‘She charmed me,’ Rodney continued. ‘I thought I loved her. But that’s a thing of the past. It’s all over, Katharine. It was a dream—an hallucination. We were both equally to blame, but no harm’s done if you believe how truly I care for you. Say you believe me!’
He stood over her, as if in readiness to seize the first sign of her assent. Precisely at that moment, owing, perhaps, to her vicissitudes of feeling, all sense of love left her, as in a moment a mist lifts from the earth. And when the mist departed a skeleton world and blankness alone remained—a terrible prospect for the eyes of the living to behold. He saw the look of terror in her face, and without understanding its origin, took her hand in his. With the sense of companionship returned a desire, like that of a child for shelter, to accept what he had to offer her—and at that moment it seemed that he offered her the only thing that could make it tolerable to live. She let him press his lips to her cheek, and leant her head upon his arm. It was the moment of his triumph. It was the only moment in which she belonged to him and was dependent upon his protection.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he murmured, ‘you accept me, Katharine. You love me.’
For a moment she remained silent. He then heard her murmur:
‘Cassandra loves you more than I do.’
‘Cassandra?’ he whispered.
‘She loves you,’ Katharine repeated. She raised herself and repeated the sentence yet a third time. ‘She loves you.’
William slowly raised himself. He believed instinctively what Katharine said, but what it meant to him he was unable to understand. Could Cassandra love him? Could she have told Katharine that she loved him? The desire to know the truth of this was urgent, unknown though the consequences might be. The thrill of excitement associated with the thought of Cassandra once more took possession of him. No longer was it the excitement of anticipation and ignorance; it was the excitement of something greater than a possibility, for now he knew her and had measure of the sympathy between them. But who could give him certainty? Could Katharine, Katharine who had lately lain in his arms, Katharine herself the most admired of women? He looked at her, with doubt, and with anxiety, but said nothing.
‘Yes, yes,’ she said, interpreting his wish for assurance, ‘it’s true. I know what she feels for you.’
‘She loves me?’
Katharine nodded.
‘Ah, but who knows what I feel? How can I be sure of my feeling myself? Ten minutes ago I asked you to marry me. I still wish it—I don’t know what I wish—’
He clenched his hands and turned away. He suddenly faced her and demanded: ‘Tell me what you feel for Denham.’
‘For Ralph Denham?’ she asked. ‘Yes!’ she exclaimed, as if she had found the answer to some momentarily perplexing question. ‘You’re jealous of me, William; but you’re not in love with me. I’m jealous of you. Therefore, for both our sakes, I say, speak to Cassandra at once.’
He tried to compose himself. He walked up and down the room; he paused at the window and surveyed the flowers strewn upon the floor. Meanwhile his desire to have Katharine’s assurance confirmed became so insistent that he could no longer deny the overmastering strength of his feeling for Cassandra.
‘You’re right,’ he exclaimed, coming to a standstill and rapping his knuckles sharply upon a small table carrying one slender vase. ‘I love Cassandra.’
As he said this, the curtains hanging at the door of the little room parted, and Cassandra herself stepped forth.
‘I have overheard every word!’ she exclaimed.
A pause succeeded this announcement. Rodney made a step forward and said:
‘Then you know what I wish to ask you. Give me your answer—’
She put her hands before her face; she turned away and seemed to shrink from both of them.
‘What Katharine said,’ she murmured. ‘But,’ she added, raising her head with a look of fear from the kiss with which he greeted her admission, ‘how frightfully difficult it all is! Our feelings, I mean—yours and mine and Katharine’s. Katharine, tell me, are we doing right?’
‘Right—of course we’re doing right,’ William answered her, ‘if, after what you’ve heard, you can marry a man of such incomprehensible confusion, such deplorable—’
‘Don’t, William,’ Katharine interposed; ‘Cassandra has heard us; she can judge what we are; she knows better than we could tell her.’
But, still holding William’s hand, questions and desires welled up in Cassandra’s heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celia blame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William really love her, for ever and ever, better than any one?
‘I must be first with him, Katharine!’ she exclaimed. ‘I can’t share him even with you.’
‘I shall never ask that,’ said Katharine. She moved a little away from where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers.
‘But you’ve shared with me,’ Cassandra said. ‘Why can’t I share with you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,’ she added. ‘We understand each other, William and I. You’ve never understood each other. You’re too different.’
‘I’ve never admired anybody more,’ William interposed.
‘It’s not that’—Cassandra tried to enlighten him—‘it’s understanding.’
‘Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?’
‘Yes,’ Cassandra interposed. ‘You’ve asked her for sympathy, and she’s not sympathetic; you’ve wanted her to be practical, and she’s not practical. You’ve been selfish; you’ve been exacting—and so has Katharine—but it wasn’t
