mix in that society," Henry remarked, rather shortly. ButRodney, now started on an agreeable current of reflection, could notresist the temptation of pursuing it a little further. He appeared tohimself as a man who moved easily in very good society, and knew enoughabout the true values of life to be himself above it.

  "Oh, but you should," he went on. "It's well worth staying there,anyhow, once a year. They make one very comfortable, and the women areravishing."

  "The women?" Henry thought to himself, with disgust. "What could anywoman see in you?" His tolerance was rapidly becoming exhausted, buthe could not help liking Rodney nevertheless, and this appeared to himstrange, for he was fastidious, and such words in another mouth wouldhave condemned the speaker irreparably. He began, in short, to wonderwhat kind of creature this man who was to marry his cousin might be.Could any one, except a rather singular character, afford to be soridiculously vain?

  "I don't think I should get on in that society," he replied. "I don'tthink I should know what to say to Lady Rose if I met her."

  "I don't find any difficulty," Rodney chuckled. "You talk to them abouttheir children, if they have any, or their accomplishments--painting,gardening, poetry--they're so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, youknow I think a woman's opinion of one's poetry is always worth having.Don't ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their feelings.Katharine, for example--"

  "Katharine," said Henry, with an emphasis upon the name, almost as if heresented Rodney's use of it, "Katharine is very unlike most women."

  "Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is--" He seemed about to describe her, andhe hesitated for a long time. "She's looking very well," he stated, orrather almost inquired, in a different tone from that in which he hadbeen speaking. Henry bent his head.

  "But, as a family, you're given to moods, eh?"

  "Not Katharine," said Henry, with decision.

  "Not Katharine," Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the meaning of thewords. "No, perhaps you're right. But her engagement has changed her.Naturally," he added, "one would expect that to be so." He waited forHenry to confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent.

  "Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "Iexpect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers."

  "Great," said Henry, with decision.

  "Yes--but now what direction d'you think they take?"

  Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, and seemedto be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty.

  "I don't know," Henry hesitated cautiously.

  "D'you think children--a household--that sort of thing--d'you thinkthat'll satisfy her? Mind, I'm out all day."

  "She would certainly be very competent," Henry stated.

  "Oh, she's wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But--I get absorbed inmy poetry. Well, Katharine hasn't got that. She admires my poetry, youknow, but that wouldn't be enough for her?"

  "No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you're right," he added, as if hewere summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn't found herself yet. Lifeisn't altogether real to her yet--I sometimes think--"

  "Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue. "Thatis what I--" he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sente
ncewas not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted byHenry's younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry's relief, for he hadalready said more than he liked.