At first she was surprised to find that it was so easy to get on
without him. She persuaded herself that her indifference arose from
her annoyance at his having imposed the conventional view of things
upon her; but, in reality, it was due to her conviction that he would
be the first to give in, and would soon write and ask her to go and
see him. And she longed for an opportunity to write and refuse him.
But when a fortnight passed by and no letter came from him, her
righteous scorn deserted her and she became merely angry. The flatness
of being completely ignored was unendurable; and she longed more than
ever for a chance of showing him that her dignity was equal to his,
although she was beginning to fear that he was not going to give her
the necessary occasion. Then came days when she felt reckless, and
determined to cease thinking about him at any cost; and she threw
herself into any distraction that offered itself, and tried to think
that she was quite getting over her desire to see him. It was in one
of these moods that she went to call on the Keeleys, who had written
to tell her that they were always at home on Thursdays. The fact of
putting on her best clothes was in itself some satisfaction; it was a
step towards restoring her self-respect, at all events, and she felt
happier than she had been for some time past as she walked down Park
Lane and found her way to their house in Curzon Street.
The Honourable Mrs. Keeley was the widow of a peer's son who had been
a cabinet minister and had signalised his political career by
supporting every bill for the emancipation of women, and his domestic
one by impressing upon his wife that her true sphere was the home. The
natural reaction followed after his death, when Mrs. Keeley broke
loose from the restraint his presence had put upon her, and practised
the precepts he had loved to expound in public. She became the most
active of political women; she spoke upon platforms; she harried the
rate-payers until they elected her favourite county councillor; she
canvassed in the slums for the candidate who would vote for woman's
suffrage. She had a passion for everything that was modern,
irrespective of its value; and she spent the time that was not
occupied by her public duties in trying to force her principles upon
her only daughter. But Marion Keeley refused to be modern, except in
her amusements; she accepted the bicycle and the cigarette with
equanimity, but she had no desires to reform anything or anybody; she
merely wanted to enjoy herself as much as possible, and she looked
forward to making a wealthy marriage in the future. Her greatest
ambition was to avoid being bored, and her greatest trial was the
energy of her mother. She never pretended to be advanced; and she felt
that she had been wasted on the wrong mother when she saw most of the
girls of her acquaintance burning to do things in defiance of their
old-fashioned parents. She chose her own friends from the idle world
of Mayfair; and so it was that two distinct sets of people met in the
Keeleys' drawing-room on Thursday afternoons and disapproved of each
other.
Katharine received a warm reception from her hostess. The fact that
she belonged to the class of working gentlewomen, about whom Mrs.
Keeley had many theories but little knowledge, was a sufficient
evidence of her right to be encouraged; and she found herself seated
on an uncomfortable stool, and introduced to an East-end clergyman
and a lady inspector of factories within five minutes of her entry
into the room. She glanced rather longingly towards the back
drawing-room, where her cousin Marion was looking very pretty and was
flirting very charmingly with three smart-looking boys; but it was
evident that her aunt had labelled her as one of her own set, and she
resigned herself to her fate, and agreed with the East-end clergyman
that the want of rain was becoming serious.
"My niece lectures, you know; strikingly clever, and _so_ young," said
Mrs. Keeley in a breathless aside to the lady inspector, as she came
back from the opposite side of the room, where she had just coupled a
socialist and a guardian of the poor.
"Indeed!" said the lady inspector; and Katharine began to lose her
diffidence when she found that she smiled quite like an ordinary
person. "Do you lecture on hygiene? Because Mr. Hodgson-Pemberton is
getting up some popular lectures in his parish, and we are trying to
find a lecturer for hygiene?"
Mr. Hodgson-Pemberton became animated for a moment; but when Katharine
said, apologetically, that her subjects were merely literary, he took
no further interest in her and resumed his conversation with the lady
inspector of factories. Katharine was left alone again, and relapsed
into one of her dreams, until Marion recognised her and came and
fetched her into the back drawing-room.
"Isn't it refreshing?" she said to the boys, who had now increased in
number: "Kitty doesn't know anything about politics, and she doesn't
want to be with the fogies at all, do you, Kitty? And, for all that,
she is dreadfully clever, and gives lectures on all sorts of things to
all sorts of people. Oh, dear, I do wish I were clever!"
"Oh, please don't be clever, Miss Keeley! you won't know me any longer
if you are," said her favourite boy, imploringly.
"You are far too charming to be clever," added another boy, who had
been her favourite last week, and was trying to regain his position by
elaborate compliments.
"That's rubbish," said Marion crushingly; "and not very polite to my
cousin, either."
The dethroned favourite did his best to repair his blunder by assuring
Katharine that he would never have supposed her to be clever, if he
had not been told so. And when she laughed uncontrollably at his
remark, he chose to be offended, and withdrew altogether.
"You shouldn't laugh at him. He can't help it," said Marion, and she
introduced a third admirer to Katharine to get rid of him. He had very
little to say, and when she had confessed that she did not bicycle,
and never went in the park because she was too busy, he stared a
little without speaking at all, and then contrived to join again in
the conversation that was buzzing around Marion. Most of the other
people had left now, and Katharine was trying to summon up courage to
do the same, when her aunt came up to her again, and presented her to
a weary-looking girl in a big hat.
"You ought to know each other," she said, effusively, "because you are
both workers. Miss Martin does gesso work, and has a studio of her
own; and my niece gives lectures, you know."
They looked at one another rather hopelessly, and Katharine resisted
another impulse to laugh.
"The knowledge of our mutual occupations doesn't seem to help the
conversation much, does it?" she said; and the weary-looking girl
tried to smile.
"That's right," said Mrs. Keeley, resting for a moment in a chair near
them. "I knew you two would have plenty to say to each other. That's
the best of you working-women; there is such a bond of sympathy
between you."
"Is there?" said Katharine, remembering the sixty-three working-women
at Queen's Crescent, and her feelings towards them. But Mrs. Keeley
had ideas about women who worked, and meant to air them.
"It is so splendid to think that women can really do men's work, in
spite of everything that is said to the contrary," she continued.
The weary-looking girl made no attempt to contradict her, but
Katharine was less docile.
"I don't think they can," she objected. "They might, perhaps, if they
had a fair chance; but they haven't."
"But they are getting it every day," cried Mrs. Keeley, waxing
enthusiastic. "Think of the progress that has been made, even in my
time; and in another ten years there will be nothing that women will
not be able to do in common with men! Isn't it a glorious reflection?"
"I don't think it will be so," persisted Katharine. "It has nothing to
do with education, or any of those things. A woman is handicapped,
just because she is a woman, and has to go on living like a woman.
There is always home work to be done, or some one to be nursed, or
clothes to be mended. A man has nothing to do but his work; but a
woman is expected to do a woman's work as well as a man's. It is too
much for any one to do well. I am a working-woman myself, and I don't
find it so pleasant as it is painted."
"I'm _so_ glad you think so," murmured Marion, who had come up
unobserved, with her favourite in close attendance. "I was afraid you
would be on mamma's side, and I believe you are on mine, after all."
At this point the weary-looking girl got up to leave, as though she
could not bear it another minute, and Katharine tried to do the same;
but she was not to be let off so easily.
"Tell me," said her aunt earnestly, "do you not think that women are
happier if they have work to do for their living?"
"I suppose it is possible, but I haven't met any who are," answered
Katharine. "I think it is because they feel they have sacrificed all
the pleasures of life. Men don't like women who work, do they?"
The eyes of Marion met those of her favourite admirer; and Marion
blushed. But Mrs. Keeley returned to the charge.
"Indeed, there are many in my own acquaintance who have the greatest
admiration for working-women."
"Oh, yes," laughed Katharine, "they have lots of admiration for us;
but they don't fall in love with us, that's all. I think it is because
it is the elusive quality in woman that fascinates men; and directly
they begin to understand her, they cease to be fascinated by her. And
woman is growing less mysterious every day, now; she is chiefly
occupied in explaining herself, and that is why men don't find her
such good fun. At least, I think so."
"You know us remarkably well, Miss Austen, you do, really," drawled
the favourite boy.
"Oh, no," said Katharine, really getting up this time, "I don't
pretend to. But I do know the working gentlewoman very well indeed,
and I don't think she is a bit like the popular idea of her."
She was much pleased with herself as she walked home; and even the
bustle of Edgware Road and the squalor of Queen's Crescent failed to
remove the pleasant impression that her excursion into the fashionable
world had left with her. It comforted her wounded feelings to
discover that she could hold her own in a room full of people,
although the only man whose opinion she valued held her of no more
account than a child.
"Hullo! you seem pleased with yourself," said Polly Newland, as she
entered the house. The cockney twang of her voice struck un-musically
on Katharine's ear, and she murmured some sort of ungracious reply and
turned to rummage in the box for letters. There was one for her, and
the sight of the precise, upright handwriting drove every thought of
Polly, and the Keeleys, and her pleasant afternoon out of her head.
Even then something kept her from reading it at once, and she took it
upstairs into her cubicle, and laid it on the table while she changed
her clothes and elaborately folded up her best ones and put them away.
Then she sat down on the bed and tore it open with trembling fingers,
and tried to cheat herself into the belief that she was perfectly
indifferent as to its contents.
"Dear child," it ran:--
What has become of you? Come round and have tea with me
to-morrow afternoon. I have some new books to show you.
Yours ever,
PAUL WILTON.
Here at last was the opportunity she had wanted. He should know now
that she was not a child, to be laughed at because she was cross, to
be ignored when she was hurt, and to be coaxed back into good humour
again by a bribe. She would be able to show him now that she was not
the sort of woman he seemed to consider her, and she told herself
several times that she was overjoyed at being given the chance of
telling him so. But when it came to the point, she found that the
cold, dignified letter she had been composing for weeks was not so
easy to write; and she spent the rest of the evening in thinking of
new ones. First of all, it was to be very short, and very stiff; but
that was not obvious enough to gratify her injured feelings, and she
set to work on another one that was mainly sarcastic. But sarcasm
seemed a sorry weapon to use when she had reached such a crisis in her
life as this; and she thought of another one in bed, after the light
was out, in which she determined that he should know she was unhappy
as well. And this one was so pathetic that it even roused her own
pity, and she felt that it would be positively inhuman to send such a
letter as that to any one, however badly he had behaved.
In the end, she did not write to him at all. It was more effective,
she thought, to remain silent. So she went to school the next morning
as usual, and gave her lessons as usual; though she looked in the
glass at intervals to see if she were pale and had a sad expression,
which certainly ought to have been the case. But even her head did not
ache, which it did sometimes; and Nature obstinately refused to come
to her assistance. She reached home again about four o'clock, and the
aspect of the doorsteps and the area completed her discomfiture. If
they had only been a little less squalid, a little more free from the
domination of cats, she might have retained her dignified attitude to
the end. But there was something about them to-day that recalled the
cosy little room in the Temple by vivid contrast; and she flung her
pile of exercise books recklessly upon the hall table, and hastened
out of the house again, without allowing herself time to think.
"I was afraid you were not coming," he said, and he greeted her with
both hands. She never remembered seeing him so unreserved in his
welcome before; and she marvelled at herself for having attempted to
keep away from him any longer.
"It was because of the cats," she said, laughing to hide her emotion.
But she could not hide anything from him; he knew something of what
she was thinking, and he bent down and deliberately kissed her.
"Why did you do that?" she asked, trying to free her hands to cover
her burning face.
"Because you didn't stop me, I suppose," he replied, lightly.
"But I didn't know you were going to."
"Because I knew you wouldn't mind, then."
She did not speak, and her eyes were lowered.
"Did you mind, Katharine?"
"No," she whispered.
"Now, tell me why I am indebted to the cats," he said, as he rang the
bell for tea; and for the rest of the afternoon they talked, as
Katharine laughingly said, "without any conversation."
There was no explanation on either side, no attempt at facing the
situation; and she felt when she left him that she had thrown away her
last chance of controlling their friendship. There had been a tacit
struggle between their two wills, and his had triumphed. She could
never put him out of her life now, unless he broke with her of his
own accord; and she realised bitterly, even while she was glad, that
he did not care enough for her to do that.
She saw him constantly all through the hot months of July and August.
She gave up her original intention of going home for the summer
holidays, on the pretext of reading for her next term's lectures at
the British Museum; but she did very little work in reality, and she
spent whole days in the reading-room, regardless of the people around
her, sometimes even of the book before her, and dreamed long hours
away, making visions in which only two people played any prominent
part,--and those two people were Paul and herself. Her whole life
seemed to be a kind of dream just then, with a vivid incident here and
there when she met him or went to see him, and the rest a vague
nebula, in which something outside herself made her do what was
expected of her. Sometimes she felt impelled to work furiously hard
for a day or two, or to take long walks by herself, as though nothing
else would tire her restless energy; and then she would relapse into
her lethargic mood again, and do nothing but watch vigilantly for the
post, or haunt the streets where she had sometimes met him. And all
the while she thought she was happy, with a kind of weird, passionate
happiness she had never known before; and it seemed to compensate for
the hours of suspense and anxiety she went through when he took no
notice of her. For his conduct was as inexplicable as ever; and for
one day that he was demonstrative and even affectionate, she had to
endure many of indifference that almost amounted to cruelty.
"We are horribly alike; it hurts me sometimes when I suddenly find
myself in you," she said to him one day, when he was in an expansive
mood.
"I am much honoured by the discovery, but I fail to see where the
likeness lies," was his reply.
"It is not very definite," she said, thoughtfully. "I think it must be
because I feel your changes of mood so quickly. We laugh together at
something, and everything seems so fearfully nice; and then, suddenly,
I feel that something has sprung up between us, and I look up and I
see that you feel it too, and all at once there is nothing to talk
about. Haven't you ever noticed it?"
"I think you are an absurdly sensitive little girl," he said, smiling.
"Of course," she continued, without heeding his remark, "on the
surface, no two people could be more unlike than we are. You are so
awfully afraid of showing what you feel, for instance; but I always
tell you everything, don't I?"
"My dear child, what nonsense! I am of the most artless and confiding
nature; while you, on the contrary, never give yourself away at all.
Why, you never tell me anything I really want to know! Whatever put
such an idea into that curious head of yours?"
"Oh, don't!" she cried. "You make me feel quite hysterical! You have
no right to upset all my views on my own character, as well as on
yours. I _know_ I am stupidly demonstrative. I have often blushed all
over because I have told you things I never meant to tell any one. How
can you say I am reserved? I only wish I were!"
"The few confidences of a reserved person are always rash ones,"
observed Paul. "The same might be said of the reflections of an
impulsive person, or the impulses of a reflective one. It all comes
from want of habit. You can't alter your temperament, that's all."
"But I can't believe that I am reserved," she persisted; "it seems
incredible. And it makes us more alike than ever."
"Really, Katharine, I beg you to rid your mind of that exceedingly
fallacious notion," said Paul, laughing. "I assure you I am to be read
like a book."
"A book in a strange language, then. I don't think I shall ever be
able to read it," said Katharine, shaking her head. And she drew down
a rebuke upon herself for being solemn.
They had a tacit unwillingness to become serious, about this time;
their conversation was made up of trivialities, and he never kissed
her except on the tips of her fingers. They avoided any demonstration
of feeling that might have revealed to them the anomaly of their
position, and they mutually shrank from defining their relations
towards one another.
They were standing together at the window, one day, looking down into
Fountain Court, which was as hot and as dusty as ever in spite of the
water that was playing into the basin in the middle.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked her, so suddenly that she was
surprised into an answer.
"I was thinking how queer it is that you and I should be friends like
this," she replied, truthfully.
"What's the matter with our friendship, then?" he asked, in the
prosaic manner he always assumed when she showed any sentiment. She
laughed.
"There's nothing the matter with it, of course. You are the most
unromantic person I ever knew. You seem to delight in divesting every
little trivial incident of its sentiment. What makes you such a
Vandal?"
"But, surely, you are not supposing that there _is_ any romance in our
knowing each other, are you?"
"I never dreamed of such a thing," retorted Katharine. "I think there
is more romance in your cigarette holder than in the whole of you!"
Sometimes she wondered if he were capable of deep feeling at all, or
if his indifference were really assumed.
"I envy you your utter disregard of circumstance," she once exclaimed
to him. "How did you learn it? Do you really never feel things, or is
it only an easy way of getting through life?"
"I'm afraid I don't see what you are driving at. I dare say you are
being very brilliant, but I fail to discern what I am expected to
say."
"You are not expected to say anything," she said, playfully. "That is
the best of being a gigantic fraud like yourself; nobody ever does
expect you to fulfil the ordinary requirements of every-day life. You
might be a heathen god, who grins heartlessly while people try to
propitiate him with the best they have to offer, and who eats up their
gifts greedily when they are not looking."
"Has all this any reference to me, might I ask?"
"I don't believe you've got any ordinary human feeling," pursued
Katharine. "I don't believe you care for anybody or anything, so long
as you are left alone. Why don't you say something, instead of staring
at me as though I were a curiosity?"
"If you reflect, you will see that there has not been a single pause
since you began to speak. Besides, why shouldn't you be catechised as
well as myself? Where do you keep all your deep feeling, please? I
haven't seen much of it, but perhaps I have no right to expect such a
thing. No doubt you keep it all for some luckier person than myself."
His tone was one of raillery, as hers had been when she began to talk.
But she startled him, as she did sometimes, by a sudden change of
mood; and she flashed round upon him indignantly.
"It is horrible of you to laugh at me. You know you don't mean what
you say; you know I have any amount of deep feeling. I hide it on
purpose, because you don't like me to show it, you know you don't!
I--I think you are very unkind to me."
He reached out his hand and stroked her hair gently; she was sitting a
little away from him, and he could see the sensitive curve of her
lower lip.
"Don't, child! One never knows how to take you. Another time you would
have seen that I was only joking."
"You have no right to joke about such a serious matter. You know it
was a serious matter, now; wasn't it?"
"The most serious in the universe," he assured her; and he brought his
hand gently down her cheek, and laid it against her throat.
"You are only laughing; you always laugh at me," she complained; but
she bent her head, and kissed his hand softly. "I feel like a wolf,
sometimes," she added, impetuously.
"Didn't you have enough tea?" he said. But she knew by his tone that
he was not laughing at her now, and she went on recklessly.
"I am certain I could not love any one very much, without hating him
too. It is a horrible dual feeling that tears one to pieces. Is it the
badness in me, I wonder? Other people don't seem to feel like that
when they are in love. Why is it?"
"Because it is the same emotion, or set of emotions, that inspires
both love and hatred," said Paul. "Circumstance does the rest, or
temperament."
"It is inexplicable," said Katharine solemnly. "I can understand
killing a man, because he could not understand my love for him; or
casting off my own child, because it was bored by my affection. I am
quite sure," she added, quaintly, "that I should bore any one in a
week, if I really loved him."
"Oh, no," said Paul politely; and they again laughed away a crisis.