Night and Day
intelligence like you. There were domestic circumstances—I’d like to
tell you one of these days—so I say foolish things. I lose my head, you
know. You don’t. Mr. Clacton doesn’t. It’s a great mistake, to lose
one’s head. But my heart’s in the right place. And I’m so glad Kit has
a big dog, for I didn’t think her looking well.”
They had their tea, and went over many of the points that had been
raised in the committee rather more intimately than had been possible
then; and they all felt an agreeable sense of being in some way behind
the scenes; of having their hands upon strings which, when pulled,
would completely change the pageant exhibited daily to those who read
the newspapers. Although their views were very different, this sense
united them and made them almost cordial in their manners to each
other.
Mary, however, left the tea-party rather early, desiring both to be
alone, and then to hear some music at the Queen’s Hall. She fully
intended to use her loneliness to think out her position with regard to
Ralph; but although she walked back to the Strand with this end in
view, she found her mind uncomfortably full of different trains of
thought. She started one and then another. They seemed even to take
their color from the street she happened to be in. Thus the vision of
humanity appeared to be in some way connected with Bloomsbury, and
faded distinctly by the time she crossed the main road; then a belated
organ-grinder in Holborn set her thoughts dancing incongruously; and by
the time she was crossing the great misty square of Lincoln’s Inn
Fields, she was cold and depressed again, and horribly clear-sighted.
The dark removed the stimulus of human companionship, and a tear
actually slid down her cheek, accompanying a sudden conviction within
her that she loved Ralph, and that he didn’t love her. All dark and
empty now was the path where they had walked that morning, and the
sparrows silent in the bare trees. But the lights in her own building
soon cheered her; all these different states of mind were submerged in
the deep flood of desires, thoughts, perceptions, antagonisms, which
washed perpetually at the base of her being, to rise into prominence in
turn when the conditions of the upper world were favorable. She put off
the hour of clear thought until Christmas, saying to herself, as she
lit her fire, that it is impossible to think anything out in London;
and, no doubt, Ralph wouldn’t come at Christmas, and she would take
long walks into the heart of the country, and decide this question and
all the others that puzzled her. Meanwhile, she thought, drawing her
feet up on to the fender, life was full of complexity; life was a thing
one must love to the last fiber of it.
She had sat there for five minutes or so, and her thoughts had had time
to grow dim, when there came a ring at her bell. Her eye brightened;
she felt immediately convinced that Ralph had come to visit her.
Accordingly, she waited a moment before opening the door; she wanted to
feel her hands secure upon the reins of all the troublesome emotions
which the sight of Ralph would certainly arouse. She composed herself
unnecessarily, however, for she had to admit, not Ralph, but Katharine
and William Rodney. Her first impression was that they were both
extremely well dressed. She felt herself shabby and slovenly beside
them, and did not know how she should entertain them, nor could she
guess why they had come. She had heard nothing of their engagement. But
after the first disappointment, she was pleased, for she felt instantly
that Katharine was a personality, and, moreover, she need not now
exercise her self-control.
“We were passing and saw a light in your window, so we came up,”
Katharine explained, standing and looking very tall and distinguished
and rather absent-minded.
“We have been to see some pictures,” said William. “Oh, dear,” he
exclaimed, looking about him, “this room reminds me of one of the worst
hours in my existence—when I read a paper, and you all sat round and
jeered at me. Katharine was the worst. I could feel her gloating over
every mistake I made. Miss Datchet was kind. Miss Datchet just made it
possible for me to get through, I remember.”
Sitting down, he drew off his light yellow gloves, and began slapping
his knees with them. His vitality was pleasant, Mary thought, although
he made her laugh. The very look of him was inclined to make her laugh.
His rather prominent eyes passed from one young woman to the other, and
his lips perpetually formed words which remained unspoken.
“We have been seeing old masters at the Grafton Gallery,” said
Katharine, apparently paying no attention to William, and accepting a
cigarette which Mary offered her. She leant back in her chair, and the
smoke which hung about her face seemed to withdraw her still further
from the others.
“Would you believe it, Miss Datchet,” William continued, “Katharine
doesn’t like Titian. She doesn’t like apricots, she doesn’t like
peaches, she doesn’t like green peas. She likes the Elgin marbles, and
gray days without any sun. She’s a typical example of the cold northern
nature. I come from Devonshire—”
Had they been quarreling, Mary wondered, and had they, for that reason,
sought refuge in her room, or were they engaged, or had Katharine just
refused him? She was completely baffled.
Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from
her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of
solicitude, at the irritable man.
“Perhaps, Mary,” she said tentatively, “you wouldn’t mind giving us
some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in
the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any
rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William.” She spoke with a
kind of guarded gentleness.
Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry.
“What in the world are they after?” she asked of her own reflection in
the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt
much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the
tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed
so to do by William, of their engagement.
“William,” she said, “thinks that perhaps you don’t know. We are going
to be married.”
Mary found herself shaking William’s hand, and addressing her
congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had,
indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle.
“Let me see,” Katharine said, “one puts hot water into the cups first,
doesn’t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven’t you, William,
about making tea?”
Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to
conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect.
Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her
own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of
difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found
herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures,
while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William’s plate
supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation.
She seemed to have taken possession of Mary’s room, and to handle the
cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it
bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting
her hand on Katharine’s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there
something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of
Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled
Mary’s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed
very much older and more experienced than she was.
Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against
him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a
surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures.
He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his
authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little,
Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them,
upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed.
“Your tea, William,” said Katharine gently.
He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued.
And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her
broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity
of her character, was, perhaps, smiling to herself, not altogether in
the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words, even
“Your tea, William,” were set down as gently and cautiously and exactly
as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments. For the
second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something inscrutable
in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted.
She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find
herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William
evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine’s voice was humble.
“I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as
books?” she asked.
“How do I find the time?” William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at
this little compliment. “Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I
ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning.
And then I meet men, and talk to them. There’s a man in my office who
knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about
the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him—it’s a way men
have—Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We’ll ask him to lunch.
And this not caring about art,” he explained, turning to Mary, “it’s
one of Katharine’s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She
pretends that she’s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read
Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare—Rosalind, you know,” and he gave
his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very
old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself
blush, as if he had said “the sex” or “the ladies.” Constrained,
perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein.
“She knows enough—enough for all decent purposes. What do you women
want with learning, when you have so much else—everything, I should
say—everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?”
“Leave you something?” said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown
study. “I was thinking we must be going—”
“Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn’t be
late,” said Rodney, rising. “D’you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet?
They own Trantem Abbey,” he added, for her information, as she looked
doubtful. “And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night,
perhaps’ll lend it to us for the honeymoon.”
“I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she’s a dull woman,” said
Katharine. “At least,” she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, “I
find it difficult to talk to her.”
“Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I’ve seen
her sit silent a whole evening,” he said, turning to Mary, as he had
frequently done already. “Don’t you find that, too? Sometimes when
we’re alone, I’ve counted the time on my watch”—here he took out a
large gold watch, and tapped the glass—“the time between one remark and
the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then,
if you’ll believe me, she only said ‘Um!’”
“I’m sure I’m sorry,” Katharine apologized. “I know it’s a bad habit,
but then, you see, at home—”
The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by
the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding
fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again,
and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon