Night and Day
but there was no limit to the flood of damage; not one of his
possessions was safe now. Katharine had deceived him; she had mixed
herself with every thought of his, and reft of her they seemed false
thoughts which he would blush to think again. His life seemed
immeasurably impoverished.
He sat himself down, in spite of the chilly fog which obscured the
farther bank and left its lights suspended upon a blank surface, upon
one of the riverside seats, and let the tide of disillusionment sweep
through him. For the time being all bright points in his life were
blotted out; all prominences leveled. At first he made himself believe
that Katharine had treated him badly, and drew comfort from the thought
that, left alone, she would recollect this, and think of him and tender
him, in silence, at any rate, an apology. But this grain of comfort
failed him after a second or two, for, upon reflection, he had to admit
that Katharine owed him nothing. Katharine had promised nothing, taken
nothing; to her his dreams had meant nothing. This, indeed, was the
lowest pitch of his despair. If the best of one’s feelings means
nothing to the person most concerned in those feelings, what reality is
left us? The old romance which had warmed his days for him, the
thoughts of Katharine which had painted every hour, were now made to
appear foolish and enfeebled. He rose, and looked into the river, whose
swift race of dun-colored waters seemed the very spirit of futility and
oblivion.
“In what can one trust, then?” he thought, as he leant there. So feeble
and 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 about
them. There’s nothing—nothing, nothing left at all.”
Now Denham had reason to know that he could bring to birth and keep
alive a fine anger when he chose. Rodney provided a good target for
that emotion. And yet at the moment, Rodney and Katharine herself
seemed disembodied ghosts. He could scarcely remember the look of them.
His mind plunged lower and lower. Their marriage seemed of no
importance to him. All things had turned to ghosts; the whole mass of
the world was insubstantial vapor, surrounding the solitary spark in
his mind, whose burning point he could remember, for it burnt no more.
He had once cherished a belief, and Katharine had embodied this belief,
and she did so no longer. He did not blame her; he blamed nothing,
nobody; he saw the 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, dictated the reflection, which now urged him to movement, that
one may cast away the forms of human beings, and yet retain the passion
which seemed inseparable from their existence in the flesh. Now this
passion burnt on his horizon, as the winter sun makes a greenish pane
in the west through thinning clouds. His eyes were set on something
infinitely far and remote; by that light he felt he could walk, and
would, in future, have to find his way. But that was all there was left
to him of a populous and teeming world.
CHAPTER XIII
The lunch hour in the office was only partly spent by Denham in the
consumption of food. Whether fine or wet, he passed most of it pacing
the gravel paths in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The children got to know his
figure, and the sparrows expected their daily scattering of
bread-crumbs. No doubt, since he often gave a copper and almost always
a handful of bread, he was not as blind to his surroundings as he
thought himself.
He thought that these winter days were spent in long hours before white
papers radiant in electric light; and in short passages through
fog-dimmed streets. When he came back to his work after lunch he
carried in his head a picture of the Strand, scattered with omnibuses,
and of the purple shapes of leaves pressed flat upon the gravel, as if
his eyes had always been bent upon the ground. His brain worked
incessantly, but his thought was attended with so little joy that he
did not willingly recall it; but drove ahead, now in this direction,
now in that; and came home laden with dark books borrowed from a
library.
Mary Datchet, coming from the Strand at lunch-time, saw him one day
taking his turn, closely buttoned in an overcoat, and so lost in
thought that he might have been sitting in his own room.
She was overcome by something very like awe by the sight of him; then
she felt much inclined to laugh, although her pulse beat faster. She
passed him, and he never saw her. She came back and touched him on the
shoulder.
“Gracious, Mary!” he exclaimed. “How you startled me!”
“Yes. You looked as if you were walking in your sleep,” she said. “Are
you arranging some terrible love affair? Have you got to reconcile a
desperate couple?”
“I wasn’t thinking about my work,” Ralph replied, rather hastily. “And,
besides, that sort of thing’s not in my line,” he added, rather grimly.
The morning was fine, and they had still some minutes of leisure to
spend. They had not met for two or three weeks, and Mary had much to
say to Ralph; but she was not certain how far he wished for her
company. However, after a turn or two, in which a few facts were
communicated, he suggested sitting down, and she took the seat beside
him. The sparrows came fluttering about them, and Ralph produced from
his pocket the half of a roll saved from his luncheon. He threw a few
crumbs among them.
“I’ve never seen sparrows so tame,” Mary observed, by way of saying
something.
“No,” said Ralph. “The sparrows in Hyde Park aren’t as tame as this. If
we keep perfectly still, I’ll get one to settle on my arm.”
Mary felt that she could have forgone this display of animal good
temper, but seeing that Ralph, for some curious reason, took a pride in
the sparrows, she bet him sixpence that he would not succeed.
“Done!” he said; and his eye, which had been gloomy, showed a spark of
light. His conversation was now addressed entirely to a bald
cock-sparrow, who seemed bolder than the rest; and Mary took the
opportunity of looking at him. She was not satisfied; his face was
worn, and his expression stern. A child came bowling its hoop through
the concourse of birds, and Ralph threw his last crumbs of bread into
the bushes with a snort of impatience.
“That’s what always happens—just as I’ve almost got him,” he said.
“Here’s your sixpence, Mary. But you’ve only got it thanks to that
brute of a boy. They oughtn’t to be allowed to bowl hoops here—”
“Oughtn’t to be allowed to bowl hoops! My dear Ralph, what nonsense!”
“You always say that,” he complained; “and it isn’t nonsense. What’s
the point of having a garden if one can’t watch birds in it? The street
does all right for hoops. And if children can’t be trusted in the
streets, their mothers should keep them at home.”
Mary made no answer to this remark, but frowned.
She leant back on the seat and looked about her at the great houses
breaking the soft gray-blue sky with their chimneys.
“Ah, well,” she said, “London’s a fine place to live in. I believe I
could sit and watch people all day long. I like my
fellow-creatures....”
Ralph sighed impatiently.
“Yes, I think so, when you come to know them,” she added, as if his
disagreement had been spoken.
“That’s just when I don’t like them,” he replied. “Still, I don’t see
why you shouldn’t cherish that illusion, if it pleases you.” He spoke
without much vehemence of agreement or disagreement. He seemed chilled.
“Wake up, Ralph! You’re half asleep!” Mary cried, turning and pinching
his sleeve. “What have you been doing with yourself? Moping? Working?
Despising the world, as usual?”
As he merely shook his head, and filled his pipe, she went on:
“It’s a bit of a pose, isn’t it?”
“Not more than most things,” he said.
“Well,” Mary remarked, “I’ve a great deal to say to you, but I must go
on—we have a committee.” She rose, but hesitated, looking down upon him
rather gravely. “You don’t look happy, Ralph,” she said. “Is it
anything, or is it nothing?”
He did not immediately answer her, but rose, too, and walked with her
towards the gate. As usual, he did not speak to her without considering
whether what he was about to say was the sort of thing that he could
say to her.
“I’ve been bothered,” he said at length. “Partly by work, and partly by
family troubles. Charles has been behaving like a fool. He wants to go
out to Canada as a farmer—”
“Well, there’s something to be said for that,” said Mary; and they
passed the gate, and walked slowly round the Fields again, discussing
difficulties which, as a matter of fact, were more or less chronic in
the Denham family, and only now brought forward to appease Mary’s
sympathy, which, however, soothed Ralph more than he was aware of. She
made him at least dwell upon problems which were real in the sense that
they were capable of solution; and the true cause of his melancholy,
which was not susceptible to such treatment, sank rather more deeply
into the shades of his mind.
Mary was attentive; she was helpful. Ralph could not help feeling
grateful to her, the more so, perhaps, because he had not told her the
truth about his state; and when they reached the gate again he wished
to make some affectionate objection to her leaving him. But his
affection took the rather uncouth form of expostulating with her about
her work.
“What d’you want to sit on a committee for?” he asked. “It’s waste of
your time, Mary.”
“I agree with you that a country walk would benefit the world more,”
she said. “Look here,” she added suddenly, “why don’t you come to us at
Christmas? It’s almost the best time of year.”
“Come to you at Disham?” Ralph repeated.
“Yes. We won’t interfere with you. But you can tell me later,” she
said, rather hastily, and then started off in the direction of Russell
Square. She had invited him on the impulse of the moment, as a vision
of the country came before her; and now she was annoyed with herself
for having done so, and then she was annoyed at being annoyed.
“If I can’t face a walk in a field alone with Ralph,” she reasoned,
“I’d better buy a cat and live in a lodging at Ealing, like Sally
Seal—and he won’t come. Or did he mean that he _would_ come?”
She shook her head. She really did not know what he had meant. She
never felt quite certain; but now she was more than usually baffled.
Was he concealing something from her? His manner had been odd; his deep
absorption had impressed her; there was something in him that she had
not fathomed, and the mystery of his nature laid more of a spell upon
her than she liked. Moreover, she could not prevent herself from doing
now what she had often blamed others of her sex for doing—from endowing
her friend with a kind of heavenly fire, and passing her life before it
for his sanction.
Under this process, the committee rather dwindled in importance; the
Suffrage shrank; she vowed she would work harder at the Italian
language; she thought she would take up the study of birds. But this
program for a perfect life threatened to become so absurd that she very
soon caught herself out in the evil habit, and was rehearsing her
speech to the committee by the time the chestnut-colored bricks of
Russell Square came in sight. Indeed, she never noticed them. She ran
upstairs as usual, and was completely awakened to reality by the sight
of Mrs. Seal, on the landing outside the office, inducing a very large
dog to drink water out of a tumbler.
“Miss Markham has already arrived,” Mrs. Seal remarked, with due
solemnity, “and this is her dog.”
“A very fine dog, too,” said Mary, patting him on the head.
“Yes. A magnificent fellow,” Mrs. Seal agreed. “A kind of St. Bernard,
she tells me—so like Kit to have a St. Bernard. And you guard your