“No, but she thinks if they bothseeone another—at any rate she’s going to try.”
“Now?”
“Yes. In a few minutes. I’ll go up and just tell Mother that there’s a caller in the drawing-room. Then leave them alone together—”
Millie sighed. “It would be too lovely for anything if it really happened. But it won’t—it can’t. Mother’s extraordinary. I don’t believe she ever loved Katie at all, at least only as an idea. She’llneverforgive her—never—and she’ll always hate Philip.”
“How’s Grandfather?”
“Very bad. He says hewillcome down to-night, although it’ll probably kill him. However, now they’ve arranged that his presents shall be in the little drawing-room upstairs. Then he won’t have so far to go. He’s awfully bad, really, and he’s as hard about Katie as Mother is. He won’t have her name mentioned. It’s simply,Ibelieve, that it’s terrible to him to think that she could love Philip better than him!”
“And how’s everyone else?”
“Oh, well, it’s all right, I suppose. But it isn’t very nice. I’m going off to live with Miss Emberley as soon as they’ll let me. Aunt Aggie’s beenawful. And then one day she went suddenly to see Katie, and Mother found out somehow. Mother never said anything, but Aunt Aggie’s going to take a flat by herself somewhere. And since that she’s been nicer than I’ve ever known her. Quite soft and good-tempered.”
“Does Mother know that we all go to see Katie?”
“Sometimes I think she does—sometimes that she doesn’t. She never says a word. She seems to think of nothing but improving the place now. She must be very lonely, but she doesn’t show anyone anything. All the same it’s impossible without Katie—I—”
At that moment the bell of the hall-door rang. They stood silently there listening.
For a moment they stared at one another, like conspirators caught in the act of their conspiracy. The colour flooded their cheeks; their hearts beat furiously. Here and now was Drama.
They heard Rocket’s footstep, the opening door, Katherine’s voice. They fled from the room before they could be seen.
Katherine, when she stood alone in the room in whose life and intimacy she had shared for so many years, stared about her as though she had been a stranger. There was a change; in the first place there was now her own room, made for her and for Philip, that absorbed her mind; in comparison with it this room, that had always appeared to her comfortable, consoling, protective, was now old-fashioned and a little shabby. There were too many things scattered about, old things, neither beautiful nor useful. Then the place itself did not seem to care for her as it had once done. She was a visitor now, and the house knew it. Their mutual intimacy had ceased.
But she could not waste many thoughts upon the room. This approaching interview with her mother seemed to her the supreme moment of her life. There had been other supreme moments during the past year, and she did not realise that she was now better able to deal with them than she had once been. Nevertheless her mothermustforgive her. She would not leave the house until she had been forgiven. She was hopeful. The success of her marriage had given her much self-confidence. The way that the family had, one after another, come to see her (yes, even Aunt Aggie) had immensely reassured her. Her mother was proud; she needed that submission should be made to her.
Katherine was here to make it. Her heart beat thickly with love and the anticipated reconciliation.
She went, as she had done so many, many times, to the Mirror over the fireplace to tidy herself. Why! the Mirror was not there! Of course not—that was why the room seemed so changed. She looked around her, smiled a little. A fine girl, anyone seeing her there would have thought her. Marriage had given her an assurance, a self-reliance. She had shrunk back before because she had been afraid of what life would be. Now, when it seemed to her that she had penetrated into the very darkest fastnesses of its secrets, when she felt that nothing in the future could surprise her ever again, she shrank back no longer.
Her clothes were better than in the old days, but even now they did not fit her very perfectly. She was still, in her heart, exactly the same rather grave, rather slow, very loving Katherine. She would be stout in later years; there were already little dimples in her cheeks. Her eyes were soft and mild, as they had ever been.
The door opened, and Mrs. Trenchard entered.
She had expected some caller, and she came forward a few steps with the smile of the hostess upon her lips. Then she saw her daughter, and stopped.
Katherine had risen, and stood facing her mother. With a swift consternation, as though someone had shouted some terrifying news into her ear, she realised that her mother was a stranger to her. She had imagined many, many times what this interview would be. She had often considered the things that she would say and the very words in which she would arrange her sentences. But always in her thoughts she had had a certain picture of her mother before her. She had seen an old woman, old as she had been on that night when she had slept in Katherine’s arms, old as she had been at that moment when Katherine had first told her of her engagement to Philip. And now she thought this old woman would face her, maintaining her pride but nevertheless ready, after the separation of these weeks, to break down before the vision of Katherine’s own submission.
Katherine had always thought: “Dear Mother. Wemusthave one another. She’ll feel that now. She’ll see that I’m exactly the same....”
How different from her dreams was this figure. Her mother seemed to-day younger than Katherine had ever known her. She stood there, tall, stern, straight, the solidity of her body impenetrable, inaccessible to all tenderness, scornful of all embraces. She was young, yes, and stronger.
At the first sight of Katherine she had moved back as though she would leave the room. Then she stayed by the door. She was perfectly composed.
“Why have you come?” she said.
At the cold indifference of that voice Katherine felt a little pulse of anger beat, far away, in the very heart of her tenderness.
She moved forward with a little gesture.
“Mother, I had to come. It’s Grandfather’s birthday. I couldn’t believe that after all these weeks you wouldn’t be willing to see me.”
She stopped. Her mother said nothing.
Katherine came nearer. “I’m sorry—terribly sorry—if I did what hurt you. I felt at the time that it was the only thing to do. Phil was so miserable, and I know that it was all for my sake. It wasn’t fair to let him go on like that when I could prevent it. You didn’t understand him. He didn’t understand you. But never, for a single instant, did my love for you change. It never has. It never will. Mother dear, you believe that—youmustbelieve that.”
Did Mrs. Trenchard have then for a moment a vision of the things that she might still do with life? With her eyes, during these weeks, she had seen not Katherine but her own determination to vindicate her stability, the stability of all her standards, against every attack. They said that the world was changing. She at least could show them that she would not change. Even though, in her own house, that revolution had occurred about which she had been warned, she would show them that she remained, through it all, stable, unconquered.
Katherine had gone over to the enemy. Well, she would fasten her life to some other anchor then. It should be as though Katherine and Katherine’s love had never existed. There was offered her now her last chance. One word and she would be part of the new world. One word....
She may for an instant have had her vision. The moment passed. She saw only her own determined invincibility.
“You had your choice, Katherine,” she said. “You made it. You broke your word to us. You left us without justification. You have killed your Grandfather. You have shown that our love and care for you during all these years has gone for nothing at all.”
Katherine flushed. “I have not shown that—I....” She looked as though she would cry. Her lips trembled. She struggled to compose her voice—then at last went on firmly:
“Mother—perhaps I was wrong. I didn’t know what I did. It wasn’t for myself—it was for Philip. It isn’t true that I didn’t think of you all. Mother, let me see Grandfather—only for a moment. He will forgive me. I know—I know.”
“He has forbidden us to mention your name to him.”
“But if he sees me—”
“He is resolved never to see you again.”
“But what did I do? If I speak to him, if I kiss him—I must go to him. It’s his birthday. I’ve got a present—”
“He is too ill to see you.” This perhaps had moved her, because she went on swiftly: “Katherine, what is the use of this? It hurts both of us. It can do no good. You acted as you thought right. It seemed to show me that you had no care for me after all these years. It shook all my confidence. That can never be between us again, and I could not, I think, in any way follow your new life. I could never forget, and you have now friends and interests that must exclude me. If we meet what can we have now in common? If I had loved you less, perhaps it would be possible, but as it is—no.”
Katherine had dried her tears.
They looked at one another. Katherine bowed her head. She had still to bite her lips that she might not cry, but she looked very proud.
“Perhaps,” she said, very softly, “that one day you will want—you will feel—At least I shall not change. I will come whenever you want me. I will always care the same. One day I will come back, Mother dear.”
Her mother said only:
“It is better that we should not meet.”
Katherine walked to the door. As she passed her mother she looked at her. Her eyes made one last prayer—then they were veiled.
She left the house.
A quarter of an hour later Henry came into the room, and found his Mother seated at her desk, plans and papers in front of her. He could hear her saying to herself:
“Fifteen—by fourteen.... The rockerythere—Five steps, then the door.... Fifteen pounds four shillings and sixpence....”
Katherine was not there. He knew that she had been rejected. His mother showed no signs of discomposure. Their interview must have been very short.
He went to the window and stood there, looking out. In a moment Rocket would come and draw the blinds. Rundle Square swam in the last golden light.
Tiny flakes of colour spun across the pale blue that was almost white. They seemed to whirl before Henry’s eyes.
He was sorry, terribly sorry, that Katherine had failed, but he was filled to-day with a triumphant sense of the glory and promise of life. He had been liberated, and Katherine had been liberated. Freedom, with its assurances for all the world, flamed across the darkening skies. Life seemed endless: its beckoning drama called to him. The anticipation of the glory of life caught him by the throat so that he could scarcely breathe....
At that moment in the upstairs room old Mr. Trenchard, suddenly struggling for breath, tried to call out, failed, fell back, on to his pillow, dead.
THE END
Books byHUGH WALPOLE
NOVELSTHE WOODEN HORSETHE GODS AND MR. PERRINTHE DARK FORESTTHE SECRET CITYTHE CATHEDRAL
NOVELSTHE WOODEN HORSETHE GODS AND MR. PERRINTHE DARK FORESTTHE SECRET CITYTHE CATHEDRAL
NOVELS
THE WOODEN HORSE
THE GODS AND MR. PERRIN
THE DARK FOREST
THE SECRET CITY
THE CATHEDRAL
The London NovelsFORTITUDETHE DUCHESS OF WREXETHE GREEK MIRRORTHE CAPTIVESTHE YOUNG ENCHANTED
The London NovelsFORTITUDETHE DUCHESS OF WREXETHE GREEK MIRRORTHE CAPTIVESTHE YOUNG ENCHANTED
The London Novels
FORTITUDE
THE DUCHESS OF WREXE
THE GREEK MIRROR
THE CAPTIVES
THE YOUNG ENCHANTED
PhantasiesMARADICK AT FORTYTHE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE
PhantasiesMARADICK AT FORTYTHE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE
Phantasies
MARADICK AT FORTY
THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE
BOOKS ABOUT CHILDRENTHE GOLDEN SCARECROWJEREMYJEREMY AND HAMLET
BOOKS ABOUT CHILDRENTHE GOLDEN SCARECROWJEREMYJEREMY AND HAMLET
BOOKS ABOUT CHILDREN
THE GOLDEN SCARECROW
JEREMY
JEREMY AND HAMLET
BELLES-LETTRESJOSEPH CONRAD: A CRITICAL STUDY
BELLES-LETTRESJOSEPH CONRAD: A CRITICAL STUDY
BELLES-LETTRES
JOSEPH CONRAD: A CRITICAL STUDY