CHAPTER XXVIII
Like a strain of music, the effect of Katharine's presence slowly diedfrom the room in which Ralph sat alone. The music had ceased in therapture of its melody. He strained to catch the faintest lingeringechoes; for a moment the memory lulled him into peace; but soon itfailed, and he paced the room so hungry for the sound to come again thathe was conscious of no other desire left in life. She had gone withoutspeaking; abruptly a chasm had been cut in his course, down which thetide of his being plunged in disorder; fell upon rocks; flung itself todestruction. The distress had an effect of physical ruin and disaster.He trembled; he was white; he felt exhausted, as if by a great physicaleffort. He sank at last into a chair standing opposite her empty one,and marked, mechanically, with his eye upon the clock, how she wentfarther and farther from him, was home now, and now, doubtless, againwith Rodney. But it was long before he could realize these facts; theimmense desire for her presence churned his senses into foam, intofroth, into a haze of emotion that removed all facts from his grasp, andgave him a strange sense of distance, even from the material shapes ofwall and window by which he was surrounded. The prospect of the future,now that the strength of his passion was revealed to him, appalled him.
The marriage would take place in September, she had said; that allowedhim, then, six full months in which to undergo these terrible extremesof emotion. Six months of torture, and after that the silence of thegrave, the isolation of the insane, the exile of the damned; at best, alife from which the chief good was knowingly and for ever excluded. Animpartial judge might have assured him that his chief hope of recoverylay in this mystic temper, which identified a living woman with muchthat no human beings long possess in the eyes of each other; she wouldpass, and the desire for her vanish, but his belief in what she stoodfor, detached from her, would remain. This line of thought offered,perhaps, some respite, and possessed of a brain that had its stationconsiderably above the tumult of the senses, he tried to reduce thevague and wandering incoherency of his emotions to order. The sense ofself-preservation was strong in him, and Katharine herself had strangelyrevived it by convincing him that his family deserved and needed all hisstrength. She was right, and for their sake, if not for his own, thispassion, which could bear no fruit, must be cut off, uprooted, shownto be as visionary and baseless as she had maintained. The best way ofachieving this was not to run away from her, but to face her, and havingsteeped himself in her qualities, to convince his reason that they were,as she assured him, not those that he imagined. She was a practicalwoman, a domestic wife for an inferior poet, endowed with romanticbeauty by some freak of unintelligent Nature. No doubt her beauty itselfwould not stand examination. He had the means of settling this point atleast. He possessed a book of photographs from the Greek statues; thehead of a goddess, if the lower part were concealed, had often given himthe ecstasy of being in Katharine's presence. He took it down from theshelf and found the picture. To this he added a note from her, biddinghim meet her at the Zoo. He had a flower which he had picked at Kew toteach her botany. Such were his relics. He placed them before him, andset himself to visualize her so clearly that no deception or delusionwas possible. In a second he could see her, with the sun slanting acrossher dress, coming towards him down the green walk at Kew. He made hersit upon the seat beside him. He heard her voice, so low and yet sodecided in its tone; she spoke reasonably of indifferent matters. Hecould see her faults, and analyze her virtues. His pulse became quieter,and his brain increased in clarity. This time she could not escape him.The illusion of her presence became more and more complete. They seemedto pass in and out of each other's minds, questioning and answering. Theutmost fullness of communion seemed to be theirs. Thus united, he felthimself raised to an eminence, exalted, and filled with a power ofachievement such as he had never known in singleness. Once more he toldover conscientiously her faults, both of face and character; they wereclearly known to him; but they merged themselves in the flawless unionthat was born of their association. They surveyed life to its uttermostlimits. How deep it was when looked at from this height! How sublime!How the commonest things moved him almost to tears! Thus, he forgotthe inevitable limitations; he forgot her absence, he thought it of noaccount whether she married him or another; nothing mattered, savethat she should exist, and that he should love her. Some words of thesereflections were uttered aloud, and it happened that among them werethe words, "I love her." It was the first time that he had used the word"love" to describe his feeling; madness, romance, hallucination--he hadcalled it by these names before; but having, apparently by accident,stumbled upon the word "love," he repeated it again and again with asense of revelation.
"But I'm in love with you!" he exclaimed, with something like dismay. Heleant against the window-sill, looking over the city as she had looked.Everything had become miraculously different and completely distinct.His feelings were justified and needed no further explanation. But hemust impart them to some one, because his discovery was so importantthat it concerned other people too. Shutting the book of Greekphotographs, and hiding his relics, he ran downstairs, snatched hiscoat, and passed out of doors.
The lamps were being lit, but the streets were dark enough and emptyenough to let him walk his fastest, and to talk aloud as he walked. Hehad no doubt where he was going. He was going to find Mary Datchet. Thedesire to share what he felt, with some one who understood it, was soimperious that he did not question it. He was soon in her street. Heran up the stairs leading to her flat two steps at a time, and it nevercrossed his mind that she might not be at home. As he rang her bell, heseemed to himself to be announcing the presence of something wonderfulthat was separate from himself, and gave him power and authority overall other people. Mary came to the door after a moment's pause. He wasperfectly silent, and in the dusk his face looked completely white. Hefollowed her into her room.
"Do you know each other?" she said, to his extreme surprise, for he hadcounted on finding her alone. A young man rose, and said that he knewRalph by sight.
"We were just going through some papers," said Mary. "Mr. Basnett hasto help me, because I don't know much about my work yet. It's the newsociety," she explained. "I'm the secretary. I'm no longer at RussellSquare."
The voice in which she gave this information was so constrained as tosound almost harsh.
"What are your aims?" said Ralph. He looked neither at Mary nor at Mr.Basnett. Mr. Basnett thought he had seldom seen a more disagreeableor formidable man than this friend of Mary's, this sarcastic-looking,white-faced Mr. Denham, who seemed to demand, as if by right, an accountof their proposals, and to criticize them before he had heard them.Nevertheless, he explained his projects as clearly as he could, and knewthat he wished Mr. Denham to think well of them.
"I see," said Ralph, when he had done. "D'you know, Mary," he suddenlyremarked, "I believe I'm in for a cold. Have you any quinine?" Thelook which he cast at her frightened her; it expressed mutely, perhapswithout his own consciousness, something deep, wild, and passionate. Sheleft the room at once. Her heart beat fast at the knowledge of Ralph'spresence; but it beat with pain, and with an extraordinary fear. Shestood listening for a moment to the voices in the next room.
"Of course, I agree with you," she heard Ralph say, in this strangevoice, to Mr. Basnett. "But there's more that might be done. Have youseen Judson, for instance? You should make a point of getting him."
Mary returned with the quinine.
"Judson's address?" Mr. Basnett inquired, pulling out his notebook andpreparing to write. For twenty minutes, perhaps, he wrote down names,addresses, and other suggestions that Ralph dictated to him. Then, whenRalph fell silent, Mr. Basnett felt that his presence was not desired,and thanking Ralph for his help, with a sense that he was very young andignorant compared with him, he said good-bye.
"Mary," said Ralph, directly Mr. Basnett had shut the door and they werealone together. "Mary," he repeated. But the old difficulty of speakingto Mary without reserve prevented him from continuing. His desire
toproclaim his love for Katharine was still strong in him, but he hadfelt, directly he saw Mary, that he could not share it with her. Thefeeling increased as he sat talking to Mr. Basnett. And yet all the timehe was thinking of Katharine, and marveling at his love. The tone inwhich he spoke Mary's name was harsh.
"What is it, Ralph?" she asked, startled by his tone. She looked at himanxiously, and her little frown showed that she was trying painfullyto understand him, and was puzzled. He could feel her groping for hismeaning, and he was annoyed with her, and thought how he had alwaysfound her slow, painstaking, and clumsy. He had behaved badly to her,too, which made his irritation the more acute. Without waiting for himto answer, she rose as if his answer were indifferent to her, and beganto put in order some papers that Mr. Basnett had left on the table. Shehummed a scrap of a tune under her breath, and moved about the room asif she were occupied in making things tidy, and had no other concern.
"You'll stay and dine?" she said casually, returning to her seat.
"No," Ralph replied. She did not press him further. They sat side byside without speaking, and Mary reached her hand for her work basket,and took out her sewing and threaded a needle.
"That's a clever young man," Ralph observed, referring to Mr. Basnett.
"I'm glad you thought so. It's tremendously interesting work, andconsidering everything, I think we've done very well. But I'm inclinedto agree with you; we ought to try to be more conciliatory. We'reabsurdly strict. It's difficult to see that there may be sense in whatone's opponents say, though they are one's opponents. Horace Basnettis certainly too uncompromising. I mustn't forget to see that he writesthat letter to Judson. You're too busy, I suppose, to come on to ourcommittee?" She spoke in the most impersonal manner.
"I may be out of town," Ralph replied, with equal distance of manner.
"Our executive meets every week, of course," she observed. "But some ofour members don't come more than once a month. Members of Parliament arethe worst; it was a mistake, I think, to ask them."
She went on sewing in silence.
"You've not taken your quinine," she said, looking up and seeing thetabloids upon the mantelpiece.
"I don't want it," said Ralph shortly.
"Well, you know best," she replied tranquilly.
"Mary, I'm a brute!" he exclaimed. "Here I come and waste your time, anddo nothing but make myself disagreeable."
"A cold coming on does make one feel wretched," she replied.
"I've not got a cold. That was a lie. There's nothing the matter withme. I'm mad, I suppose. I ought to have had the decency to keep away.But I wanted to see you--I wanted to tell you--I'm in love, Mary." Hespoke the word, but, as he spoke it, it seemed robbed of substance.
"In love, are you?" she said quietly. "I'm glad, Ralph."
"I suppose I'm in love. Anyhow, I'm out of my mind. I can't think, Ican't work, I don't care a hang for anything in the world. Good Heavens,Mary! I'm in torment! One moment I'm happy; next I'm miserable. I hateher for half an hour; then I'd give my whole life to be with her for tenminutes; all the time I don't know what I feel, or why I feel it; it'sinsanity, and yet it's perfectly reasonable. Can you make any sense ofit? Can you see what's happened? I'm raving, I know; don't listen, Mary;go on with your work."
He rose and began, as usual, to pace up and down the room. He knew thatwhat he had just said bore very little resemblance to what he felt, forMary's presence acted upon him like a very strong magnet, drawing fromhim certain expressions which were not those he made use of when hespoke to himself, nor did they represent his deepest feelings. He felta little contempt for himself at having spoken thus; but somehow he hadbeen forced into speech.
"Do sit down," said Mary suddenly. "You make me so--" She spoke withunusual irritability, and Ralph, noticing it with surprise, sat down atonce.
"You haven't told me her name--you'd rather not, I suppose?"
"Her name? Katharine Hilbery."
"But she's engaged--"
"To Rodney. They're to be married in September."
"I see," said Mary. But in truth the calm of his manner, now that he wassitting down once more, wrapt her in the presence of something which shefelt to be so strong, so mysterious, so incalculable, that she scarcelydared to attempt to intercept it by any word or question that she wasable to frame. She looked at Ralph blankly, with a kind of awe in herface, her lips slightly parted, and her brows raised. He was apparentlyquite unconscious of her gaze. Then, as if she could look no longer, sheleant back in her chair, and half closed her eyes. The distance betweenthem hurt her terribly; one thing after another came into her mind,tempting her to assail Ralph with questions, to force him to confidein her, and to enjoy once more his intimacy. But she rejected everyimpulse, for she could not speak without doing violence to some reservewhich had grown between them, putting them a little far from each other,so that he seemed to her dignified and remote, like a person she nolonger knew well.
"Is there anything that I could do for you?" she asked gently, and evenwith courtesy, at length.
"You could see her--no, that's not what I want; you mustn't bother aboutme, Mary." He, too, spoke very gently.
"I'm afraid no third person can do anything to help," she added.
"No," he shook his head. "Katharine was saying to-day how lonely weare." She saw the effort with which he spoke Katharine's name, andbelieved that he forced himself to make amends now for his concealmentin the past. At any rate, she was conscious of no anger against him; butrather of a deep pity for one condemned to suffer as she had suffered.But in the case of Katharine it was different; she was indignant withKatharine.
"There's always work," she said, a little aggressively.
Ralph moved directly.
"Do you want to be working now?" he asked.
"No, no. It's Sunday," she replied. "I was thinking of Katharine. Shedoesn't understand about work. She's never had to. She doesn't know whatwork is. I've only found out myself quite lately. But it's the thingthat saves one--I'm sure of that."
"There are other things, aren't there?" he hesitated.
"Nothing that one can count upon," she returned. "After all, otherpeople--" she stopped, but forced herself to go on. "Where should I benow if I hadn't got to go to my office every day? Thousands of peoplewould tell you the same thing--thousands of women. I tell you, work isthe only thing that saved me, Ralph." He set his mouth, as if her wordsrained blows on him; he looked as if he had made up his mind to bearanything she might say, in silence. He had deserved it, and there wouldbe relief in having to bear it. But she broke off, and rose as if tofetch something from the next room. Before she reached the door sheturned back, and stood facing him, self-possessed, and yet defiant andformidable in her composure.
"It's all turned out splendidly for me," she said. "It will for you,too. I'm sure of that. Because, after all, Katharine is worth it."
"Mary--!" he exclaimed. But her head was turned away, and he could notsay what he wished to say. "Mary, you're splendid," he concluded. Shefaced him as he spoke, and gave him her hand. She had suffered andrelinquished, she had seen her future turned from one of infinitepromise to one of barrenness, and yet, somehow, over what she scarcelyknew, and with what results she could hardly foretell, she hadconquered. With Ralph's eyes upon her, smiling straight back at himserenely and proudly, she knew, for the first time, that she hadconquered. She let him kiss her hand.
The streets were empty enough on Sunday night, and if the Sabbath,and the domestic amusements proper to the Sabbath, had not kept peopleindoors, a high strong wind might very probably have done so. RalphDenham was aware of a tumult in the street much in accordance with hisown sensations. The gusts, sweeping along the Strand, seemed at the sametime to blow a clear space across the sky in which stars appeared, andfor a short time the quicks-peeding silver moon riding through clouds,as if they were waves of water surging round her and over her. Theyswamped her, but she emerged; they broke over her and covered her again;she issued forth indomitable. In
the country fields all the wreckage ofwinter was being dispersed; the dead leaves, the withered bracken, thedry and discolored grass, but no bud would be broken, nor would the newstalks that showed above the earth take any harm, and perhaps to-morrowa line of blue or yellow would show through a slit in their green. Butthe whirl of the atmosphere alone was in Denham's mood, and what ofstar or blossom appeared was only as a light gleaming for a second uponheaped waves fast following each other. He had not been able to speak toMary, though for a moment he had come near enough to be tantalized bya wonderful possibility of understanding. But the desire to communicatesomething of the very greatest importance possessed him completely; hestill wished to bestow this gift upon some other human being; he soughttheir company. More by instinct than by conscious choice, he took thedirection which led to Rodney's rooms. He knocked loudly upon his door;but no one answered. He rang the bell. It took him some time to acceptthe fact that Rodney was out. When he could no longer pretend that thesound of the wind in the old building was the sound of some one risingfrom his chair, he ran downstairs again, as if his goal had been alteredand only just revealed to him. He walked in the direction of Chelsea.
But physical fatigue, for he had not dined and had tramped both far andfast, made him sit for a moment upon a seat on the Embankment. Oneof the regular occupants of those seats, an elderly man who had drunkhimself, probably, out of work and lodging, drifted up, begged a match,and sat down beside him. It was a windy night, he said; times were hard;some long story of bad luck and injustice followed, told so often thatthe man seemed to be talking to himself, or, perhaps, the neglect ofhis audience had long made any attempt to catch their attention seemscarcely worth while. When he began to speak Ralph had a wild desire totalk to him; to question him; to make him understand. He did, in fact,interrupt him at one point; but it was useless. The ancient story offailure, ill-luck, undeserved disaster, went down the wind, disconnectedsyllables flying past Ralph's ears with a queer alternation of loudnessand faintness as if, at certain moments, the man's memory of hiswrongs revived and then flagged, dying down at last into a grumble ofresignation, which seemed to represent a final lapse into the accustomeddespair. The unhappy voice afflicted Ralph, but it also angered him. Andwhen the elderly man refused to listen and mumbled on, an odd image cameto his mind of a lighthouse besieged by the flying bodies of lost birds,who were dashed senseless, by the gale, against the glass. He had astrange sensation that he was both lighthouse and bird; he was steadfastand brilliant; and at the same time he was whirled, with all otherthings, senseless against the glass. He got up, left his tribute ofsilver, and pressed on, with the wind against him. The image of thelighthouse and the storm full of birds persisted, taking the place ofmore definite thoughts, as he walked past the Houses of Parliament anddown Grosvenor Road, by the side of the river. In his state of physicalfatigue, details merged themselves in the vaster prospect, of whichthe flying gloom and the intermittent lights of lamp-posts and privatehouses were the outward token, but he never lost his sense of walkingin the direction of Katharine's house. He took it for granted thatsomething would then happen, and, as he walked on, his mind became moreand more full of pleasure and expectancy. Within a certain radius of herhouse the streets came under the influence of her presence. Eachhouse had an individuality known to Ralph, because of the tremendousindividuality of the house in which she lived. For some yards beforereaching the Hilberys' door he walked in a trance of pleasure, butwhen he reached it, and pushed the gate of the little garden open, hehesitated. He did not know what to do next. There was no hurry, however,for the outside of the house held pleasure enough to last him some timelonger. He crossed the road, and leant against the balustrade of theEmbankment, fixing his eyes upon the house.
Lights burnt in the three long windows of the drawing-room. The spaceof the room behind became, in Ralph's vision, the center of the dark,flying wilderness of the world; the justification for the welter ofconfusion surrounding it; the steady light which cast its beams, likethose of a lighthouse, with searching composure over the tracklesswaste. In this little sanctuary were gathered together several differentpeople, but their identity was dissolved in a general glory of somethingthat might, perhaps, be called civilization at any rate, alldryness, all safety, all that stood up above the surge and preserveda consciousness of its own, was centered in the drawing-room of theHilberys. Its purpose was beneficent; and yet so far above his level asto have something austere about it, a light that cast itself out and yetkept itself aloof. Then he began, in his mind, to distinguish differentindividuals within, consciously refusing as yet to attack the figure ofKatharine. His thoughts lingered over Mrs. Hilbery and Cassandra; andthen he turned to Rodney and Mr. Hilbery. Physically, he saw them bathedin that steady flow of yellow light which filled the long oblongs of thewindows; in their movements they were beautiful; and in their speech hefigured a reserve of meaning, unspoken, but understood. At length, afterall this half-conscious selection and arrangement, he allowed himselfto approach the figure of Katharine herself; and instantly the scenewas flooded with excitement. He did not see her in the body; he seemedcuriously to see her as a shape of light, the light itself; he seemed,simplified and exhausted as he was, to be like one of those lost birdsfascinated by the lighthouse and held to the glass by the splendor ofthe blaze.
These thoughts drove him to tramp a beat up and down the pavement beforethe Hilberys' gate. He did not trouble himself to make any plans for thefuture. Something of an unknown kind would decide both the coming yearand the coming hour. Now and again, in his vigil, he sought the light inthe long windows, or glanced at the ray which gilded a few leaves anda few blades of grass in the little garden. For a long time the lightburnt without changing. He had just reached the limit of his beat andwas turning, when the front door opened, and the aspect of the house wasentirely changed. A black figure came down the little pathway and pausedat the gate. Denham understood instantly that it was Rodney. Withouthesitation, and conscious only of a great friendliness for any onecoming from that lighted room, he walked straight up to him and stoppedhim. In the flurry of the wind Rodney was taken aback, and for themoment tried to press on, muttering something, as if he suspected ademand upon his charity.
"Goodness, Denham, what are you doing here?" he exclaimed, recognizinghim.
Ralph mumbled something about being on his way home. They walked ontogether, though Rodney walked quick enough to make it plain that he hadno wish for company.
He was very unhappy. That afternoon Cassandra had repulsed him; hehad tried to explain to her the difficulties of the situation, andto suggest the nature of his feelings for her without saying anythingdefinite or anything offensive to her. But he had lost his head; underthe goad of Katharine's ridicule he had said too much, and Cassandra,superb in her dignity and severity, had refused to hear another word,and threatened an immediate return to her home. His agitation, after anevening spent between the two women, was extreme. Moreover, he could nothelp suspecting that Ralph was wandering near the Hilberys' house, atthis hour, for reasons connected with Katharine. There was probably someunderstanding between them--not that anything of the kind matteredto him now. He was convinced that he had never cared for any one saveCassandra, and Katharine's future was no concern of his. Aloud, he said,shortly, that he was very tired and wished to find a cab. But on Sundaynight, on the Embankment, cabs were hard to come by, and Rodney foundhimself constrained to walk some distance, at any rate, in Denham'scompany. Denham maintained his silence. Rodney's irritation lapsed. Hefound the silence oddly suggestive of the good masculine qualities whichhe much respected, and had at this moment great reason to need. Afterthe mystery, difficulty, and uncertainty of dealing with the other sex,intercourse with one's own is apt to have a composing and even ennoblinginfluence, since plain speaking is possible and subterfuges of no avail.Rodney, too, was much in need of a confidant; Katharine, despite herpromises of help, had failed him at the critical moment; she hadgone off with Denham; she was, perhaps, tormenting Den
ham as she hadtormented him. How grave and stable he seemed, speaking little, andwalking firmly, compared with what Rodney knew of his own torments andindecisions! He began to cast about for some way of telling the story ofhis relations with Katharine and Cassandra that would not lower him inDenham's eyes. It then occurred to him that, perhaps, Katharine herselfhad confided in Denham; they had something in common it was likely thatthey had discussed him that very afternoon. The desire to discoverwhat they had said of him now came uppermost in his mind. He recalledKatharine's laugh; he remembered that she had gone, laughing, to walkwith Denham.
"Did you stay long after we'd left?" he asked abruptly.
"No. We went back to my house."
This seemed to confirm Rodney's belief that he had been discussed. Heturned over the unpalatable idea for a while, in silence.
"Women are incomprehensible creatures, Denham!" he then exclaimed.
"Um," said Denham, who seemed to himself possessed of completeunderstanding, not merely of women, but of the entire universe. Hecould read Rodney, too, like a book. He knew that he was unhappy, and hepitied him, and wished to help him.
"You say something and they--fly into a passion. Or for no reason atall, they laugh. I take it that no amount of education will--" Theremainder of the sentence was lost in the high wind, against which theyhad to struggle; but Denham understood that he referred to Katharine'slaughter, and that the memory of it was still hurting him. In comparisonwith Rodney, Denham felt himself very secure; he saw Rodney as one ofthe lost birds dashed senseless against the glass; one of the flyingbodies of which the air was full. But he and Katharine were alonetogether, aloft, splendid, and luminous with a twofold radiance. Hepitied the unstable creature beside him; he felt a desire to protecthim, exposed without the knowledge which made his own way so direct.They were united as the adventurous are united, though one reaches thegoal and the other perishes by the way.
"You couldn't laugh at some one you cared for."
This sentence, apparently addressed to no other human being, reachedDenham's ears. The wind seemed to muffle it and fly away with itdirectly. Had Rodney spoken those words?
"You love her." Was that his own voice, which seemed to sound in the airseveral yards in front of him?
"I've suffered tortures, Denham, tortures!"
"Yes, yes, I know that."
"She's laughed at me."
"Never--to me."
The wind blew a space between the words--blew them so far away that theyseemed unspoken.
"How I've loved her!"
This was certainly spoken by the man at Denham's side. The voice had allthe marks of Rodney's character, and recalled, with; strange vividness,his personal appearance. Denham could see him against the blankbuildings and towers of the horizon. He saw him dignified, exalted, andtragic, as he might have appeared thinking of Katharine alone in hisrooms at night.
"I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am here to-night."
Ralph spoke distinctly and deliberately, as if Rodney's confession hadmade this statement necessary.
Rodney exclaimed something inarticulate.
"Ah, I've always known it," he cried, "I've known it from the first.You'll marry her!"
The cry had a note of despair in it. Again the wind intercepted theirwords. They said no more. At length they drew up beneath a lamp-post,simultaneously.
"My God, Denham, what fools we both are!" Rodney exclaimed. They lookedat each other, queerly, in the light of the lamp. Fools! They seemed toconfess to each other the extreme depths of their folly. For the moment,under the lamp-post, they seemed to be aware of some common knowledgewhich did away with the possibility of rivalry, and made them feelmore sympathy for each other than for any one else in the world.Giving simultaneously a little nod, as if in confirmation of thisunderstanding, they parted without speaking again.