CHAPTER XXI
Mary walked to the nearest station and reached home in an incrediblyshort space of time, just so much, indeed, as was needed for theintelligent understanding of the news of the world as the "WestminsterGazette" reported it. Within a few minutes of opening her door, she wasin trim for a hard evening's work. She unlocked a drawer and took out amanuscript, which consisted of a very few pages, entitled, in a forciblehand, "Some Aspects of the Democratic State." The aspects dwindled outin a cries-cross of blotted lines in the very middle of a sentence,and suggested that the author had been interrupted, or convinced of thefutility of proceeding, with her pen in the air.... Oh, yes, Ralph hadcome in at that point. She scored that sheet very effectively, and,choosing a fresh one, began at a great rate with a generalization uponthe structure of human society, which was a good deal bolder than hercustom. Ralph had told her once that she couldn't write English, whichaccounted for those frequent blots and insertions; but she put all thatbehind her, and drove ahead with such words as came her way, until shehad accomplished half a page of generalization and might legitimatelydraw breath. Directly her hand stopped her brain stopped too, and shebegan to listen. A paper-boy shouted down the street; an omnibus ceasedand lurched on again with the heave of duty once more shouldered; thedullness of the sounds suggested that a fog had risen since her return,if, indeed, a fog has power to deaden sound, of which fact, she couldnot be sure at the present moment. It was the sort of fact Ralph Denhamknew. At any rate, it was no concern of hers, and she was about to dipa pen when her ear was caught by the sound of a step upon the stonestaircase. She followed it past Mr. Chippen's chambers; past Mr.Gibson's; past Mr. Turner's; after which it became her sound. A postman,a washerwoman, a circular, a bill--she presented herself with each ofthese perfectly natural possibilities; but, to her surprise, her mindrejected each one of them impatiently, even apprehensively. The stepbecame slow, as it was apt to do at the end of the steep climb, andMary, listening for the regular sound, was filled with an intolerablenervousness. Leaning against the table, she felt the knock of her heartpush her body perceptibly backwards and forwards--a state of nervesastonishing and reprehensible in a stable woman. Grotesque fancies tookshape. Alone, at the top of the house, an unknown person approachingnearer and nearer--how could she escape? There was no way of escape.She did not even know whether that oblong mark on the ceiling was atrap-door to the roof or not. And if she got on to the roof--well, therewas a drop of sixty feet or so on to the pavement. But she sat perfectlystill, and when the knock sounded, she got up directly and opened thedoor without hesitation. She saw a tall figure outside, with somethingominous to her eyes in the look of it.
"What do you want?" she said, not recognizing the face in the fitfullight of the staircase.
"Mary? I'm Katharine Hilbery!"
Mary's self-possession returned almost excessively, and her welcome wasdecidedly cold, as if she must recoup herself for this ridiculouswaste of emotion. She moved her green-shaded lamp to another table,and covered "Some Aspects of the Democratic State" with a sheet ofblotting-paper.
"Why can't they leave me alone?" she thought bitterly, connectingKatharine and Ralph in a conspiracy to take from her even this hour ofsolitary study, even this poor little defence against the world. And, asshe smoothed down the sheet of blotting-paper over the manuscript,she braced herself to resist Katharine, whose presence struck her,not merely by its force, as usual, but as something in the nature of amenace.
"You're working?" said Katharine, with hesitation, perceiving that shewas not welcome.
"Nothing that matters," Mary replied, drawing forward the best of thechairs and poking the fire.
"I didn't know you had to work after you had left the office," saidKatharine, in a tone which gave the impression that she was thinking ofsomething else, as was, indeed, the case.
She had been paying calls with her mother, and in between the calls Mrs.Hilbery had rushed into shops and bought pillow-cases and blotting-bookson no perceptible method for the furnishing of Katharine's house.Katharine had a sense of impedimenta accumulating on all sides of her.She had left her at length, and had come on to keep an engagement todine with Rodney at his rooms. But she did not mean to get to him beforeseven o'clock, and so had plenty of time to walk all the way from BondStreet to the Temple if she wished it. The flow of faces streamingon either side of her had hypnotized her into a mood of profounddespondency, to which her expectation of an evening alone with Rodneycontributed. They were very good friends again, better friends, theyboth said, than ever before. So far as she was concerned this was true.There were many more things in him than she had guessed until emotionbrought them forth--strength, affection, sympathy. And she thought ofthem and looked at the faces passing, and thought how much alike theywere, and how distant, nobody feeling anything as she felt nothing, anddistance, she thought, lay inevitably between the closest, and theirintimacy was the worst presence of all. For, "Oh dear," she thought,looking into a tobacconist's window, "I don't care for any of them, andI don't care for William, and people say this is the thing that mattersmost, and I can't see what they mean by it."
She looked desperately at the smooth-bowled pipes, and wondered--shouldshe walk on by the Strand or by the Embankment? It was not a simplequestion, for it concerned not different streets so much as differentstreams of thought. If she went by the Strand she would force herselfto think out the problem of the future, or some mathematical problem;if she went by the river she would certainly begin to think about thingsthat didn't exist--the forest, the ocean beach, the leafy solitudes,the magnanimous hero. No, no, no! A thousand times no!--it wouldn't do;there was something repulsive in such thoughts at present; she musttake something else; she was out of that mood at present. And then shethought of Mary; the thought gave her confidence, even pleasure of a sadsort, as if the triumph of Ralph and Mary proved that the fault of herfailure lay with herself and not with life. An indistinct idea that thesight of Mary might be of help, combined with her natural trust in her,suggested a visit; for, surely, her liking was of a kind that impliedliking upon Mary's side also. After a moment's hesitation she decided,although she seldom acted upon impulse, to act upon this one, and turneddown a side street and found Mary's door. But her reception was notencouraging; clearly Mary didn't want to see her, had no help to impart,and the half-formed desire to confide in her was quenched immediately.She was slightly amused at her own delusion, looked ratherabsent-minded, and swung her gloves to and fro, as if doling out the fewminutes accurately before she could say good-by.
Those few minutes might very well be spent in asking for informationas to the exact position of the Suffrage Bill, or in expounding her ownvery sensible view of the situation. But there was a tone in her voice,or a shade in her opinions, or a swing of her gloves which served toirritate Mary Datchet, whose manner became increasingly direct, abrupt,and even antagonistic. She became conscious of a wish to make Katharinerealize the importance of this work, which she discussed so coolly, asthough she, too, had sacrificed what Mary herself had sacrificed. Theswinging of the gloves ceased, and Katharine, after ten minutes, beganto make movements preliminary to departure. At the sight of this, Marywas aware--she was abnormally aware of things to-night--of another verystrong desire; Katharine was not to be allowed to go, to disappear intothe free, happy world of irresponsible individuals. She must be made torealize--to feel.
"I don't quite see," she said, as if Katharine had challenged herexplicitly, "how, things being as they are, any one can help trying, atleast, to do something."
"No. But how ARE things?"
Mary pressed her lips, and smiled ironically; she had Katharine at hermercy; she could, if she liked, discharge upon her head wagon-loadsof revolting proof of the state of things ignored by the casual, theamateur, the looker-on, the cynical observer of life at a distance.And yet she hesitated. As usual, when she found herself in talk withKatharine, she began to feel rapid alternations of opinion abouther, arrows of sensation striking stran
gely through the envelope ofpersonality, which shelters us so conveniently from our fellows. Whatan egoist, how aloof she was! And yet, not in her words, perhaps, butin her voice, in her face, in her attitude, there were signs of a softbrooding spirit, of a sensibility unblunted and profound, playingover her thoughts and deeds, and investing her manner with an habitualgentleness. The arguments and phrases of Mr. Clacton fell flat againstsuch armor.
"You'll be married, and you'll have other things to think of," she saidinconsequently, and with an accent of condescension. She was not goingto make Katharine understand in a second, as she would, all she herselfhad learnt at the cost of such pain. No. Katharine was to be happy;Katharine was to be ignorant; Mary was to keep this knowledge of theimpersonal life for herself. The thought of her morning's renunciationstung her conscience, and she tried to expand once more into thatimpersonal condition which was so lofty and so painless. She must checkthis desire to be an individual again, whose wishes were in conflictwith those of other people. She repented of her bitterness.
Katharine now renewed her signs of leave-taking; she had drawn on one ofher gloves, and looked about her as if in search of some trivial sayingto end with. Wasn't there some picture, or clock, or chest of drawerswhich might be singled out for notice? something peaceable and friendlyto end the uncomfortable interview? The green-shaded lamp burnt inthe corner, and illumined books and pens and blotting-paper. The wholeaspect of the place started another train of thought and struck her asenviably free; in such a room one could work--one could have a life ofone's own.
"I think you're very lucky," she observed. "I envy you, living alone andhaving your own things"--and engaged in this exalted way, which had norecognition or engagement-ring, she added in her own mind.
Mary's lips parted slightly. She could not conceive in what respectsKatharine, who spoke sincerely, could envy her.
"I don't think you've got any reason to envy me," she said.
"Perhaps one always envies other people," Katharine observed vaguely.
"Well, but you've got everything that any one can want."
Katharine remained silent. She gazed into the fire quietly, and withouta trace of self-consciousness. The hostility which she had divined inMary's tone had completely disappeared, and she forgot that she had beenupon the point of going.
"Well, I suppose I have," she said at length. "And yet I sometimesthink--" She paused; she did not know how to express what she meant.
"It came over me in the Tube the other day," she resumed, with a smile;"what is it that makes these people go one way rather than the other?It's not love; it's not reason I think it must be some idea. Perhaps,Mary, our affections are the shadow of an idea. Perhaps there isn't anysuch thing as affection in itself...." She spoke half-mockingly, askingher question, which she scarcely troubled to frame, not of Mary, or ofany one in particular.
But the words seemed to Mary Datchet shallow, supercilious,cold-blooded, and cynical all in one. All her natural instincts wereroused in revolt against them.
"I'm the opposite way of thinking, you see," she said.
"Yes; I know you are," Katharine replied, looking at her as if now shewere about, perhaps, to explain something very important.
Mary could not help feeling the simplicity and good faith that laybehind Katharine's words.
"I think affection is the only reality," she said.
"Yes," said Katharine, almost sadly. She understood that Mary wasthinking of Ralph, and she felt it impossible to press her to revealmore of this exalted condition she could only respect the fact that,in some few cases, life arranged itself thus satisfactorily and pass on.She rose to her feet accordingly. But Mary exclaimed, with unmistakableearnestness, that she must not go; that they met so seldom; thatshe wanted to talk to her so much.... Katharine was surprised at theearnestness with which she spoke. It seemed to her that there could beno indiscretion in mentioning Ralph by name.
Seating herself "for ten minutes," she said: "By the way, Mr. Denhamtold me he was going to give up the Bar and live in the country. Has hegone? He was beginning to tell me about it, when we were interrupted."
"He thinks of it," said Mary briefly. The color at once came to herface.
"It would be a very good plan," said Katharine in her decided way.
"You think so?"
"Yes, because he would do something worth while; he would write a book.My father always says that he's the most remarkable of the young men whowrite for him."
Mary bent low over the fire and stirred the coal between the bars witha poker. Katharine's mention of Ralph had roused within her an almostirresistible desire to explain to her the true state of the casebetween herself and Ralph. She knew, from the tone of her voice, thatin speaking of Ralph she had no desire to probe Mary's secrets, or toinsinuate any of her own. Moreover, she liked Katharine; she trustedher; she felt a respect for her. The first step of confidence wascomparatively simple; but a further confidence had revealed itself, asKatharine spoke, which was not so simple, and yet it impressed itselfupon her as a necessity; she must tell Katharine what it was clear thatshe had no conception of--she must tell Katharine that Ralph was in lovewith her.
"I don't know what he means to do," she said hurriedly, seeking timeagainst the pressure of her own conviction. "I've not seen him sinceChristmas."
Katharine reflected that this was odd; perhaps, after all, she hadmisunderstood the position. She was in the habit of assuming, however,that she was rather unobservant of the finer shades of feeling, and shenoted her present failure as another proof that she was a practical,abstract-minded person, better fitted to deal with figures than with thefeelings of men and women. Anyhow, William Rodney would say so.
"And now--" she said.
"Oh, please stay!" Mary exclaimed, putting out her hand to stop her.Directly Katharine moved she felt, inarticulately and violently, thatshe could not bear to let her go. If Katharine went, her only chanceof speaking was lost; her only chance of saying something tremendouslyimportant was lost. Half a dozen words were sufficient to wakeKatharine's attention, and put flight and further silence beyond herpower. But although the words came to her lips, her throat closed uponthem and drove them back. After all, she considered, why should shespeak? Because it is right, her instinct told her; right to exposeoneself without reservations to other human beings. She flinched fromthe thought. It asked too much of one already stripped bare. Somethingshe must keep of her own. But if she did keep something of her own?Immediately she figured an immured life, continuing for an immenseperiod, the same feelings living for ever, neither dwindling norchanging within the ring of a thick stone wall. The imagination of thisloneliness frightened her, and yet to speak--to lose her loneliness, forit had already become dear to her, was beyond her power.
Her hand went down to the hem of Katharine's skirt, and, fingering aline of fur, she bent her head as if to examine it.
"I like this fur," she said, "I like your clothes. And you mustn'tthink that I'm going to marry Ralph," she continued, in the same tone,"because he doesn't care for me at all. He cares for some one else." Herhead remained bent, and her hand still rested upon the skirt.
"It's a shabby old dress," said Katharine, and the only sign that Mary'swords had reached her was that she spoke with a little jerk.
"You don't mind my telling you that?" said Mary, raising herself.
"No, no," said Katharine; "but you're mistaken, aren't you?" She was,in truth, horribly uncomfortable, dismayed, indeed, disillusioned. Shedisliked the turn things had taken quite intensely. The indecency ofit afflicted her. The suffering implied by the tone appalled her. Shelooked at Mary furtively, with eyes that were full of apprehension.But if she had hoped to find that these words had been spoken withoutunderstanding of their meaning, she was at once disappointed. Mary layback in her chair, frowning slightly, and looking, Katharine thought, asif she had lived fifteen years or so in the space of a few minutes.
"There are some things, don't you think, that one can't be mistake
nabout?" Mary said, quietly and almost coldly. "That is what puzzles meabout this question of being in love. I've always prided myself uponbeing reasonable," she added. "I didn't think I could have felt this--Imean if the other person didn't. I was foolish. I let myself pretend."Here she paused. "For, you see, Katharine," she proceeded, rousingherself and speaking with greater energy, "I AM in love. There's nodoubt about that.... I'm tremendously in love... with Ralph." The littleforward shake of her head, which shook a lock of hair, together with herbrighter color, gave her an appearance at once proud and defiant.
Katharine thought to herself, "That's how it feels then." She hesitated,with a feeling that it was not for her to speak; and then said, in a lowtone, "You've got that."
"Yes," said Mary; "I've got that. One wouldn't NOT be in love.... ButI didn't mean to talk about that; I only wanted you to know. There'sanother thing I want to tell you..." She paused. "I haven't anyauthority from Ralph to say it; but I'm sure of this--he's in love withyou."
Katharine looked at her again, as if her first glance must have beendeluded, for, surely, there must be some outward sign that Mary wastalking in an excited, or bewildered, or fantastic manner. No; she stillfrowned, as if she sought her way through the clauses of a difficultargument, but she still looked more like one who reasons than one whofeels.
"That proves that you're mistaken--utterly mistaken," said Katharine,speaking reasonably, too. She had no need to verify the mistake by aglance at her own recollections, when the fact was so clearly stampedupon her mind that if Ralph had any feeling towards her it was one ofcritical hostility. She did not give the matter another thought, andMary, now that she had stated the fact, did not seek to prove it, buttried to explain to herself, rather than to Katharine, her motives inmaking the statement.
She had nerved herself to do what some large and imperious instinctdemanded her doing; she had been swept on the breast of a wave beyondher reckoning.
"I've told you," she said, "because I want you to help me. I don't wantto be jealous of you. And I am--I'm fearfully jealous. The only way, Ithought, was to tell you."
She hesitated, and groped in her endeavor to make her feelings clear toherself.
"If I tell you, then we can talk; and when I'm jealous, I can tell you.And if I'm tempted to do something frightfully mean, I can tell you;you could make me tell you. I find talking so difficult; but lonelinessfrightens me. I should shut it up in my mind. Yes, that's what I'mafraid of. Going about with something in my mind all my life that neverchanges. I find it so difficult to change. When I think a thing's wrongI never stop thinking it wrong, and Ralph was quite right, I see, whenhe said that there's no such thing as right and wrong; no such thing, Imean, as judging people--"
"Ralph Denham said that?" said Katharine, with considerable indignation.In order to have produced such suffering in Mary, it seemed to her thathe must have behaved with extreme callousness. It seemed to her that hehad discarded the friendship, when it suited his convenience to do so,with some falsely philosophical theory which made his conduct all theworse. She was going on to express herself thus, had not Mary at onceinterrupted her.
"No, no," she said; "you don't understand. If there's any fault it'smine entirely; after all, if one chooses to run risks--"
Her voice faltered into silence. It was borne in upon her how completelyin running her risk she had lost her prize, lost it so entirely thatshe had no longer the right, in talking of Ralph, to presume thather knowledge of him supplanted all other knowledge. She no longercompletely possessed her love, since his share in it was doubtful; andnow, to make things yet more bitter, her clear vision of the way to facelife was rendered tremulous and uncertain, because another was witnessof it. Feeling her desire for the old unshared intimacy too great to beborne without tears, she rose, walked to the farther end of the room,held the curtains apart, and stood there mastered for a moment. Thegrief itself was not ignoble; the sting of it lay in the fact that shehad been led to this act of treachery against herself. Trapped, cheated,robbed, first by Ralph and then by Katharine, she seemed all dissolvedin humiliation, and bereft of anything she could call her own. Tears ofweakness welled up and rolled down her cheeks. But tears, at least, shecould control, and would this instant, and then, turning, she would faceKatharine, and retrieve what could be retrieved of the collapse of hercourage.
She turned. Katharine had not moved; she was leaning a little forward inher chair and looking into the fire. Something in the attitude remindedMary of Ralph. So he would sit, leaning forward, looking rather fixedlyin front of him, while his mind went far away, exploring, speculating,until he broke off with his, "Well, Mary?"--and the silence, that hadbeen so full of romance to her, gave way to the most delightful talkthat she had ever known.
Something unfamiliar in the pose of the silent figure, something still,solemn, significant about it, made her hold her breath. She paused. Herthoughts were without bitterness. She was surprised by her own quietand confidence. She came back silently, and sat once more by Katharine'sside. Mary had no wish to speak. In the silence she seemed to have losther isolation she was at once the sufferer and the pitiful spectator ofsuffering; she was happier than she had ever been; she was more bereft;she was rejected, and she was immensely beloved. Attempt to expressthese sensations was vain, and, moreover, she could not help believingthat, without any words on her side, they were shared. Thus for sometime longer they sat silent, side by side, while Mary fingered the furon the skirt of the old dress.