oblongs of the windows; in their movements they were
beautiful; and in their speech he figured a reserve of
meaning, unspoken, but understood. At length, after all
this half-conscious selection and arrangement, he allowed
himself to approach the figure of Katharine herself; and
instantly the scene was flooded with excitement. He did
not see her in the body; he seemed curiously to see her
as a shape of light, the light itself; he seemed, simplified
and exhausted as he was, to be like one of those lost
birds fascinated by the lighthouse and held to the glass
by the splendor of the blaze.
These thoughts drove him to tramp a beat up and down
the pavement before the Hilberys’ gate. He did not trouble
himself to make any plans for the future. Something of
an unknown kind would decide both the coming year and
the coming hour. Now and again, in his vigil, he sought
the light in the long windows, or glanced at the ray which
gilded a few leaves and a few blades of grass in the little
garden. For a long time the light burnt without changing.
He had just reached the limit of his beat and was
turning, when the front door opened, and the aspect of
the house was entirely changed. A black figure came down
the little pathway and paused at the gate. Denham understood
instantly that it was Rodney. Without hesitation,
and conscious only of a great friendliness for any
one coming from that lighted room, he walked straight
up to him and stopped him. In the flurry of the wind
Rodney was taken aback, and for the moment tried to
press on, muttering something, as if he suspected a demand
upon his charity.
“Goodness, Denham, what are you doing here?” he ex
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claimed, recognizing him.
Ralph mumbled something about being on his way home.
They walked on together, though Rodney walked quick
enough to make it plain that he had no wish for company.
He was very unhappy. That afternoon Cassandra had
repulsed him; he had tried to explain to her the difficulties
of the situation, and to suggest the nature of his
feelings for her without saying anything definite or anything
offensive to her. But he had lost his head; under
the goad of Katharine’s ridicule he had said too much,
and Cassandra, superb in her dignity and severity, had
refused to hear another word, and threatened an immediate
return to her home. His agitation, after an evening
spent between the two women, was extreme. Moreover,
he could not help suspecting that Ralph was wandering
near the Hilberys’ house, at this hour, for reasons connected
with Katharine. There was probably some understanding
between them—not that anything of the kind
mattered to him now. He was convinced that he had never
cared for any one save Cassandra, and Katharine’s future
was no concern of his. Aloud, he said, shortly, that he
was very tired and wished to find a cab. But on Sunday
night, on the Embankment, cabs were hard to come by,
and Rodney found himself constrained to walk some distance,
at any rate, in Denham’s company. Denham maintained
his silence. Rodney’s irritation lapsed. He found
the silence oddly suggestive of the good masculine qualities
which he much respected, and had at this moment
great reason to need. After the mystery, difficulty, and
uncertainty of dealing with the other sex, intercourse
with one’s own is apt to have a composing and even
ennobling influence, since plain speaking is possible and
subterfuges of no avail. Rodney, too, was much in need
of a confidant; Katharine, despite her promises of help,
had failed him at the critical moment; she had gone off
with Denham; she was, perhaps, tormenting Denham as
she had tormented him. How grave and stable he seemed,
speaking little, and walking firmly, compared with what
Rodney knew of his own torments and indecisions! He
began to cast about for some way of telling the story of
his relations with Katharine and Cassandra that would
not lower him in Denham’s eyes. It then occurred to him
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Night and Day
that, perhaps, Katharine herself had confided in Denham;
they had something in common; it was likely that they
had discussed him that very afternoon. The desire to discover
what they had said of him now came uppermost in
his mind. He recalled Katharine’s laugh; he remembered
that she had gone, laughing, to walk with Denham.
“Did you stay long after we’d left?” he asked abruptly.
“No. We went back to my house.”
This seemed to confirm Rodney’s belief that he had
been discussed. He turned over the unpalatable idea for
a while, in silence.
“Women are incomprehensible creatures, Denham!” he
then exclaimed.
“Um,” said Denham, who seemed to himself possessed
of complete understanding, not merely of women, but of
the entire universe. He could read Rodney, too, like a
book. He knew that he was unhappy, and he pitied him,
and wished to help him.
“You say something and they—fly into a passion. Or
for no reason at all, they laugh. I take it that no amount
of education will—” The remainder of the sentence was
lost in the high wind, against which they had to struggle;
but Denham understood that he referred to Katharine’s
laughter, and that the memory of it was still hurting him.
In comparison with Rodney, Denham felt himself very
secure; he saw Rodney as one of the lost birds dashed
senseless against the glass; one of the flying bodies of
which the air was full. But he and Katharine were alone
together, aloft, splendid, and luminous with a twofold
radiance. He pitied the unstable creature beside him; he
felt a desire to protect him, exposed without the knowledge
which made his own way so direct. They were united
as the adventurous are united, though one reaches the
goal and the other perishes by the way.
“You couldn’t laugh at some one you cared for.”
This sentence, apparently addressed to no other human
being, reached Denham’s ears. The wind seemed to muffle
it and fly away with it directly. Had Rodney spoken those
words?
“You love her.” Was that his own voice, which seemed
to sound in the air several yards in front of him?
“I’ve suffered tortures, Denham, tortures!”
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“Yes, yes, I know that.”
“She’s laughed at me.”
“Never—to me.”
The wind blew a space between the words—blew them
so far away that they seemed unspoken.
“How I’ve loved her!”
This was certainly spoken by the man at Denham’s side.
The voice had all the marks of Rodney’s character, and
recalled, with; strange vividness, his personal appearance.
Denham could see him against the blank buildings
and towers of the horizon. He saw him dignified, exalted,
and tragic, as he might have appeared thinking of
Katharine alone in his rooms at night.
“I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am
here to-night.”
Ralph spoke distinctly and deliberately, as if Rodney’s
confession had made this statement necessary.
Rodney exclaimed something inarticulate.
“Ah, I’ve always known it,” he cried, “I’ve known it
from the first. You’ll marry her!”
The cry had a note of despair in it. Again the wind
intercepted their words. They said no more. At length
they drew up beneath a lamp-post, simultaneously.
“My God, Denham, what fools we both are!” Rodney
exclaimed. They looked at each other, queerly, in the light
of the lamp. Fools! They seemed to confess to each other
the extreme depths of their folly. For the moment, under
the lamp-post, they seemed to be aware of some common
knowledge which did away with the possibility of
rivalry, and made them feel more sympathy for each other
than for any one else in the world. Giving simultaneously
a little nod, as if in confirmation of this understanding,
they parted without speaking again.
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Night and Day
CHAPTER XXIX
Between twelve and one that Sunday night Katharine lay
in bed, not asleep, but in that twilight region where a
detached and humorous view of our own lot is possible;
or if we must be serious, our seriousness is tempered by
the swift oncome of slumber and oblivion. She saw the
forms of Ralph, William, Cassandra, and herself, as if they
were all equally unsubstantial, and, in putting off reality,
had gained a kind of dignity which rested upon each
impartially. Thus rid of any uncomfortable warmth of partisanship
or load of obligation, she was dropping off to
sleep when a light tap sounded upon her door. A moment
later Cassandra stood beside her, holding a candle and
speaking in the low tones proper to the time of night.
“Are you awake, Katharine?”
“Yes, I’m awake. What is it?”
She roused herself, sat up, and asked what in Heaven’s
name Cassandra was doing?
“I couldn’t sleep, and I thought I’d come and speak to
you—only for a moment, though. I’m going home to
morrow.”
“Home? Why, what has happened?”
“Something happened to-day which makes it impossible
for me to stay here.”
Cassandra spoke formally, almost solemnly; the announcement
was clearly prepared and marked a crisis of
the utmost gravity. She continued what seemed to be
part of a set speech.
“I have decided to tell you the whole truth, Katharine.
William allowed himself to behave in a way which made
me extremely uncomfortable to-day.”
Katharine seemed to waken completely, and at once to
be in control of herself.
“At the Zoo?” she asked.
“No, on the way home. When we had tea.”
As if foreseeing that the interview might be long, and
the night chilly, Katharine advised Cassandra to wrap herself
in a quilt. Cassandra did so with unbroken solemnity.
“There’s a train at eleven,” she said. “I shall tell Aunt
Maggie that I have to go suddenly… . I shall make Violet’s
visit an excuse. But, after thinking it over, I don’t see
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how I can go without telling you the truth.”
She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine’s
direction. There was a slight pause.
“But I don’t see the least reason why you should go,”
said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly
equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was
impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or
surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed,
with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown
on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of
indifference to her.
“Because I can’t allow any man to behave to me in that
way,” Cassandra replied, and she added, “particularly when
I know that he is engaged to some one else.”
“But you like him, don’t you?” Katharine inquired.
“That’s got nothing to do with it,” Cassandra exclaimed
indignantly. “I consider his conduct, under the circumstances,
most disgraceful.”
This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated
speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided
with any more to say in that particular style. When
Katharine remarked:
“I should say it had everything to do with it,” Cassandra’s
self-possession deserted her.
“I don’t understand you in the least, Katharine. How
can you behave as you behave? Ever since I came here
I’ve been amazed by you!”
“You’ve enjoyed yourself, haven’t you?” Katharine asked.
“Yes, I have,” Cassandra admitted.
“Anyhow, my behavior hasn’t spoiled your visit.”
“No,” Cassandra allowed once more. She was completely
at a loss. In her forecast of the interview she had taken it
for granted that Katharine, after an outburst of incredulity,
would agree that Cassandra must return home as
soon as possible. But Katharine, on the contrary, accepted
her statement at once, seemed neither shocked nor surprised,
and merely looked rather more thoughtful than
usual. From being a mature woman charged with an important
mission, Cassandra shrunk to the stature of an
inexperienced child.
“Do you think I’ve been very foolish about it?” she
asked.
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Night and Day
Katharine made no answer, but still sat deliberating silently,
and a certain feeling of alarm took possession of
Cassandra. Perhaps her words had struck far deeper than
she had thought, into depths beyond her reach, as so much
of Katharine was beyond her reach. She thought suddenly
that she had been playing with very dangerous tools.
Looking at her at length, Katharine asked slowly, as if
she found the question very difficult to ask.
“But do you care for William?”
She marked the agitation and bewilderment of the girl’s
expression, and how she looked away from her.
“Do you mean, am I in love with him?” Cassandra asked,
breathing quickly, and nervously moving her hands.
“Yes, in love with him,” Katharine repeated.
“How can I love the man you’re engaged to marry?”
Cassandra burst out.
“He may be in love with you.”
“I don’t think you’ve any right to say such things,
Katharine,” Cassandra exclaimed. “Why do you say them?
Don’t you mind in the least how William behaves to other
women? If I were engaged, I couldn’t bear it!”
“We’re not engaged,” said Katharine, after a pause.
“Katharine!” Cassandra cried.
“No, we’re not engaged,” Katharine repeated. “But no
one knows it but ourselves.”
“But why—I don’t understand—you’re not engaged!”
Cassandra said again. “Oh, that explains it! You’re not in
love with him! You don’t want to marry him!”
“We aren’t in love with each other any longer,” said
Katharine, as if disposing of something for ever and ever.
“How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you
are, Katharine,” Cassandra said, her whole body and voice
seeming to fall and collapse together, and no trace of anger
or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude.
“You’re not in love with him?”
“But I love him,” said Katharine.
Cassandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the
