across the broad sunshine; silence wrapt her heart in its
folds. The quivering stillness of the butterfly on the half-
opened flower, the silent grazing of the deer in the sun,
were the sights her eye rested upon and received as the
images of her own nature laid open to happiness and
trembling in its ecstasy.
But the afternoon wore on, and it became time to leave
the gardens. As they drove from Waterloo to Chelsea,
Katharine began to have some compunction about her
father, which, together with the opening of offices and
the need of working in them on Monday, made it difficult
to plan another festival for the following day. Mr. Hilbery
had taken their absence, so far, with paternal benevolence,
but they could not trespass upon it indefinitely.
Indeed, had they known it, he was already suffering from
their absence, and longing for their return.
He had no dislike of solitude, and Sunday, in particular,
was pleasantly adapted for letter-writing, paying calls,
or a visit to his club. He was leaving the house on some
such suitable expedition towards tea-time when he found
himself stopped on his own doorstep by his sister, Mrs.
Milvain. She should, on hearing that no one was at home,
have withdrawn submissively, but instead she accepted
his half-hearted invitation to come in, and he found himself
in the melancholy position of being forced to order
tea for her and sit in the drawing-room while she drank
it. She speedily made it plain that she was only thus
exacting because she had come on a matter of business.
He was by no means exhilarated at the news.
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“Katharine is out this afternoon,” he remarked. “Why
not come round later and discuss it with her—with us
both, eh?”
“My dear Trevor, I have particular reasons for wishing
to talk to you alone… . Where is Katharine?”
“She’s out with her young man, naturally. Cassandra
plays the part of chaperone very usefully. A charming
young woman that—a great favorite of mine.” He turned
his stone between his fingers, and conceived different
methods of leading Celia away from her obsession, which,
he supposed, must have reference to the domestic affairs
of Cyril as usual.
“With Cassandra,” Mrs. Milvain repeated significantly.
“With Cassandra.”
“Yes, with Cassandra,” Mr. Hilbery agreed urbanely,
pleased at the diversion. “I think they said they were
going to Hampton Court, and I rather believe they were
taking a protege of mine, Ralph Denham, a very clever
fellow, too, to amuse Cassandra. I thought the arrangement
very suitable.” He was prepared to dwell at some
length upon this safe topic, and trusted that Katharine
would come in before he had done with it.
“Hampton Court always seems to me an ideal spot for
engaged couples. There’s the Maze, there’s a nice place
for having tea—I forget what they call it—and then, if
the young man knows his business he contrives to take
his lady upon the river. Full of possibilities—full. Cake,
Celia?” Mr. Hilbery continued. “I respect my dinner too
much, but that can’t possibly apply to you. You’ve never
observed that feast, so far as I can remember.”
Her brother’s affability did not deceive Mrs. Milvain; it
slightly saddened her; she well knew the cause of it. Blind
and infatuated as usual!
“Who is this Mr. Denham?” she asked.
“Ralph Denham?” said Mr. Hilbery, in relief that her
mind had taken this turn. “A very interesting young man.
I’ve a great belief in him. He’s an authority upon our
mediaeval institutions, and if he weren’t forced to earn
his living he would write a book that very much wants
writing—”
“He is not well off, then?” Mrs. Milvain interposed.
“Hasn’t a penny, I’m afraid, and a family more or less
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dependent on him.”
“A mother and sisters?— His father is dead?”
“Yes, his father died some years ago,” said Mr. Hilbery,
who was prepared to draw upon his imagination, if necessary,
to keep Mrs. Milvain supplied with facts about the
private history of Ralph Denham since, for some inscrutable
reason, the subject took her fancy.
“His father has been dead some time, and this young
man had to take his place—”
“A legal family?” Mrs. Milvain inquired. “I fancy I’ve
seen the name somewhere.”
Mr. Hilbery shook his head. “I should be inclined to
doubt whether they were altogether in that walk of life,”
he observed. “I fancy that Denham once told me that his
father was a corn merchant. Perhaps he said a stockbroker.
He came to grief, anyhow, as stockbrokers have a
way of doing. I’ve a great respect for Denham,” he added.
The remark sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive,
and he was afraid that there was nothing more to be said
about Denham. He examined the tips of his fingers carefully.
“Cassandra’s grown into a very charming young
woman,” he started afresh. “Charming to look at, and
charming to talk to, though her historical knowledge is
not altogether profound. Another cup of tea?”
Mrs. Milvain had given her cup a little push, which
seemed to indicate some momentary displeasure. But she
did not want any more tea.
“It is Cassandra that I have come about,” she began. “I
am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you
think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie’s
goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have
seemed incredible—in this house of all houses—were it
not for other circumstances that are still more incredible.”
Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a
second.
“It all sounds very black,” he remarked urbanely, continuing
his examination of his finger-nails. “But I own I
am completely in the dark.”
Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in
little short sentences of extreme intensity.
“Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney.
Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why
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are they for ever meeting each other round street corners,
and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at
night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I
question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine
has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has
seen fit to condone Cassandra’s conduct.”
There was another slight pause.
“Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation
to give me,” Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably. “It’s
a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I
confess—and, if you won’t think me rude, Celia, I think
I’ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge.”
Mrs. Milvain rose at once.
“She has condoned Cassandra’s conduct and entangled
herself with Ralph Denham,” she repeated. She stood very
erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth
regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions
that the only way to counter her brother’s indolence
and indifference was to shoot her statements at
him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the
room. Having spoken thus, she restrained herself from
adding another word, and left the house with the dignity
of one inspired by a great ideal.
She had certainly framed her remarks in such a way as
to prevent her brother from paying his call in the region
of Knightsbridge. He had no fears for Katharine, but there
was a suspicion at the back of his mind that Cassandra
might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into some
foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations.
His wife was an erratic judge of the conventions;
he himself was lazy; and with Katharine absorbed, very
naturally—Here he recalled, as well as he could, the exact
nature of the charge. “She has condoned Cassandra’s
conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham.” From
which it appeared that Katharine was NOT absorbed, or
which of them was it that had entangled herself with
Ralph Denham? From this maze of absurdity Mr. Hilbery
saw no way out until Katharine herself came to his help,
so that he applied himself, very philosophically on the
whole, to a book.
No sooner had he heard the young people come in and
go upstairs than he sent a maid to tell Miss Katharine
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that he wished to speak to her in the study. She was
slipping furs loosely onto the floor in the drawing-room
in front of the fire. They were all gathered round, reluctant
to part. The message from her father surprised
Katharine, and the others caught from her look, as she
turned to go, a vague sense of apprehension.
Mr. Hilbery was reassured by the sight of her. He congratulated
himself, he prided himself, upon possessing a
daughter who had a sense of responsibility and an understanding
of life profound beyond her years. Moreover, she
was looking to-day unusual; he had come to take her beauty
for granted; now he remembered it and was surprised by
it. He thought instinctively that he had interrupted some
happy hour of hers with Rodney, and apologized.
“I’m sorry to bother you, my dear. I heard you come in,
and thought I’d better make myself disagreeable at once—
as it seems, unfortunately, that fathers are expected to
make themselves disagreeable. Now, your Aunt Celia has
been to see me; your Aunt Celia has taken it into her
head apparently that you and Cassandra have been—let
us say a little foolish. This going about together—these
pleasant little parties—there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.
I told her I saw no harm in it, but I should
just like to hear from yourself. Has Cassandra been left a
little too much in the company of Mr. Denham?”
Katharine did not reply at once, and Mr. Hilbery tapped
the coal encouragingly with the poker. Then she said,
without embarrassment or apology:
“I don’t see why I should answer Aunt Celia’s questions.
I’ve told her already that I won’t.”
Mr. Hilbery was relieved and secretly amused at the
thought of the interview, although he could not license
such irreverence outwardly.
“Very good. Then you authorize me to tell her that she’s
been mistaken, and there was nothing but a little fun in
it? You’ve no doubt, Katharine, in your own mind?
Cassandra is in our charge, and I don’t intend that people
should gossip about her. I suggest that you should be a
little more careful in future. Invite me to your next entertainment.”
She did not respond, as he had hoped, with any affectionate
or humorous reply. She meditated, pondering
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something or other, and he reflected that even his
Katharine did not differ from other women in the capacity
to let things be. Or had she something to say?
“Have you a guilty conscience?” he inquired lightly.
“Tell me, Katharine,” he said more seriously, struck by
something in the expression of her eyes.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you for some time,” she said,
“I’m not going to marry William.”
“You’re not going—!” he exclaimed, dropping the poker
in his immense surprise. “Why? When? Explain yourself,
Katharine.”
“Oh, some time ago—a week, perhaps more.” Katharine
spoke hurriedly and indifferently, as if the matter could
no longer concern any one.
“But may I ask—why have I not been told of this—
what do you mean by it?”
“We don’t wish to be married—that’s all.”
“This is William’s wish as well as yours?”
“Oh, yes. We agree perfectly.”
Mr. Hilbery had seldom felt more completely at a loss.
He thought that Katharine was treating the matter with
curious unconcern; she scarcely seemed aware of the gravity
of what she was saying; he did not understand the
position at all. But his desire to smooth everything over
comfortably came to his relief. No doubt there was some
quarrel, some whimsey on the part of William, who, though
a good fellow, was a little exacting sometimes—something
that a woman could put right. But though he inclined
to take the easiest view of his responsibilities, he
cared too much for this daughter to let things be.
“I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I
should like to hear William’s side of the story,” he said
irritably. “I think he ought to have spoken to me in the
first instance.”
“I wouldn’t let him,” said Katharine. “I know it must
seem to you very strange,” she added. “But I assure you,
if you’d wait a little—until mother comes back.”
This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery’s liking.
But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking.
He could not endure that his daughter’s conduct
should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered
whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire
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to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William
the house, to pack Cassandra off home—for he was vaguely
conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead
was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity
of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask
Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and
William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete
change, not only of manner, but of position also.
“Here’s William,” Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief.
“I’ve told father we’re not engaged,” she said to him.
“I’ve explained that I prevented you from telling him.”
William’s manner was marked by the utmost formality.
He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr. Hilbery,
and stood erect, holding one lapel of his coat, and gazing
into the center of the fire. He waited for Mr. Hilbery
to speak.
Mr. Hilbery also assumed an appearance of formidable
dignity. He had risen to his feet, and now bent the top
part of his body slightly forward.
“I should like your account of this affair, Rodney—if
Katharine no longer prevents you from speaking.”
William waited two seconds at least.
