The Sunday afternoon on which the Honourable Mrs. Keeley gave her
first reception, that season, was a singularly dull and sultry one.
The room was filled with celebrities and their satellites; and
Katharine's head was aching badly, as she struggled with difficulty
through the crowd and managed to squeeze herself into a corner by the
open window. She was always affected by the weather; and to-day, she
felt unusually depressed by the absence of sunshine. A voice from the
balcony uttered her name, and she turned round with a sigh, to be met
by the complacent features of Laurence Heaton. For a moment she did
not recognise him; and then, the sound of his voice carried her back
to Ivingdon, and she smiled back at him for the sake of the
associations he brought to her mind.
"Is it really two years?" he was saying. "Seems impossible when I look
at your face, Miss Austen. Two years! And what have you been doing
with yourself all this time, eh? And how do you contrive to look so
fresh on a day like this? I am quite charmed to have this opportunity
of renewing so pleasant an acquaintance."
He forgot that, when he had known her before, she had annoyed him by
not being in his style. And Katharine answered him vaguely, while her
eyes wandered over the crowd of faces; for Paul had told her he was
going to be there, and she felt restless.
"Small place the world is, to be sure," continued Heaton, with the air
of a man who says something that has not been said before. "Who would
have expected you to turn up at my old friends', the Keeleys'? Most
curious coincidence, I must say!" Katharine, who knew of his very
recent introduction to the house, explained her own relationship
demurely. But her companion was quite unabashed, and changed the
conversation skilfully.
"Wilton often comes here, he tells me. You remember Wilton, don't you?
Ah, of course you do, since it is to him that I owe your charming
acquaintance," he said, gallantly. "He met them at Nice, or somewhere.
Astonishing how many people one meets at Nice! Wilton always meets
every one, though, and every one likes him; he's so brilliant, don't
you think? Yes, brilliant exactly describes him. Ever seen him since
he stayed in your delightful rural home?"
"Oh, I see him here sometimes. And my aunt is expecting him to-day, I
believe."
"I have no doubt of it, no doubt of it whatever!" smiled Heaton,
nodding his head wisely. "If I'm not very much mistaken, Wilton is
often the guest of Mrs. Keeley, is he not?"
The meaning in his remarks was wasted on Katharine, for most of her
attention was still concentrated on the doorway. But Heaton, to whom
she was more of an excuse than a reason for conversation, rambled on
contentedly.
"Nice fellow, Wilton, to bring me here, pretending he wanted me to
know her! Not much chance of that, I fancy! I haven't had two words
with her since I first called here with him, three weeks ago. Ah,
well, I mustn't be surprised at that,--an old fellow like me; though I
would have you know, Miss Austen, that I am still young enough to
admire the charms of a beautiful woman! But it is amusing, all the
same, to watch how a serious fellow like Wilton suddenly forgets all
his prejudices against marriage, and behaves like every one else. If
it had been me, now--but then, I'm a marrying man, and I've had two of
the sweetest wives God ever gave to erring man-- Ah, I beg your
pardon?"
"I--I don't quite understand," said Katharine.
"Nobody does, my dear young lady; nobody does. It is impossible to
understand a clever, quiet sort of chap like Wilton. To begin with, he
doesn't mean you to. But I'm heartily glad he has made such a
fortunate choice; he is an old friend of mine, and my friends'
happiness is always my happiness. He is lucky, for all that; beauty
and money and influence, all combined in one charming person, are not
to be despised, are they? She is so sweet, too; and sweetness in a
woman is worth all the virtues put together, don't you agree with me?
Now, tell me,--woman's opinion is always worth having,--do you
consider her so very pretty?"
"I don't know whom you mean," said Katharine. She was wishing he would
take his idle chatter away to some one else. But Heaton was accustomed
to inattention on the part of his hearers, and he was not disconcerted
by hers.
"Why, the beautiful Miss Keeley, to be sure," he replied. "For all
that," he added, hastily, "I think she is rather overrated, don't
you?" This was meant to be very cunning, for he prided himself on
being an accomplished lady's man. But Katharine's reply baffled him.
"Do you mean Marion? I think she is beautiful," she said, warmly. "I
am not surprised that every one should admire her."
"Just so, just so; quite my view of the case!" exclaimed Heaton, at
once. "I call her unique, don't you? 'Pon my word, I never felt more
pleased at anything in my life! What a future for Wilton, with the
Honourable Mrs. Keeley for a mother-in-law, and her beautiful daughter
for a wife; why, we shall see him in Parliament before long! The
Attorney-General of the future,--there's no doubt about it. Ah, I see
you are smiling at my enthusiasm, Miss Austen. That is because you do
not know me well enough to realise how much my friends are to me. All
the real happiness in my life comes from my friends, it does indeed.
But I am boring you with this dull conversation about myself. Come
along with me, and I'll see where the ices are to be found. Young
people always like ices, eh?"
And she yielded to his kindly good-nature, even while she felt
indignant with him for spreading such an absurd piece of gossip. And
what had Paul been doing, to allow such an idea to take root in his
foolish old head? He had known nothing of the rumour on Wednesday, for
she had been to a concert with him then, and he had never once alluded
to her cousin. Of course, it was ridiculous to give it another
thought, and she roused herself to chatter gaily to her companion as
they slowly made their way downstairs.
But, as she stood in the crowded dining-room, wedged between the table
and Heaton who was occupied for the moment in seeking for champagne
cup, she became again the unwilling hearer of that same absurd piece
of gossip. It sounded less blatant, perhaps, from the lips of the two
magnificent dowagers who were lightly discussing it, but it was hardly
less vulgar in its essence; and Katharine ceased to be gay, and shrank
instinctively away from them.
"Who is he? I seem to know the name, but I never remember meeting him
anywhere. Surely her mother would not throw her away on a nobody? She
expects such great things from Marion, one is always led to believe;
though she is just the sort of girl to end in being a disappointment,
don't you think so?"
"My dear, it is a _fait accompli_, and he is not a nobody at all. He
would not visit here if he were; at least, not seriously. His name is
Wilton,--something Wilton, Peter or Paul or one of the apostles, I
forget which. He belongs to a very good Yorkshire family, I am told.
His father was a bishop, or it may have been a canon; at all events,
he was not an ordinary person. Mr. Wilton, this one, is one of our
rising men, I believe,--a lawyer, or a barrister, or something of that
sort. He defended the plaintiff in the Christopher case, don't you
remember? And with Mrs. Keeley to back him up, he will soon be in the
front rank,--there is no doubt about that. They always ice the coffee
too much here, don't they? Have you seen Marion to-day?"
"Yes. She's over there in the same green silk. Wonderful hair, isn't
it? A little too red for my taste, but any one can see it is
wonderful. He's over there too, but you can't see him from here. He is
much older than Marion, and delicate looking. I shouldn't like a child
of mine to marry him, but that's another matter. And, of course, all
_my_ girls were so particular about looks. How insufferably hot it
is! Shall we go upstairs?"
Laurence Heaton had a second glass of champagne cup, and when he had
drunk it he found that Katharine was gone. He dismissed her from his
mind without any difficulty, however, and fought his way upstairs to
find some one who was more to his taste. He certainly did not connect
her disappearance with his gossip, nor yet with his old friend, Paul
Wilton.
And Katharine could not have told him herself why she had slipped away
so abruptly. Of course, the rumour was not true; she did not believe a
word of it; and it was disloyal to Paul even to be annoyed by it. But
it was disquieting, all the same, to hear his name so persistently
coupled with her cousin's; and she wondered if her aunt knew any of
his views against marriage, to which she had been so often a humble
listener. And it was equally certain that he was one of the most
rising men of the day; she did not want to be told that by a number of
society gossips, who had never even heard of him until he paid his
attentions to one of their set,--just the ordinary attentions of a
courteous man to a beautiful woman. Had he not repeatedly told her
that she knew more about his real life and his real self, more about
his ambition and his work, than any one else in the world? He had
chosen her out of all his friends for a confidant; and yet, she might
not even acknowledge her friendship for him. He only trifled with
Marion, teased her about the number of her admirers, talked to her
about the colour of her hair, and the daintiness of her appearance; he
had told her that, too. Marion knew nothing of his aspirations; she
would not understand them, if she did. And yet it was common talk that
he admired Marion, while _she_ was to make a secret of her intimacy
with him. Something of the old feeling of rebellion against him, which
had been dead ever since the evening they had supped together in his
chambers, was in her mind as she left the house where he was sitting
with Marion, and walked aimlessly towards the park. The sun had
completely vanished in a dull red mist; and the intense heat and lurid
atmosphere did not tend to raise her spirits. A nameless feeling of
impending trouble crept over her, and she felt powerless to shake it
off. She wandered along the edge of the crowds as they listened to the
labour agitators, past groups of children playing on the grass, past
endless pairs of lovers in their Sunday garments, until the noisy
tramp of footsteps began to grate upon her nerves; and she turned and
fled from the park, as she had fled from Curzon Street. Something at
last took her towards the Temple, and an hour later she was knocking
furtively at the door of Paul's chambers. She had never been there on
a Sunday before, and the deserted look of the courts, and the silk
dress of the housekeeper whom she met on the stairs, depressed her
still further. Would she come in and wait, the housekeeper suggested,
as Mr. Wilton was out, and had not said when he would be back? But
Katharine shook her head wearily, and turned her face homewards. Even
the solitude of Queen's Crescent could not be worse than the
unfriendliness of the deserted London streets. She went out of her way
to walk down Curzon Street, without knowing why she did so, and took
the trouble to cross over to the side opposite her aunt's house, also
without a definite purpose in her mind. It was not much after eight,
but the storm was still gathering, and there was only just enough
daylight left to show the figure of a girl on the balcony. It was
Marion, beyond any doubt Marion, who was leaning forward and looking
down into the street as though she expected to see some one come out
of the house. The front door opened, and a man came down the steps;
he looked up and raised his hat, and lingered; and Marion glanced
hastily around, kissed her fingers to him, and vanished indoors. The
man walked away down the street with a leisurely step, and Katharine
stepped back into the shadow of the portico. But her caution was quite
unnecessary, for neither of them had noticed her.
For the second time that evening Katharine knocked gently at the door
of Paul's chambers in the Temple. This time, he opened to her himself.
"Good heavens!" he was startled into exclaiming. "What in the name of
wonder has brought you here at this time of night? It is to be hoped
you didn't meet any one on the stairs, did you?"
He motioned her in as he spoke, and shut the door. Katharine walked
past him in a half-dazed kind of way. There had been only two feelings
expressed in his face, and one was surprise, and the other annoyance.
"What is it, Katharine? Has anything gone wrong?" he demanded in his
low, masterful tone. Katharine turned cold; she had never realised
before how pitilessly masterful his tone was.
"I couldn't help coming,--I was so miserable! They were all saying
things about you, things that were not true. And I wanted to hear you
say they were not true. I couldn't rest; so I came. Are you angry with
me for coming, Paul?"
She faltered out the words, without looking at him. Paul shrugged his
shoulders, but she did not see the movement.
"It was hardly worth while, was it, to risk your reputation merely to
confirm what you had already settled in your own mind?"
She opened her eyes, and stared at him hopelessly. Paul walked away to
look for some cigarette papers in the pocket of a coat.
"Was it?" he repeated, with his back turned to her. Katharine
struggled to answer him.
"You have never spoken to me like that, before," she stammered at
last.
"You have never given me any cause, have you?" said Paul, rather
awkwardly.
"But what have I done?" she asked, taking a step towards him. "I
didn't know you would mind. I always come to you when I am unhappy;
you told me I might. And I was unhappy this evening; so I came. Why
should it be different this evening? I don't understand what you mean.
Why are you angry with me? You have never been angry before. What have
I done?"
"My dear child, there is no occasion for heroics," said Paul, speaking
very gently. "I am not angry with you at all. But you must own that it
is at least unusual to call upon a man, uninvited, at this unearthly
hour. And hadn't you better sit down, now you have come?"
Katharine did not move.
"What does it matter if it is unusual?" she asked. "You know I have
been here sometimes, as late as this, before. There is no harm in it,
is there? Paul! tell me what I have done to annoy you?"
Paul gave up rummaging in his coat pocket, and came and sat on the
edge of the table, and made a cigarette.
"I seem to remember having this same argument with you before," he
observed. "Don't you think it is rather futile to go all through it
again? You know quite well that it is entirely for your sake that I
wish to be careful. Hadn't we better change the subject? If you are
going to stop, you might be more comfortable in a chair."
Katharine clenched her hands in the effort to keep back her tears.
"I am not going to stay," she cried, miserably. "I can't understand
why you are so cruel to me; I think it must amuse you to hurt me. Why
do you ask me to come and see you sometimes, quite as late as this,
and then object to my coming to-night? I don't know what you mean."
Paul lighted his cigarette before he answered her.
"You have quite a talent, Katharine, for asking uncomfortable
questions. If you cannot see the difference between coming when you
are asked, and coming uninvited, I am afraid I cannot help you. Would
you like any coffee or anything?"
All at once her brain began to clear. For two hours she had been
wandering aimlessly through the streets, in a strange bewilderment of
mind, not knowing why she was there nor where she was going. Then she
had found herself in Fleet Street; and habit, rather than intention,
had brought her to the Temple. And now his maddening indifference had
touched her pride, and her deadened faculties began slowly to revive
under the shock. She put her fingers over her eyes, and tried to
think. The blood rushed to her face, and she thrilled all over with a
passionate instinct of resistance. He did not know what to make of
her, when she stepped suddenly in front of him and faced him
unflinchingly.
"You must not expect me to see the difference," she said, proudly. "I
shall never understand why I have to make a secret of what is not
wrong, nor why you allow me to do it at all if it is wrong. I think
you have been playing with my friendship all the time; I can see now
that you have not valued it, because I gave it you so freely. But I
didn't know that; I wasn't clever enough; and I had never liked
anybody but you. I didn't know that I ought to hide it, and pretend
that I didn't like you. Perhaps, if I had done that you would have
gone on liking me."
He was going to interrupt her, but she did not give him time.
"Would you ask Marion Keeley to come and see you, as you have asked
me?"
Paul's face grew dark, and she trembled suddenly at her own boldness.
"I fail to see how such a question can interest either of us," he
said, coldly.
"But would you ask her?" she repeated.
"I am perfectly assured," he replied, quietly, "that if I were to
forget myself so far as to do so, Miss Keeley would certainly not
come."
"Then you mean to say that it has always been dreadfully wrong of _me_
to come?"
"Really, Katharine, you are very quarrelsome this evening," said Paul,
with a forced laugh. "I have repeatedly pointed out to you that a man
chooses some of his friends for pleasure, and others for business. I
really fail to see why I should be subjected to this minute catechism
at your hands."
"Then you chose Marion--for business? It is true, then, what they
said! I wish--oh, I wish you had never chosen me--for pleasure!"
The anger had died out of her voice; he could hardly hear what she
said; but he made a last attempt to treat the matter lightly.
"I really think, my child, that any comparison between you and your
cousin is unnecessary," he began in a conciliating manner.
"I thought so too, until to-day," she replied, piteously.
"But what has happened to-day to put you in this uncomfortable frame
of mind?"
"It is what every one is saying about you and Marion,--all those
horrid people, and Mr. Heaton, and everybody. I want to know if it is
true. Everything is going wrong, everywhere. I wish I were dead! I
came to ask you if it is true; I thought I might do that; I thought I
knew you well enough. I didn't know you would mind. If you like, I
will go away now, and never come and see you any more, or bother you,
or let you know that I care for you so awfully. Only, tell me first,
Paul, whether it is true or not?"
Her voice had risen, as she went on, and it ended full of passionate
entreaty. The stern look on his face deepened, but he did not speak.
"I wish I knew the meaning of it all," she continued, relentlessly as
it seemed to him. "I wish it were easier to like the right people, and
to hate all the others. Why was I made the wrong way? If I had never
wanted to like you, it would have been so simple. It would not have
mattered, then, that you did not really care for me. But I wish I
understood you better. Why did you tell me that you wanted me for your
friend, always; and that you didn't believe in marriage, and those
things? I believed you so, Paul; and I was content to be your friend;
you know I was, don't you? And now you have met Marion, and she is
beautiful, and she can help you to get on, to become one of the first
men in the country, they said. And you have forgotten all about your
views against marriage; and you allow people to talk as though you
were making a kind of bargain. Oh, it is horrible! But it isn't true,
Paul, is it?"
"Who has been telling you all these things?" he asked.
"Then it is true? You are going to marry her, because of the position,
and all that? I wish it wasn't so difficult to understand. Is it a
crime, I wonder, to like any one so desperately as I like you? But I
can't help it, can I? Oh, Paul, do tell me what to do?"
He winced as she turned to him so naturally for protection, even
though it was against himself that she asked it.
"Don't talk like that, child," he said, harshly. And the hand she had
held out to him appealingly fell down limply at her side.
"I can't expect you to think anything of me, after what I have just
said to you," she went on in the same hopeless voice. "Girls are never
supposed to tell those things, are they? It doesn't seem to me to
matter much, now that it has all got to stop, for always. I only
wish--I wish it had stopped before. I--I am going now, Paul."
Although she turned away from him, she still half expected him to
come and comfort her. For a couple of seconds she stood quite still,
possessed with a terrible longing to be comforted by him. But he sat
motionless and silent on the table; even his foot had ceased swinging.
She walked unsteadily to the door.
"Stop," said Paul. "You cannot go out in this storm."
A peal of thunder broke over the house as he spoke. She had not
noticed the rain until then.
"I must go," she said dully, and fumbled at the fastening of the door.
Paul came and took her by the arm, and led her back gently.
"I want to explain, first," he said.
"There is nothing to explain," said Katharine. "I understand."
"Not quite, I think," said Paul. They were standing together by the
table, and he was nervously caressing the hand he held between his
own. "You have only been talking from your own point of view; you have
forgotten mine altogether. You do not seem to think that I, too, may
have had something to suffer."
"You? But you do not care--as I do."
He did not heed the interruption.
"It is the system that is at fault," he said. "A man has to get on at
the sacrifice of his happiness; or he has to be happy at the
sacrifice of his position. It is difficult for a woman to realise
this. She never has to choose between love and ambition."
"And you have chosen--ambition," said Katharine bitterly.
"My child, when you are older you will understand that the very
qualities you affect to despise in man now, are the qualities that
endear him to you in reality. You are far too fine a woman, Katharine,
to love a man who has no ambition. Is it not so?"
She quivered, and lowered her eyes.
"I don't know," she said. "It seems so hard."
"It is terribly hard for both of us," continued Paul, looking down
too. "But believe me, there would be nothing but unhappiness before us
if it were otherwise. I am thinking of you, child, as much as of
myself. Marriage for love alone is a ghastly mistake. There, I have
said more to you than I have ever said to any woman; I felt you would
understand, Katharine."
He mistook her silence for indifference, and put his arms round her.
But she clung to him closely, and lifted her face to his and broke out
into a desperate appeal.
"Paul, don't say those horrid, bitter things! They are not true; I
will never believe they are true. Why must you marry for anything so
sordid as ambition? Why must you marry at all? Can't we go on being
friends? I want to go on being your friend. Paul, don't send me away
for ever. I can't go, Paul; I can't! I will work for you, I will be
your slave, I will do anything; only don't let it all stop like this.
I can't bear it; I can't! Won't you go on being nice to me, Paul?"
He threw back his head and compressed his lips. He had grown quite
white in the last few moments. She sobbed out her entreaties with her
face hidden on his shoulder, and wondered why he did not speak to her.
"Why did you never look like that before?" he asked in a hoarse
whisper. She raised her head and stared at him with large, frightened
eyes.
"Like what, Paul? What do you mean?"
He flung her away from him almost roughly.
"You must go," he said, "at once."
She laid her hand on his arm, and looked into his face.
"Why are you so angry?" she asked, wonderingly. "Is it because I have
told you all these things?"
"My God, no! You must go," he repeated, vehemently, and pushed her
towards the door. She stumbled as she went, and he thought he heard
her sob. He sprang to her side instantly, and took her in his arms
again.
"Why didn't you go quickly?" he gasped, as he crushed her against him.
His sudden change of manner terrified her. None of the tenderness or
the indifference, or any of the expressions she was accustomed to see
on his face were there now, and his violence repelled her. She
struggled to free herself from his grasp.
"Let me go, Paul!" she pleaded. "I don't want to stop any more. What
is the good of it all? You know I have got to go; don't make it so
difficult. Paul, I--I _want_ to go."
He looked searchingly into her eyes, as though he would have read her
inmost thoughts; but he did not see the understanding he had almost
hoped to find there, and he laughed shortly and relinquished his hold
of her.
"There, go!" he said in an uncertain tone. "Why did I expect you to
know? Your day hasn't come yet. Meanwhile-- Ah! what am I saying?"
"I have annoyed you again," said Katharine sorrowfully. "What ought I
to have known?"
"Oh, nothing," said Paul, flinging open the door. "You can't help it.
Now and again Nature makes woman a prig, and it is only the right man
who can regenerate her. Unfortunately, circumstances prevent me from
being the right man. Are you ready to come, now?"
He spoke rapidly, hardly knowing what he said. But Katharine walked
past him without speaking, with a set look on her face. He talked
mechanically about the storm and anything else that occurred to him,
as they went downstairs, but she did not utter a word, and he did not
seem to notice her silence. She held out her hand to him as they stood
in the doorway.
"You will let me see you to a cab?" he said. "Oh, very well, as you
like; but, at least, take an umbrella with you."
She shook her head mutely, and plunged out into the rain and the
storm. It was on just such a night as this, more than two years ago,
that she had first gone out to meet him. Paul called after her to come
back and take shelter; and some one, who was walking swiftly by,
turned round at the sound of his voice. The dim lamp above shed its
uncertain light for a moment on the faces of the three, whom
circumstances had thus strangely brought together in the fury of that
June thunder-storm. It was only for a moment. Paul drew back again
into the doorway, and Katharine stumbled blindly against the man
outside.
"Ted!" she cried, with a sob of relief. "Take me home, Ted, will you?
Something terrible has happened to me; I can't tell you now. Oh, I am
so glad it is you!"
She clung to his arm convulsively. Some clock in the neighbourhood was
striking the hour, and it struck twelve times before Ted spoke.
"Kitty!" he said.
She waited, but not another word came. Exhaustion prevented her from
resisting, as he led her to a hansom, and paid the driver, and left
her. Then she remembered dimly that he had not spoken to her, except
for that one startled exclamation.
It seemed to Katharine as though nothing could be wanting to complete
her wretchedness.