Night and Day

anybody’s fault.’

Katharine had listened to this attempt at analysis with keen attention. Cassandra’s words seemed to rub the old blurred image of life and freshen it so marvellously that it looked new again. She turned to William.

‘It’s quite true,’ she said. ‘It was nobody’s fault.’

‘There are many things that he’ll always come to you for,’ Cassandra continued, still reading from her invisible book. ‘I accept that, Katharine. I shall never dispute it. I want to be generous as you’ve been generous. But being in love makes it more difficult for me.’

They were silent. At length William broke the silence.

‘One thing I beg of you both,’ he said, and the old nervousness of manner returned as he glanced at Katharine. ‘We will never discuss these matters again. It’s not that I’m timid and conventional, as you think, Katharine. It’s that it spoils things to discuss them; it unsettles people’s minds; and now we’re all so happy—’

Cassandra ratified this conclusion so far as she was concerned, and William, after receiving the exquisite pleasure of her glance, with its absolute affection and trust, looked anxiously at Katharine.

‘Yes, I’m happy,’ she assured him. And I agree. We will never talk about it again.’

‘Oh, Katharine, Katharine!’ Cassandra cried, holding out her arms while the tears ran down her cheeks.

CHAPTER XXX

THE DAY WAS so different from other days to three people in the house that the common routine of household life—the maid waiting at table, Mrs Hilbery writing a letter, the clock striking, and the door opening, and all the other signs of long-established civilization appeared suddenly to have no meaning save as they lulled Mr and Mrs Hilbery into the belief that nothing unusual had taken place. It chanced that Mrs Hilbery was depressed without visible cause, unless a certain crudeness verging upon coarseness in the temper of her favourite Elizabethans could be held responsible for the mood. At any rate, she had shut up ‘The Duchess of Malfi’ with a sigh, and wished to know, so she told Rodney at dinner, whether there wasn’t some young writer with a touch of the great spirit— somebody who made you believe that life was beautiful? She got little help from Rodney, and after singing her plaintive requiem for the death of poetry by herself, she charmed herself into good spirits again by remembering the existence of Mozart. She begged Cassandra to play to her, and when they went upstairs Cassandra opened the piano directly, and did her best to create an atmosphere of unmixed beauty. At the sound of the first notes Katharine and Rodney both felt an enormous sense of relief at the licence which the music gave them to loosen their hold upon the mechanism of behaviour. They lapsed into the depths of thought. Mrs Hilbery was soon spirited away into a perfectly congenial mood, that was half reverie and half slumber, half delicious melancholy and half pure bliss. Mr Hilbery alone attended. He was extremely musical, and made Cassandra aware that he listened to every note. She played her best, and won his approval. Leaning slightly forward in his chair, and turning his little green stone, he weighed the intention of her phrases approvingly, but stopped her suddenly to complain of a noise behind him. The window was unhasped. He signed to Rodney, who crossed the room immediately to put the matter right. He stayed a moment longer by the window than was, perhaps, necessary, and having done what was needed, drew his chair a little closer than before to Katharine’s side. The music went on. Under cover of some exquisite run of melody, he leant towards her and whispered something. She glanced at her father and mother, and a moment later left the room, almost unobserved, with Rodney.

‘What is it?’ she asked, as soon as the door was shut.

Rodney made no answer, but led her downstairs into the dining-room on the ground floor. Even when he had shut the door he said nothing, but went straight to the window and parted the curtains. He beckoned to Katharine.

‘There he is again,’ he said. ‘Look, there—under the lamp-post.’

Katharine looked. She had no idea what Rodney was talking about. A vague feeling of alarm and mystery possessed her. She saw a man standing on the opposite side of the road facing the house beneath a lamp-post. As they looked the figure turned, walked a few steps, and came back again to his old position. It seemed to her that he was looking fixedly at her, and was conscious of her gaze on him. She knew, in a flash, who the man was who was watching them. She drew the curtain abruptly.

‘Denham,’ said Rodney. ‘He was there last night too.’ He spoke sternly. His whole manner had become full of authority. Katharine felt almost as if he accused her of some crime. She was pale and uncomfortably agitated, as much by the strangeness of Rodney’s behaviour as by the sight of Ralph Denham.

‘If he chooses to come—’ she said defiantly.

‘You can’t let him wait out there. I shall tell him to come in.’ Rodney spoke with such decision that when he raised his arm Katharine expected him to draw the curtain instantly. She caught his hand with a little exclamation.

‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘I don’t allow you.’

‘You can’t wait,’ he replied. ‘You’ve gone too far.’ His hand remained upon the curtain. ‘Why don’t you admit, Katharine,’ he broke out, looking at her with an expression of contempt as well as of anger, ‘that you love him? Are you going to treat him as you treated me?’

She looked at him, wondering, in spite of all her perplexity, at the spirit that possessed him.

‘I forbid you to draw the curtain,’ she said.

He reflected, and then took his hand away.

‘I’ve no right to interfere,’ he concluded. ‘I’ll leave you. Or, if you like, we’ll go back to the drawing-room.’

‘No. I can’t go back,’ she said, shaking her head. She bent her head in thought.

‘You love him, Katharine,’ Rodney said suddenly. His tone had lost something of its sternness, and might have been used to urge a child to confess its fault. She raised her eyes and fixed them upon him.

‘I love him?’ she repeated. He nodded. She searched his face, as if for further confirmation of his words, and, as he remained silent and expectant, turned away once more and continued her thoughts. He observed her closely, but without stirring, as if he gave her time to make up her mind to fulfil her obvious duty. The strains of Mozart reached them from the room above.