CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
NIGHT AND DAY
CHAPTER I
It was a Sunday evening in October, and in common with many other young
ladies of her class, Katharine Hilbery was pouring out tea. Perhaps a
fifth part of her mind was thus occupied, and the remaining parts leapt
over the little barrier of day which interposed between Monday morning
and this rather subdued moment, and played with the things one does
voluntarily and normally in the daylight. But although she was silent,
she was evidently mistress of a situation which was familiar enough to
her, and inclined to let it take its way for the six hundredth time,
perhaps, without bringing into play any of her unoccupied faculties. A
single glance was enough to show that Mrs. Hilbery was so rich in the
gifts which make tea-parties of elderly distinguished people
successful, that she scarcely needed any help from her daughter,
provided that the tiresome business of teacups and bread and butter was
discharged for her.
Considering that the little party had been seated round the tea-table
for less than twenty minutes, the animation observable on their faces,
and the amount of sound they were producing collectively, were very
creditable to the hostess. It suddenly came into Katharine’s mind that
if some one opened the door at this moment he would think that they
were enjoying themselves; he would think, “What an extremely nice house
to come into!” and instinctively she laughed, and said something to
increase the noise, for the credit of the house presumably, since she
herself had not been feeling exhilarated. At the very same moment,
rather to her amusement, the door was flung open, and a young man
entered the room. Katharine, as she shook hands with him, asked him, in
her own mind, “Now, do you think we’re enjoying ourselves
enormously?”... “Mr. Denham, mother,” she said aloud, for she saw that
her mother had forgotten his name.
That fact was perceptible to Mr. Denham also, and increased the
awkwardness which inevitably attends the entrance of a stranger into a
room full of people much at their ease, and all launched upon
sentences. At the same time, it seemed to Mr. Denham as if a thousand
softly padded doors had closed between him and the street outside. A
fine mist, the etherealized essence of the fog, hung visibly in the
wide and rather empty space of the drawing-room, all silver where the
candles were grouped on the tea-table, and ruddy again in the
firelight. With the omnibuses and cabs still running in his head, and
his body still tingling with his quick walk along the streets and in
and out of traffic and foot-passengers, this drawing-room seemed very
remote and still; and the faces of the elderly people were mellowed, at
some distance from each other, and had a bloom on them owing to the
fact that the air in the drawing-room was thickened by blue grains of
mist. Mr. Denham had come in as Mr. Fortescue, the eminent novelist,
reached the middle of a very long sentence. He kept this suspended
while the newcomer sat down, and Mrs. Hilbery deftly joined the severed
parts by leaning towards him and remarking:
“Now, what would you do if you were married to an engineer, and had to
live in Manchester, Mr. Denham?”
“Surely she could learn Persian,” broke in a thin, elderly gentleman.
“Is there no retired schoolmaster or man of letters in Manchester with
whom she could read Persian?”
“A cousin of ours has married and gone to live in Manchester,”
Katharine explained. Mr. Denham muttered something, which was indeed
all that was required of him, and the novelist went on where he had
left off. Privately, Mr. Denham cursed himself very sharply for having
exchanged the freedom of the street for this sophisticated
drawing-room, where, among other disagreeables, he certainly would not
appear at his best. He glanced round him, and saw that, save for
Katharine, they were all over forty, the only consolation being that
Mr. Fortescue was a considerable celebrity, so that to-morrow one might
be glad to have met him.
“Have you ever been to Manchester?” he asked Katharine.
“Never,” she replied.
“Why do you object to it, then?”
Katharine stirred her tea, and seemed to speculate, so Denham thought,
upon the duty of filling somebody else’s cup, but she was really
wondering how she was going to keep this strange young man in harmony
with the rest. She observed that he was compressing his teacup, so that
there was danger lest the thin china might cave inwards. She could see
that he was nervous; one would expect a bony young man with his face
slightly reddened by the wind, and his hair not altogether smooth, to
be nervous in such a party. Further, he probably disliked this kind of
thing, and had come out of curiosity, or because her father had invited
him—anyhow, he would not be easily combined with the rest.
“I should think there would be no one to talk to in Manchester,” she
replied at random. Mr. Fortescue had been observing her for a moment or
two, as novelists are inclined to observe, and at this remark he
smiled, and made it the text for a little further speculation.
“In spite of a slight tendency to exaggeration, Katharine decidedly
hits the mark,” he said, and lying back in his chair, with his opaque
contemplative eyes fixed on the ceiling, and the tips of his fingers
pressed together, he depicted, first the horrors of the streets of
Manchester, and then the bare, immense moors on the outskirts of the
town, and then the scrubby little house in which the girl would live,
and then the professors and the miserable young students devoted to the
more strenuous works of our younger dramatists, who would visit her,
and how her appearance would change by degrees, and how she would fly
to London, and how Katharine would have to lead her about, as one leads
an eager dog on a chain, past rows of clamorous butchers’ shops, poor
dear creature.
“Oh, Mr. Fortescue,” exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, as he finished, “I had
just written to say how I envied her! I was thinking of the big gardens
and the dear old ladies in mittens, who read nothing but the
“Spectator,” and snuff the candles. Have they _all_ disappeared? I told
her she would find the nice things of London without the horrid streets
that depress one so.”
“There is the University,” said the thin gentleman, who had previously
insisted upon the existence of people knowing Persian.
“I know there are moors there, because I read about them in a book the
other day,” said Katharine.
“I am grieved and amazed at the ignorance of my family,” Mr. Hilbery
remarked. He was an elderly man, with a pair of oval, hazel eyes which
were rather bright for his time of life, and relieved the heaviness of
his face. He played constantly with a little green stone attached to
his watch-chain, thus displaying long and very sensitive fingers, and
had a habit of moving his head hither and thither very quickly without
altering the position of his large and rather corpulent body, so that
he seemed to be providing himself incessantly with food for amusement
and reflection with the least possible expenditure of energy. One might
suppose that he had passed the time of life when his ambitions were
personal, or that he had gratified them as far as he was likely to do,
and now employed his considerable acuteness rather to observe and
reflect than to attain any result.
Katharine, so Denham decided, while Mr. Fortescue built up another
rounded structure of words, had a likeness to each of her parents, but
these elements were rather oddly blended. She had the quick, impulsive
movements of her mother, the lips parting often to speak, and closing
again; and the dark oval eyes of her father brimming with light upon a
basis of sadness, or, since she was too young to have acquired a
sorrowful point of view, one might say that the basis was not sadness
so much as a spirit given to contemplation and self-control. Judging by
her hair, her coloring, and the shape of her features, she was
striking, if not actually beautiful. Decision and composure stamped
her, a combination of qualities that produced a very marked character,
and one that was not calculated to put a young man, who scarcely knew
her, at his ease. For the rest, she was tall; her dress was of some
quiet color, with old yellow-tinted lace for ornament, to which the
spark of an ancient jewel gave its one red gleam. Denham noticed that,
although silent, she kept sufficient control of the situation to answer
immediately her mother appealed to her for help, and yet it was obvious
to him that she attended only with the surface skin of her mind. It
struck him that her position at the tea-table, among all these elderly
people, was not without its difficulties, and he checked his
inclination to find her, or her attitude, generally antipathetic to
him. The talk had passed over Manchester, after dealing with it very
generously.
“Would it be the Battle of Trafalgar or the Spanish Armada, Katharine?”
her mother demanded.
“Trafalgar, mother.”
“Trafalgar, of course! How stupid of me! Another cup of tea, with a
thin slice of lemon in it, and then, dear Mr. Fortescue, please explain
my absurd little puzzle. One can’t help believing gentlemen with Roman
noses, even if one meets them in omnibuses.”
Mr. Hilbery here interposed so far as Denham was concerned, and talked
a great deal of sense about the solicitors’ profession, and the changes
which he had seen in his lifetime. Indeed, Denham properly fell to his
lot, owing to the fact that an article by Denham upon some legal
matter, published by Mr. Hilbery in his Review, had brought them
acquainted. But when a moment later Mrs. Sutton Bailey was announced,
he turned to her, and Mr. Denham found himself sitting silent,
rejecting possible things to say, beside Katharine, who was silent too.
Being much about the same age and both under thirty, they were
prohibited from the use of a great many convenient phrases which launch
conversation into smooth waters. They were further silenced by
Katharine’s rather malicious determination not to help this young man,
in whose upright and resolute bearing she detected something hostile to
her surroundings, by any of the usual feminine amenities. They
therefore sat silent, Denham controlling his desire to say something
abrupt and explosive, which should shock her into life. But Mrs.
Hilbery was immediately sensitive to any silence in the drawing-room,
as of a dumb note in a sonorous scale, and leaning across the table she
observed, in the curiously tentative detached manner which always gave
her phrases the likeness of butterflies flaunting from one sunny spot
to another, “D’you know, Mr. Denham, you remind me so much of dear Mr.
Ruskin.... Is it his tie, Katharine, or his hair, or the way he sits in
his chair? Do tell me, Mr. Denham, are you an admirer of Ruskin? Some
one, the other day, said to me, ‘Oh, no, we don’t read Ruskin, Mrs.
Hilbery.’ What _do_ you read, I wonder?—for you can’t spend all your
time going up in aeroplanes and burrowing into the bowels of the
earth.”
She looked benevolently at Denham, who said nothing articulate, and
then at Katharine, who smiled but said nothing either, upon which Mrs.
Hilbery seemed possessed by a brilliant idea, and exclaimed:
“I’m sure Mr. Denham would like to see our things, Katharine. I’m sure
he’s not like that dreadful young man, Mr. Ponting, who told me that he
considered it our duty to live exclusively in the present. After all,
what IS the present? Half of it’s the past, and the better half, too, I
should say,” she added, turning to Mr. Fortescue.
Denham rose, half meaning to go, and thinking that he had seen all that
there was to see, but Katharine rose at the same moment, and saying,
“Perhaps you would like to see the pictures,” led the way across the
drawing-room to a smaller room opening out of it.
The smaller room was something like a chapel in a cathedral, or a
grotto in a cave, for the booming sound of the traffic in the distance
suggested the soft surge of waters, and the oval mirrors, with their
silver surface, were like deep pools trembling beneath starlight. But
the comparison to a religious temple of some kind was the more apt of
the two, for the little room was crowded with relics.
As Katharine touched different spots, lights sprang here and there, and
revealed a square mass of red-and-gold books, and then a long skirt in
blue-and-white paint lustrous behind glass, and then a mahogany
writing-table, with its orderly equipment, and, finally, a picture
above the table, to which special illumination was accorded. When
Katharine had touched these last lights, she stood back, as much as to
say, “There!” Denham found himself looked down upon by the eyes of the
great poet, Richard Alardyce, and suffered a little shock which would
have led him, had he been wearing a hat, to remove it. The eyes looked
at him out of the mellow pinks and yellows of the paint with divine
friendliness, which embraced him, and passed on to contemplate the
entire world. The paint had so faded that very little but the beautiful
large eyes were left, dark in the surrounding dimness.
Katharine waited as though for him to receive a full impression, and
then she said:
“This is his writing-table. He used this pen,” and she lifted a quill
pen and laid it down again. The writing-table was splashed with old
ink, and the pen disheveled in service. There lay the gigantic
gold-rimmed spectacles, ready to his hand, and beneath the table was a
pair of large, worn slippers, one of which Katharine picked up,
remarking:
“I think my grandfather must have been at least twice as large as any
one is nowadays. This,” she went on, as if she knew what she had to say
by heart, “is the original manuscript of the ‘Ode to Winter.’ The early
poems are far less corrected than the later. Would you like to look at
it?”
While Mr. Denham examined the manuscript, she glanced up at her
grandfather, and, for the thousandth time, fell into a pleasant dreamy
state in which she seemed to be the companion of those giant men, of
their own lineage, at any rate, and the insignificant present moment
was put to shame. That magnificent ghostly head on the canvas, surely,
never beheld all the trivialities of a Sunday afternoon, and it did not
seem to matter what she and this young man said to each other, for they
were only small people.
“This is a copy of the first edition of the poems,” she continued,
without considering the fact that Mr. Denham was still occupied with
the manuscript, “which contains several poems that have not been
reprinted, as well as corrections.” She paused for a minute, and then
went on, as if these spaces had all been calculated.
“That lady in blue is my great-grandmother, by Millington. Here is my
uncle’s walking-stick—he was Sir Richard Warburton, you know, and rode
with Havelock to the Relief of Lucknow. And then, let me see—oh, that’s
the original Alardyce, 1697, the founder of the family fortunes, with
his wife. Some one gave us this bowl the other day because it has their
crest and initials. We think it must have been given them to celebrate
their silver wedding-day.”
Here she stopped for a moment, wondering why it was that Mr. Denham
said nothing. Her feeling that he was antagonistic to her, which had
lapsed while she thought of her family possessions, returned so keenly
that she stopped in the middle of her catalog and looked at him. Her
mother, wishing to connect him reputably with the great dead, had
compared him with Mr. Ruskin; and the comparison was in Katharine’s
mind, and led her to be more critical of the young man than was fair,
for a young man paying a call in a tail-coat is in a different element
altogether from a head seized at its climax of expressiveness, gazing
immutably from behind a sheet of glass, which was all that remained to
her of Mr. Ruskin. He had a singular face—a face built for swiftness
and decision rather than for massive contemplation; the forehead broad,
the nose long and formidable, the lips clean-shaven and at once dogged
and sensitive, the cheeks lean, with a deeply running tide of red blood
in them. His eyes, expressive now of the usual masculine impersonality
and authority, might reveal more subtle emotions under favorable
circumstances, for they were large, and of a clear, brown color; they
seemed unexpectedly to hesitate and speculate; but Katharine only
looked at him to wonder whether his face would not have come nearer the
standard of her dead heroes if it had been adorned with side-whiskers.
In his spare build and thin, though healthy, cheeks, she saw tokens of
an angular and acrid soul. His voice, she noticed, had a slight
vibrating or creaking sound in it, as he laid down the manuscript and
said:
“You must be very proud of your family, Miss Hilbery.”
“Yes, I am,” Katharine answered, and she added, “Do you think there’s
anything wrong in that?”
“Wrong? How should it be wrong? It must be a bore, though, showing your
things to visitors,” he added reflectively.
“Not if the visitors like them.”
“Isn’t it difficult to live up to your ancestors?” he proceeded.
“I dare say I shouldn’t try to write poetry,” Katharine replied.
“No. And that’s what I should hate. I couldn’t bear my grandfather to
cut me out. And, after all,” Denham went on, glancing round him
satirically, as Katharine thought, “it’s not your grandfather only.
You’re cut out all the way round. I suppose you come of one of the most
distinguished families in England. There are the Warburtons and the
Mannings—and you’re related to the Otways, aren’t you? I read it all in
some magazine,” he added.
“The Otways are my cousins,” Katharine replied.
“Well,” said Denham, in a final tone of voice, as if his argument were
proved.
“Well,” said Katharine, “I don’t see that you’ve proved anything.”
Denham smiled, in a peculiarly provoking way. He was amused and
gratified to find that he had the power to annoy his oblivious,
supercilious hostess, if he could not impress her; though he would have
preferred to impress her.
He sat silent, holding the precious little book of poems unopened in
his hands, and Katharine watched him, the melancholy or contemplative
expression deepening in her eyes as her annoyance faded. She appeared
to be considering many things. She had forgotten her duties.
“Well,” said Denham again, suddenly opening the little book of poems,
as though he had said all that he meant to say or could, with
propriety, say. He turned over the pages with great decision, as if he
were judging the book in its entirety, the printing and paper and
binding, as well as the poetry, and then, having satisfied himself of
its good or bad quality, he placed it on the writing-table, and
examined the malacca cane with the gold knob which had belonged to the
soldier.
“But aren’t you proud of your family?” Katharine demanded.
“No,” said Denham. “We’ve never done anything to be proud of—unless you
count paying one’s bills a matter for pride.”
“That sounds rather dull,” Katharine remarked.
“You would think us horribly dull,” Denham agreed.
“Yes, I might find you dull, but I don’t think I should find you
ridiculous,” Katharine added, as if Denham had actually brought that
charge against her family.
“No—because we’re not in the least ridiculous. We’re a respectable
middle-class family, living at Highgate.”
“We don’t live at Highgate, but we’re middle class too, I suppose.”
Denham merely smiled, and replacing the malacca cane on the rack, he
drew a sword from its ornamental sheath.
“That belonged to Clive, so we say,” said Katharine, taking up her
duties as hostess again automatically.
“Is it a lie?” Denham inquired.
“It’s a family tradition. I don’t know that we can prove it.”
“You see, we don’t have traditions in our family,” said Denham.
“You sound very dull,” Katharine remarked, for the second time.
“Merely middle class,” Denham replied.
“You pay your bills, and you speak the truth. I don’t see why you
should despise us.”
Mr. Denham carefully sheathed the sword which the Hilberys said
belonged to Clive.
“I shouldn’t like to be you; that’s all I said,” he replied, as if he
were saying what he thought as accurately as he could.
“No, but one never would like to be any one else.”
“I should. I should like to be lots of other people.”
“Then why not us?” Katharine asked.
Denham looked at her as she sat in her grandfather’s arm-chair, drawing
her great-uncle’s malacca cane smoothly through her fingers, while her
background was made up equally of lustrous blue-and-white paint, and
crimson books with gilt lines on them. The vitality and composure of
her attitude, as of a bright-plumed bird poised easily before further
flights, roused him to show her the limitations of her lot. So soon, so
easily, would he be forgotten.
“You’ll never know anything at first hand,” he began, almost savagely.
“It’s all been done for you. You’ll never know the pleasure of buying
things after saving up for them, or reading books for the first time,
or making discoveries.”
“Go on,” Katharine observed, as he paused, suddenly doubtful, when he
heard his voice proclaiming aloud these facts, whether there was any
truth in them.
“Of course, I don’t know how you spend your time,” he continued, a
little stiffly, “but I suppose you have to show people round. You are
writing a life of your grandfather, aren’t you? And this kind of
thing”—he nodded towards the other room, where they could hear bursts
of cultivated laughter—“must take up a lot of time.”
She looked at him expectantly, as if between them they were decorating
a small figure of herself, and she saw him hesitating in the
disposition of some bow or sash.
“You’ve got it very nearly right,” she said, “but I only help my
mother. I don’t write myself.”
“Do you do anything yourself?” he demanded.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “I don’t leave the house at ten and come
back at six.”
“I don’t mean that.”
Mr. Denham had recovered his self-control; he spoke with a quietness
which made Katharine rather anxious that he should explain himself, but
at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on
some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do with
these intermittent young men of her father’s.
“Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays,” she remarked. “You
see”—she tapped the volume of her grandfather’s poems—“we don’t even
print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters or
novelists—there are none; so, at any rate, I’m not singular.”
“No, we haven’t any great men,” Denham replied. “I’m very glad that we
haven’t. I hate great men. The worship of greatness in the nineteenth
century seems to me to explain the worthlessness of that generation.”
Katharine opened her lips and drew in her breath, as if to reply with
equal vigor, when the shutting of a door in the next room withdrew her
attention, and they both became conscious that the voices, which had
been rising and falling round the tea-table, had fallen silent; the
light, even, seemed to have sunk lower. A moment later Mrs. Hilbery
appeared in the doorway of the ante-room. She stood looking at them
with a smile of expectancy on her face, as if a scene from the drama of
the younger generation were being played for her benefit. She was a
remarkable-looking woman, well advanced in the sixties, but owing to
the lightness of her frame and the brightness of her eyes she seemed to
have been wafted over the surface of the years without taking much harm
in the passage. Her face was shrunken and aquiline, but any hint of
sharpness was dispelled by the large blue eyes, at once sagacious and
innocent, which seemed to regard the world with an enormous desire that
it should behave itself nobly, and an entire confidence that it could
do so, if it would only take the pains.
Certain lines on the broad forehead and about the lips might be taken
to suggest that she had known moments of some difficulty and perplexity
in the course of her career, but these had not destroyed her
trustfulness, and she was clearly still prepared to give every one any
number of fresh chances and the whole system the benefit of the doubt.
She wore a great resemblance to her father, and suggested, as he did,
the fresh airs and open spaces of a younger world.
“Well,” she said, “how do you like our things, Mr. Denham?”
Mr. Denham rose, put his book down, opened his mouth, but said nothing,
as Katharine observed, with some amusement.
Mrs. Hilbery handled the book he had laid down.
“There are some books that _live_,” she mused. “They are young with us,
and they grow old with us. Are you fond of poetry, Mr. Denham? But what
an absurd question to ask! The truth is, dear Mr. Fortescue has almost
tired me out. He is so eloquent and so witty, so searching and so
profound that, after half an hour or so, I feel inclined to turn out
all the lights. But perhaps he’d be more wonderful than ever in the
dark. What d’you think, Katharine? Shall we give a little party in
complete darkness? There’d have to be bright rooms for the bores....”
Here Mr. Denham held out his hand.
“But we’ve any number of things to show you!” Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed,
taking no notice of it. “Books, pictures, china, manuscripts, and the
very chair that Mary Queen of Scots sat in when she heard of Darnley’s
murder. I must lie down for a little, and Katharine must change her
dress (though she’s wearing a very pretty one), but if you don’t mind
being left alone, supper will be at eight. I dare say you’ll write a
poem of your own while you’re waiting. Ah, how I love the firelight!
Doesn’t our room look charming?”
She stepped back and bade them contemplate the empty drawing-room, with
its rich, irregular lights, as the flames leapt and wavered.
“Dear things!” she exclaimed. “Dear chairs and tables! How like old
friends they are—faithful, silent friends. Which reminds me, Katharine,
little Mr. Anning is coming to-night, and Tite Street, and Cadogan
Square.... Do remember to get that drawing of your great-uncle glazed.
Aunt Millicent remarked it last time she was here, and I know how it
would hurt me to see _my_ father in a broken glass.”
It was like tearing through a maze of diamond-glittering spiders’ webs
to say good-bye and escape, for at each movement Mrs. Hilbery
remembered something further about the villainies of picture-framers or
the delights of poetry, and at one time it seemed to the young man that
he would be hypnotized into doing what she pretended to want him to do,
for he could not suppose that she attached any value whatever to his
presence. Katharine, however, made an opportunity for him to leave, and
for that he was grateful to her, as one young person is grateful for
the understanding of another.