Night and Day
Cassandra’s thoughts flew to the subject of her preoccupation.
“About us?” she inquired.
“Heaven knows,” Katharine replied. “I shan’t let her stay in the
kitchen, though. I shall bring her up here.”
The sternness with which this was said suggested that to bring Aunt
Celia upstairs was, for some reason, a disciplinary measure.
“For goodness’ sake, Katharine,” Cassandra exclaimed, jumping from her
chair and showing signs of agitation, “don’t be rash. Don’t let her
suspect. Remember, nothing’s certain—”
Katharine assured her by nodding her head several times, but the manner
in which she left the room was not calculated to inspire complete
confidence in her diplomacy.
Mrs. Milvain was sitting, or rather perching, upon the edge of a chair
in the servants’ room. Whether there was any sound reason for her
choice of a subterranean chamber, or whether it corresponded with the
spirit of her quest, Mrs. Milvain invariably came in by the back door
and sat in the servants’ room when she was engaged in confidential
family transactions. The ostensible reason she gave was that neither
Mr. nor Mrs. Hilbery should be disturbed. But, in truth, Mrs. Milvain
depended even more than most elderly women of her generation upon the
delicious emotions of intimacy, agony, and secrecy, and the additional
thrill provided by the basement was one not lightly to be forfeited.
She protested almost plaintively when Katharine proposed to go
upstairs.
“I’ve something that I want to say to you in _private_,” she said,
hesitating reluctantly upon the threshold of her ambush.
“The drawing-room is empty—”
“But we might meet your mother upon the stairs. We might disturb your
father,” Mrs. Milvain objected, taking the precaution to speak in a
whisper already.
But as Katharine’s presence was absolutely necessary to the success of
the interview, and as Katharine obstinately receded up the kitchen
stairs, Mrs. Milvain had no course but to follow her. She glanced
furtively about her as she proceeded upstairs, drew her skirts
together, and stepped with circumspection past all doors, whether they
were open or shut.
“Nobody will overhear us?” she murmured, when the comparative sanctuary
of the drawing-room had been reached. “I see that I have interrupted
you,” she added, glancing at the flowers strewn upon the floor. A
moment later she inquired, “Was some one sitting with you?” noticing a
handkerchief that Cassandra had dropped in her flight.
“Cassandra was helping me to put the flowers in water,” said Katharine,
and she spoke so firmly and clearly that Mrs. Milvain glanced nervously
at the main door and then at the curtain which divided the little room
with the relics from the drawing-room.
“Ah, Cassandra is still with you,” she remarked. “And did William send
you those lovely flowers?”
Katharine sat down opposite her aunt and said neither yes nor no. She
looked past her, and it might have been thought that she was
considering very critically the pattern of the curtains. Another
advantage of the basement, from Mrs. Milvain’s point of view, was that
it made it necessary to sit very close together, and the light was dim
compared with that which now poured through three windows upon
Katharine and the basket of flowers, and gave even the slight angular
figure of Mrs. Milvain herself a halo of gold.
“They’re from Stogdon House,” said Katharine abruptly, with a little
jerk of her head.
Mrs. Milvain felt that it would be easier to tell her niece what she
wished to say if they were actually in physical contact, for the
spiritual distance between them was formidable. Katharine, however,
made no overtures, and Mrs. Milvain, who was possessed of rash but
heroic courage, plunged without preface:
“People are talking about you, Katharine. That is why I have come this
morning. You forgive me for saying what I’d much rather not say? What I
say is only for your own sake, my child.”
“There’s nothing to forgive yet, Aunt Celia,” said Katharine, with
apparent good humor.
“People are saying that William goes everywhere with you and Cassandra,
and that he is always paying her attentions. At the Markhams’ dance he
sat out five dances with her. At the Zoo they were seen alone together.
They left together. They never came back here till seven in the
evening. But that is not all. They say his manner is very marked—he is
quite different when she is there.”
Mrs. Milvain, whose words had run themselves together, and whose voice
had raised its tone almost to one of protest, here ceased, and looked
intently at Katharine, as if to judge the effect of her communication.
A slight rigidity had passed over Katharine’s face. Her lips were
pressed together; her eyes were contracted, and they were still fixed
upon the curtain. These superficial changes covered an extreme inner
loathing such as might follow the display of some hideous or indecent
spectacle. The indecent spectacle was her own action beheld for the
first time from the outside; her aunt’s words made her realize how
infinitely repulsive the body of life is without its soul.
“Well?” she said at length.
Mrs. Milvain made a gesture as if to bring her closer, but it was not
returned.
“We all know how good you are—how unselfish—how you sacrifice yourself
to others. But you’ve been too unselfish, Katharine. You have made
Cassandra happy, and she has taken advantage of your goodness.”
“I don’t understand, Aunt Celia,” said Katharine. “What has Cassandra
done?”
“Cassandra has behaved in a way that I could not have thought
possible,” said Mrs. Milvain warmly. “She has been utterly
selfish—utterly heartless. I must speak to her before I go.”
“I don’t understand,” Katharine persisted.
Mrs. Milvain looked at her. Was it possible that Katharine really
doubted? That there was something that Mrs. Milvain herself did not
understand? She braced herself, and pronounced the tremendous words:
“Cassandra has stolen William’s love.”
Still the words seemed to have curiously little effect.
“Do you mean,” said Katharine, “that he has fallen in love with her?”
“There are ways of _making_ men fall in love with one, Katharine.”
Katharine remained silent. The silence alarmed Mrs. Milvain, and she
began hurriedly:
“Nothing would have made me say these things but your own good. I have
not wished to interfere; I have not wished to give you pain. I am a
useless old woman. I have no children of my own. I only want to see you
happy, Katharine.”
Again she stretched forth her arms, but they remained empty.
“You are not going to say these things to Cassandra,” said Katharine
suddenly. “You’ve said them to me; that’s enough.”
Katharine spoke so low and with such restraint that Mrs. Milvain had to
strain to catch her words, and when she heard them she was dazed by
them.
“I’ve made you angry! I knew I should!” she exclaimed. She quivered,
and a kind of sob shook her; but even to have made Katharine angry was
some relief, and allowed her to feel some of the agreeable sensations
of martyrdom.
“Yes,” said Katharine, standing up, “I’m so angry that I don’t want to
say anything more. I think you’d better go, Aunt Celia. We don’t
understand each other.”
At these words Mrs. Milvain looked for a moment terribly apprehensive;
she glanced at her niece’s face, but read no pity there, whereupon she
folded her hands upon a black velvet bag which she carried in an
attitude that was almost one of prayer. Whatever divinity she prayed
to, if pray she did, at any rate she recovered her dignity in a
singular way and faced her niece.
“Married love,” she said slowly and with emphasis upon every word, “is
the most sacred of all loves. The love of husband and wife is the most
holy we know. That is the lesson Mamma’s children learnt from her; that
is what they can never forget. I have tried to speak as she would have
wished her daughter to speak. You are her grandchild.”
Katharine seemed to judge this defence upon its merits, and then to
convict it of falsity.
“I don’t see that there is any excuse for your behavior,” she said.
At these words Mrs. Milvain rose and stood for a moment beside her
niece. She had never met with such treatment before, and she did not
know with what weapons to break down the terrible wall of resistance
offered her by one who, by virtue of youth and beauty and sex, should
have been all tears and supplications. But Mrs. Milvain herself was
obstinate; upon a matter of this kind she could not admit that she was
either beaten or mistaken. She beheld herself the champion of married
love in its purity and supremacy; what her niece stood for she was
quite unable to say, but she was filled with the gravest suspicions.
The old woman and the young woman stood side by side in unbroken
silence. Mrs. Milvain could not make up her mind to withdraw while her
principles trembled in the balance and her curiosity remained
unappeased. She ransacked her mind for some question that should force
Katharine to enlighten her, but the supply was limited, the choice
difficult, and while she hesitated the door opened and William Rodney
came in. He carried in his hand an enormous and splendid bunch of white
and purple flowers, and, either not seeing Mrs. Milvain, or
disregarding her, he advanced straight to Katharine, and presented the
flowers with the words:
“These are for you, Katharine.”
Katharine took them with a glance that Mrs. Milvain did not fail to
intercept. But with all her experience, she did not know what to make
of it. She watched anxiously for further illumination. William greeted
her without obvious sign of guilt, and, explaining that he had a
holiday, both he and Katharine seemed to take it for granted that his
holiday should be celebrated with flowers and spent in Cheyne Walk. A
pause followed; that, too, was natural; and Mrs. Milvain began to feel
that she laid herself open to a charge of selfishness if she stayed.
The mere presence of a young man had altered her disposition curiously,
and filled her with a desire for a scene which should end in an
emotional forgiveness. She would have given much to clasp both nephew
and niece in her arms. But she could not flatter herself that any hope
of the customary exaltation remained.
“I must go,” she said, and she was conscious of an extreme flatness of
spirit.
Neither of them said anything to stop her. William politely escorted
her downstairs, and somehow, amongst her protests and embarrassments,
Mrs. Milvain forgot to say good-bye to Katharine. She departed,
murmuring words about masses of flowers and a drawing-room always
beautiful even in the depths of winter.
William came back to Katharine; he found her standing where he had left
her.
“I’ve come to be forgiven,” he said. “Our quarrel was perfectly hateful
to me. I’ve not slept all night. You’re not angry with me, are you,
Katharine?”
She could not bring herself to answer him until she had rid her mind of
the impression that her aunt had made on her. It seemed to her that the
very flowers were contaminated, and Cassandra’s pocket-handkerchief,
for Mrs. Milvain had used them for evidence in her investigations.
“She’s been spying upon us,” she said, “following us about London,
overhearing what people are saying—”
“Mrs. Milvain?” Rodney exclaimed. “What has she told you?”
His air of open confidence entirely vanished.
“Oh, people are saying that you’re in love with Cassandra, and that you
don’t care for me.”
“They have seen us?” he asked.
“Everything we’ve done for a fortnight has been seen.”
“I told you that would happen!” he exclaimed.
He walked to the window in evident perturbation. Katharine was too
indignant to attend to him. She was swept away by the force of her own
anger. Clasping Rodney’s flowers, she stood upright and motionless.