Night and Day
trespass upon it indefinitely. Indeed, had they known it, he was
already suffering from their absence, and longing for their return.
He had no dislike of solitude, and Sunday, in particular, was
pleasantly adapted for letter-writing, paying calls, or a visit to his
club. He was leaving the house on some such suitable expedition towards
tea-time when he found himself stopped on his own doorstep by his
sister, Mrs. Milvain. She should, on hearing that no one was at home,
have withdrawn submissively, but instead she accepted his half-hearted
invitation to come in, and he found himself in the melancholy position
of being forced to order tea for her and sit in the drawing-room while
she drank it. She speedily made it plain that she was only thus
exacting because she had come on a matter of business. He was by no
means exhilarated at the news.
“Katharine is out this afternoon,” he remarked. “Why not come round
later and discuss it with her—with us both, eh?”
“My dear Trevor, I have particular reasons for wishing to talk to you
alone.... Where is Katharine?”
“She’s out with her young man, naturally. Cassandra plays the part of
chaperone very usefully. A charming young woman that—a great favorite
of mine.” He turned his stone between his fingers, and conceived
different methods of leading Celia away from her obsession, which, he
supposed, must have reference to the domestic affairs of Cyril as
usual.
“With Cassandra,” Mrs. Milvain repeated significantly. “With
Cassandra.”
“Yes, with Cassandra,” Mr. Hilbery agreed urbanely, pleased at the
diversion. “I think they said they were going to Hampton Court, and I
rather believe they were taking a protege of mine, Ralph Denham, a very
clever fellow, too, to amuse Cassandra. I thought the arrangement very
suitable.” He was prepared to dwell at some length upon this safe
topic, and trusted that Katharine would come in before he had done with
it.
“Hampton Court always seems to me an ideal spot for engaged couples.
There’s the Maze, there’s a nice place for having tea—I forget what
they call it—and then, if the young man knows his business he contrives
to take his lady upon the river. Full of possibilities—full. Cake,
Celia?” Mr. Hilbery continued. “I respect my dinner too much, but that
can’t possibly apply to you. You’ve never observed that feast, so far
as I can remember.”
Her brother’s affability did not deceive Mrs. Milvain; it slightly
saddened her; she well knew the cause of it. Blind and infatuated as
usual!
“Who is this Mr. Denham?” she asked.
“Ralph Denham?” said Mr. Hilbery, in relief that her mind had taken
this turn. “A very interesting young man. I’ve a great belief in him.
He’s an authority upon our mediaeval institutions, and if he weren’t
forced to earn his living he would write a book that very much wants
writing—”
“He is not well off, then?” Mrs. Milvain interposed.
“Hasn’t a penny, I’m afraid, and a family more or less dependent on
him.”
“A mother and sisters?—His father is dead?”
“Yes, his father died some years ago,” said Mr. Hilbery, who was
prepared to draw upon his imagination, if necessary, to keep Mrs.
Milvain supplied with facts about the private history of Ralph Denham
since, for some inscrutable reason, the subject took her fancy.
“His father has been dead some time, and this young man had to take his
place—”
“A legal family?” Mrs. Milvain inquired. “I fancy I’ve seen the name
somewhere.”
Mr. Hilbery shook his head. “I should be inclined to doubt whether they
were altogether in that walk of life,” he observed. “I fancy that
Denham once told me that his father was a corn merchant. Perhaps he
said a stockbroker. He came to grief, anyhow, as stockbrokers have a
way of doing. I’ve a great respect for Denham,” he added. The remark
sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive, and he was afraid that
there was nothing more to be said about Denham. He examined the tips of
his fingers carefully. “Cassandra’s grown into a very charming young
woman,” he started afresh. “Charming to look at, and charming to talk
to, though her historical knowledge is not altogether profound. Another
cup of tea?”
Mrs. Milvain had given her cup a little push, which seemed to indicate
some momentary displeasure. But she did not want any more tea.
“It is Cassandra that I have come about,” she began. “I am very sorry
to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has
imposed upon your and Maggie’s goodness. She has behaved in a way that
would have seemed incredible—in this house of all houses—were it not
for other circumstances that are still more incredible.”
Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second.
“It all sounds very black,” he remarked urbanely, continuing his
examination of his finger-nails. “But I own I am completely in the
dark.”
Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short
sentences of extreme intensity.
“Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine
gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other
round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at
night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I
understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this
unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra’s conduct.”
There was another slight pause.
“Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me,”
Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably. “It’s a little too complicated for
me to take in all at once, I confess—and, if you won’t think me rude,
Celia, I think I’ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge.”
Mrs. Milvain rose at once.
“She has condoned Cassandra’s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph
Denham,” she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of
one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from
past discussions that the only way to counter her brother’s indolence
and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed
form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she
restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with
the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal.
She had certainly framed her remarks in such a way as to prevent her
brother from paying his call in the region of Knightsbridge. He had no
fears for Katharine, but there was a suspicion at the back of his mind
that Cassandra might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into
some foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations. His
wife was an erratic judge of the conventions; he himself was lazy; and
with Katharine absorbed, very naturally—Here he recalled, as well as he
could, the exact nature of the charge. “She has condoned Cassandra’s
conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham.” From which it
appeared that Katharine was _not_ absorbed, or which of them was it
that had entangled herself with Ralph Denham? From this maze of
absurdity Mr. Hilbery saw no way out until Katharine herself came to
his help, so that he applied himself, very philosophically on the
whole, to a book.
No sooner had he heard the young people come in and go upstairs than he
sent a maid to tell Miss Katharine that he wished to speak to her in
the study. She was slipping furs loosely onto the floor in the
drawing-room in front of the fire. They were all gathered round,
reluctant to part. The message from her father surprised Katharine, and
the others caught from her look, as she turned to go, a vague sense of
apprehension.
Mr. Hilbery was reassured by the sight of her. He congratulated
himself, he prided himself, upon possessing a daughter who had a sense
of responsibility and an understanding of life profound beyond her
years. Moreover, she was looking to-day unusual; he had come to take
her beauty for granted; now he remembered it and was surprised by it.
He thought instinctively that he had interrupted some happy hour of
hers with Rodney, and apologized.
“I’m sorry to bother you, my dear. I heard you come in, and thought I’d
better make myself disagreeable at once—as it seems, unfortunately,
that fathers are expected to make themselves disagreeable. Now, your
Aunt Celia has been to see me; your Aunt Celia has taken it into her
head apparently that you and Cassandra have been—let us say a little
foolish. This going about together—these pleasant little
parties—there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I told her I saw no
harm in it, but I should just like to hear from yourself. Has Cassandra
been left a little too much in the company of Mr. Denham?”
Katharine did not reply at once, and Mr. Hilbery tapped the coal
encouragingly with the poker. Then she said, without embarrassment or
apology:
“I don’t see why I should answer Aunt Celia’s questions. I’ve told her
already that I won’t.”
Mr. Hilbery was relieved and secretly amused at the thought of the
interview, although he could not license such irreverence outwardly.
“Very good. Then you authorize me to tell her that she’s been mistaken,
and there was nothing but a little fun in it? You’ve no doubt,
Katharine, in your own mind? Cassandra is in our charge, and I don’t
intend that people should gossip about her. I suggest that you should
be a little more careful in future. Invite me to your next
entertainment.”
She did not respond, as he had hoped, with any affectionate or humorous
reply. She meditated, pondering something or other, and he reflected
that even his Katharine did not differ from other women in the capacity
to let things be. Or had she something to say?
“Have you a guilty conscience?” he inquired lightly. “Tell me,
Katharine,” he said more seriously, struck by something in the
expression of her eyes.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you for some time,” she said, “I’m not going
to marry William.”
“You’re not going—!” he exclaimed, dropping the poker in his immense
surprise. “Why? When? Explain yourself, Katharine.”
“Oh, some time ago—a week, perhaps more.” Katharine spoke hurriedly and
indifferently, as if the matter could no longer concern any one.
“But may I ask—why have I not been told of this—what do you mean by
it?”
“We don’t wish to be married—that’s all.”
“This is William’s wish as well as yours?”
“Oh, yes. We agree perfectly.”
Mr. Hilbery had seldom felt more completely at a loss. He thought that
Katharine was treating the matter with curious unconcern; she scarcely
seemed aware of the gravity of what she was saying; he did not
understand the position at all. But his desire to smooth everything
over comfortably came to his relief. No doubt there was some quarrel,
some whimsey on the part of William, who, though a good fellow, was a
little exacting sometimes—something that a woman could put right. But
though he inclined to take the easiest view of his responsibilities, he
cared too much for this daughter to let things be.
“I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I should like to
hear William’s side of the story,” he said irritably. “I think he ought
to have spoken to me in the first instance.”
“I wouldn’t let him,” said Katharine. “I know it must seem to you very
strange,” she added. “But I assure you, if you’d wait a little—until
mother comes back.”
This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery’s liking. But his
conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not
endure that his daughter’s conduct should be in any way considered
irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be
better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid
William the house, to pack Cassandra off home—for he was vaguely
conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was