a smile.
“Oh, things happen. That’s about all,” she let drop in
her casual, decided way.
“That certainly seems to explain some of your actions,”
Henry thought to himself.
“One thing’s about as good as another, and one’s got to
do something,” he said aloud, expressing what he supposed
to be her attitude, much in her accent. Perhaps
she detected the imitation, for looking gently at him,
she said, with ironical composure:
“Well, if you believe that your life must be simple,
Henry.”
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“But I don’t believe it,” he said shortly.
“No more do I,” she replied.
“What about the stars?” he asked a moment later. “I
understand that you rule your life by the stars?”
She let this pass, either because she did not attend to
it, or because the tone was not to her liking.
Once more she paused, and then she inquired:
“But do you always understand why you do everything?
Ought one to understand? People like my mother understand,”
she reflected. “Now I must go down to them, I
suppose, and see what’s happening.”
“What could be happening?” Henry protested.
“Oh, they may want to settle something,” she replied
vaguely, putting her feet on the ground, resting her chin
on her hands, and looking out of her large dark eyes
contemplatively at the fire.
“And then there’s William,” she added, as if by an afterthought.
Henry very nearly laughed, but restrained himself.
“Do they know what coals are made of, Henry?” she
asked, a moment later.
“Mares’ tails, I believe,” he hazarded.
“Have you ever been down a coal-mine?” she went on.
“Don’t let’s talk about coal-mines, Katharine,” he pro
tested. “We shall probably never see each other again.
When you’re married—”
Tremendously to his surprise, he saw the tears stand in
her eyes.
“Why do you all tease me?” she said. “It isn’t kind.”
Henry could not pretend that he was altogether igno
rant of her meaning, though, certainly, he had never
guessed that she minded the teasing. But before he knew
what to say, her eyes were clear again, and the sudden
crack in the surface was almost filled up.
“Things aren’t easy, anyhow,” she stated.
Obeying an impulse of genuine affection, Henry spoke.
“Promise me, Katharine, that if I can ever help you,
you will let me.”
She seemed to consider, looking once more into the red
of the fire, and decided to refrain from any explanation.
“Yes, I promise that,” she said at length, and Henry felt
himself gratified by her complete sincerity, and began to
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tell her now about the coal-mine, in obedience to her
love of facts.
They were, indeed, descending the shaft in a small cage,
and could hear the picks of the miners, something like
the gnawing of rats, in the earth beneath them, when
the door was burst open, without any knocking.
“Well, here you are!” Rodney exclaimed. Both Katharine
and Henry turned round very quickly and rather guiltily.
Rodney was in evening dress. It was clear that his temper
was ruffled.
“That’s where you’ve been all the time,” he repeated,
looking at Katharine.
“I’ve only been here about ten minutes,” she replied.
“My dear Katharine, you left the drawing-room over an
hour ago.”
She said nothing.
“Does it very much matter?” Henry asked.
Rodney found it hard to be unreasonable in the presence
of another man, and did not answer him.
“They don’t like it,” he said. “It isn’t kind to old people
to leave them alone—although I’ve no doubt it’s much
more amusing to sit up here and talk to Henry.”
“We were discussing coal-mines,” said Henry urbanely.
“Yes. But we were talking about much more interesting
things before that,” said Katharine.
From the apparent determination to hurt him with which
she spoke, Henry thought that some sort of explosion on
Rodney’s part was about to take place.
“I can quite understand that,” said Rodney, with his
little chuckle, leaning over the back of his chair and tapping
the woodwork lightly with his fingers. They were all
silent, and the silence was acutely uncomfortable to Henry,
at least.
“Was it very dull, William?” Katharine suddenly asked,
with a complete change of tone and a little gesture of
her hand.
“Of course it was dull,” William said sulkily.
“Well, you stay and talk to Henry, and I’ll go down,”
she replied.
She rose as she spoke, and as she turned to leave the
room, she laid her hand, with a curiously caressing gesture,
upon Rodney’s shoulder. Instantly Rodney clasped
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her hand in his, with such an impulse of emotion that
Henry was annoyed, and rather ostentatiously opened a
book.
“I shall come down with you,” said William, as she drew
back her hand, and made as if to pass him.
“Oh no,” she said hastily. “You stay here and talk to
Henry.”
“Yes, do,” said Henry, shutting up his book again. His
invitation was polite, without being precisely cordial.
Rodney evidently hesitated as to the course he should
pursue, but seeing Katharine at the door, he exclaimed:
“No. I want to come with you.”
She looked back, and said in a very commanding tone,
and with an expression of authority upon her face:
“It’s useless for you to come. I shall go to bed in ten
minutes. Good night.”
She nodded to them both, but Henry could not help
noticing that her last nod was in his direction. Rodney
sat down rather heavily.
His mortification was so obvious that Henry scarcely
liked to open the conversation with some remark of a
literary character. On the other hand, unless he checked
him, Rodney might begin to talk about his feelings, and
irreticence is apt to be extremely painful, at any rate in
prospect. He therefore adopted a middle course; that is
to say, he wrote a note upon the fly-leaf of his book,
which ran, “The situation is becoming most uncomfortable.”
This he decorated with those flourishes and decorative
borders which grow of themselves upon these occasions;
and as he did so, he thought to himself that
whatever Katharine’s difficulties might be, they did not
justify her behavior. She had spoken with a kind of brutality
which suggested that, whether it is natural or assumed,
women have a peculiar blindness to the feelings
of men.
The penciling of this note gave Rodney time to recover
himself. Perhaps, for he was a very vain man, he was
more hurt that Henry had seen him rebuffed than by the
rebuff itself. He was in love with Katharine, and vanity is
not decreased but increased by love; especially, one may
hazard, in the presence of one’s own sex. But Rodney
enjoyed the courage which springs from that laughable
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and lovable defect, and when he had mastered his first
impulse, in some way to make a fool of himself, he drew
inspiration from the perfect fit of his evening dress. He
chose a cigarette, tapped it on the back of his hand,
displayed his exquisite pumps on the edge of the fender,
and summoned his self-respect.
“You’ve several big estates round here, Otway,” he began.
“Any good hunting? Let me see, what pack would it
be? Who’s your great man?”
“Sir William Budge, the sugar king, has the biggest estate.
He bought out poor Stanham, who went bankrupt.”
“Which Stanham would that be? Verney or Alfred?”
“Alfred… . I don’t hunt myself. You’re a great huntsman,
aren’t you? You have a great reputation as a horseman,
anyhow,” he added, desiring to help Rodney in his
effort to recover his complacency.
“Oh, I love riding,” Rodney replied. “Could I get a horse
down here? Stupid of me! I forgot to bring any clothes. I can’t
imagine, though, who told you I was anything of a rider?”
To tell the truth, Henry labored under the same difficulty;
he did not wish to introduce Katharine’s name, and,
therefore, he replied vaguely that he had always heard
that Rodney was a great rider. In truth, he had heard
very little about him, one way or another, accepting him
as a figure often to be found in the background at his
aunt’s house, and inevitably, though inexplicably, engaged
to his cousin.
“I don’t care much for shooting,” Rodney continued;
“but one has to do it, unless one wants to be altogether
out of things. I dare say there’s some very pretty country
round here. I stayed once at Bolham Hall. Young
Cranthorpe was up with you, wasn’t he? He married old
Lord Bolham’s daughter. Very nice people—in their way.”
“I don’t mix in that society,” Henry remarked, rather
shortly. But Rodney, now started on an agreeable current
of reflection, could not resist the temptation of pursuing
it a little further. He appeared to himself as a man who
moved easily in very good society, and knew enough about
the true values of life to be himself above it.
“Oh, but you should,” he went on. “It’s well worth staying
there, anyhow, once a year. They make one very comfortable,
and the women are ravishing.”
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“The women?” Henry thought to himself, with disgust.
“What could any woman see in you?” His tolerance was
rapidly becoming exhausted, but he could not help liking
Rodney nevertheless, and this appeared to him strange,
for he was fastidious, and such words in another mouth
would have condemned the speaker irreparably. He began,
in short, to wonder what kind of creature this man
who was to marry his cousin might be. Could any one,
except a rather singular character, afford to be so ridiculously
vain?
“I don’t think I should get on in that society,” he replied.
“I don’t think I should know what to say to Lady
Rose if I met her.”
“I don’t find any difficulty,” Rodney chuckled. “You talk
to them about their children, if they have any, or their
accomplishments—painting, gardening, poetry—they’re
so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, you know I think a
woman’s opinion of one’s poetry is always worth having.
Don’t ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their
feelings. Katharine, for example—”
“Katharine,” said Henry, with an emphasis upon the
name, almost as if he resented Rodney’s use of it,
“Katharine is very unlike most women.”
“Quite,” Rodney agreed. “She is—” He seemed about
to describe her, and he hesitated for a long time. “She’s
looking very well,” he stated, or rather almost inquired,
in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking.
Henry bent his head.
“But, as a family, you’re given to moods, eh?”
“Not Katharine,” said Henry, with decision.
“Not Katharine,” Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the
meaning of the words. “No, perhaps you’re right. But her
engagement has changed her. Naturally,” he added, “one
would expect that to be so.” He waited for Henry to confirm
this statement, but Henry remained silent.
“Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways,” he
continued. “I expect that marriage will be good for her.
She has great powers.”
“Great,” said Henry, with decision.
“Yes—but now what direction d’you think they take?”
Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of
the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in
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a difficulty.
“I don’t know,” Henry hesitated cautiously.
“D’you think children—a household—that sort of
thing—d’you think that’ll satisfy her? Mind, I’m out all
day.”
“She would certainly be very competent,” Henry stated.
“Oh, she’s wonderfully competent,” said Rodney. “But—
I get absorbed in my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn’t got
that. She admires my poetry, you know, but that wouldn’t
be enough for her?”
“No,” said Henry. He paused. “I think you’re right,” he
added, as if he were summing up his thoughts. “Katharine
hasn’t found herself yet. Life isn’t altogether real to her
yet—I sometimes think—”
“Yes?” Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry
to continue. “That is what I—” he was going on, as Henry
remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for
the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry’s
younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry’s relief, for he
had already said more than he liked.
CHAPTER XVII
When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness
that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded
and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and
its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service
under the Government of India with a pension that was
not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly
was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had
not come up to his expectations, and although he was a
very fine, white-whiskered, mahogany-colored old man
to look at, and had laid down a very choice cellar of good
reading and good stories, you could not long remain ignorant
of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured
them; he had a grievance. This grievance dated back to
the middle years of the last century, when, owing to some
official intrigue, his merits had been passed over in a
disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior.
The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they
had some existence in fact, were no longer clearly known
to his wife and children; but this disappointment had
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played a very large part in their lives, and had poisoned
the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is
said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding
on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement
of his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of
an egoist, and in his retirement his temper became increasingly
difficult and exacting.
His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods
that she was practically useless to him. He made his
daughter Eleanor into his chief confidante, and the prime
