As this is a record of the history of a family and not only of individuals, Aunt Aggie must be seriously considered; it was the first ominous2 mistake that Philip made that he did not seriously consider her. Agnes Trenchard, when quite a young girl, had been pretty in a soft and rounded manner. Two offers of marriage had been made to her, but she had refused these because she had a great sense of her destiny. From her first thinking moment she had considered herself very seriously. She had very high ideals; the finest thing in this world was a life of utter unselfishness, a life of noble devotion and martyred self-interest. She looked about her and could see no signs of such lives; all the more then was it clear that she was set apart to give the world such an example. Unfortunately, allied3 to this appreciation4 of a fine self-sacrificing character was a nature self-indulgent, indolent and suspicious. Could she be unselfish without trouble or loss then how unselfish she would be! She liked the idea of it immensely....
For some years she was pretty, sang a little and obviously ‘thought more’ than either of her sisters. People listened then to her creed5 and believed in her intentions. She talked often of unselfishness, was always ready to do anything for anybody, and was always prevented or forestalled6 by less altruistic7 people. When, after her two offers of marriage, she stepped very quickly into the shapes and colours of an old maid, went to live with her sister-in-law and brother, and formed ‘habits’, people listened to her less readily. She herself however, quite unaware8 that at thirty-five, life for a woman is, sexually, either over or only just commencing, hoped to continue the illusions of her girlhood. The nobility of unselfishness appealed to her more than ever, but she found that the people around her were always standing9 in her way. She became, therefore, quite naturally, rather bitter. Her round figure expressed, in defiance10 of its rotundity, peevishness11.
She had to account for her failures in self-sacrificing altruism12, and found it not in her own love of ease and dislike of effort, but, completely, in other people’s selfishness. Had she been permitted she would have been the finest Trenchard alive, and how fine that was only a Trenchard could know! But the world was in a conspiracy13 against her—the world, and especially her sister Elizabeth, whom she despised and bullied14, but, somewhere in her strange suspicious crust of a heart, loved. That was, perhaps, the strangest thing about her—that, in spite of her ill-humour, discontents and irritations15, she really loved the family, and would like to have told it so were she not continually prevented by its extraordinary habit of being irritating just when she felt most affectionate! She really did love them, and she would go down sometimes in the morning with every intention of saying so, but in five minutes they had destroyed that picture of herself which, during her absence from them, she had painted—for that, of course, she could not forgive them.
In the mansion17 of the human soul there are many chambers18; Aunt Aggie’s contradictions were numberless; but, on broad lines it may be said that her assurance of the injustice19 of her own fate was balanced only by her conviction of the good luck of everyone else. She hoped, perpetually, that they would all recognise this—namely, that their Life had treated them with the most wonderful good fortune. Her brother George Trenchard, for instance, with his careless habits, his indifference20 to the facts of life, his obvious selfishness. What disasters he would, had he not been incredibly favoured, most surely have encountered! Aunt Aggie was afraid that he did not sufficiently21 realise this, and so, in order that he might offer up thanks to God, she reminded him, as often as was possible, of his failings. Thus, too, with the others. Even Katherine, for whom she cared deeply, betrayed, at times, a haughty22 and uplifted spirit, and, frequently forestalled her aunt’s intended unselfishness, thus, in a way, rebuking23 her aunt, a thing that a niece should never do. With this consciousness of her relations’ failings went an insatiable curiosity. Aunt Aggie, because she was the finest character in the family, should be rewarded by the trust and confidence of the family; she must, at any rate, maintain the illusion that she received it. Did they keep her quiet with little facts and stories that were of no importance, she must make them important in order to support her dignity. She made them very important indeed....
A great factor was her religion. She was, like her sister, a most sincere and devout24 member of the Church of England. She believed in God as revealed to her by relations and clergymen in the day of her baptism; time and a changing world had done nothing to shake her confidence. But, unlike her sisters, she believed that this God existed chiefly as a friend and supporter of Miss Agnes Trenchard. He had other duties and purposes, of course, but did not hide from her His especial interest in herself. The knowledge of this gave her great confidence. She was now fifty years of age, and believed that she was still twenty-five; that is not to say that she dressed as a young woman or encouraged, any longer, the possibility of romantic affairs. It was simply that the interest and attraction that she offered to the world as a fine and noble character were the same as they had ever been—and if the world did not recognize this that was because fine and noble characters were few and difficult to discover. One knew this because the Trenchard family offered so seldom an example of one, and the Trenchards were, of course, the finest people in England.
She had great power with her relations because she knew, so intimately, their weaknesses. People, on the whole, may be said to triumph over those who believe in them and submit to those who don’t. The Trenchards, because life was full and time was short, submitted to Aunt Aggie and granted anything in order that they might not be made uncomfortable. They could not, however, allow her to abuse them, one to another, and would submit to much personal criticism before they permitted treachery. Their mutual25 affection was a very real factor in their lives. Aunt Aggie herself had her share in it. She possessed26, nevertheless, a genius for creating discomfort27 or for promoting an already unsteady atmosphere. She was at her best when the family was at its worst, because then she could perceive, quite clearly, her own fine nobility.
Philip Mark had made a grave mistake when he disregarded her.
She had disliked Philip from the first. She had disapproved29 of the way that he had burst in upon the family just when she had been at her best in the presentation to her father. He had not known that she had been at her best, but then that was his fault. She had been ready to forgive this, however, if, in the days that followed, he had shown that he appreciated her. He had not shown this, at all—he had, in fact, quite obviously preferred her sister Elizabeth. He had not listened to her with close attention when she had talked to him about the nobility of unselfishness, and he had displayed both irritation16 and immorality30 in his views of life. She had been shocked by the abruptness31 with which he had rebuked32 Mr. Seymour, and she thought his influence on Henry was, already, as bad as it could be. It was of course only too characteristic of George that he should encourage the young man. She could see what her father and Aunt Sarah thought of him, and she could only say that she entirely33 shared their opinion.
Philip’s visit had upset her, and Millie’s return from Paris upset her still more. She had never cared greatly about Millie, who had never showed her any deference34 or attention, but Millie had until now always been a Trenchard. She had come back from Paris only half a Trenchard. Aunt Aggie was grievously afraid that troublesome times were in store for them all.
It was just at this point that her attention was directed towards Katherine. She always considered that Katherine knew her better than any other member of the family did, which simply meant that Katherine considered her feelings. Lately, however, Katherine had not considered her feelings. She had, on at least two occasions, been deliberately35 uncivil! Once Aunt Aggie had suffered from neuralgia, and Katherine had promised to come and read her to sleep and had forgotten to do so. Next morning, her neuralgia being better, Aunt Aggie said—“I can’t, dear Katherine, imagine myself, under similar conditions, acting36 as you have done.... I had a sleepless37 night.... But of course you had more important duties”—and Katherine had scarcely apologised. On the second occasion Aunt Aggie at breakfast, (she was always bitter at breakfast, mildly unhappy over her porridge and violently sarcastic38 by marmalade time) had remarked with regret that Millie, who was late, had “picked up these sad habits abroad. She had never known anyone the finer, whether in character or manners, for living abroad;” here was a little dust flung at the inoffensive person of Philip, now soundly asleep in Jermyn Street. At once Katherine was “in a flurry.” “What right had Aunt Aggie to say so? How could she tell? It might be better if one went abroad more, lost some of one’s prejudices ...” quite a little scene! Very unlike Katherine!
Aunt Aggie did not forget. Like some scientist or mathematician39, happily let loose into some new theory or problem, so now did she consider Katherine. Katherine was different, Katherine was restless and out of temper. She had been so ever since Philip Mark’s visit.... With her sewing or her book Aunt Aggie sat in a corner by the drawing-room fire and watched and waited.
Upon that afternoon that had seen Katherine’s meeting with Philip by the river Aunt Aggie had been compelled to have tea alone. That had been annoying, because it looked as though the gay world was inviting40 everyone except Aunt Aggie to share in its excitements and pleasures. At last there arrived Mrs. Trenchard and Millie, and finally Katherine. Aunt Aggie had sat in her warm corner, pursuing with her needle the green tail of an unnatural41 parrot which she was working into a slowly-developing cushion cover and had considered her grievances42. It had been a horrible day, cold and gloomy. Aunt Aggie had a chilblain that, like the Waits, always appeared about Christmas and, unlike them, stayed on well into the spring. It had made its appearance, for the first time this season, during the past night. Millie talked a great deal about very little, and Mrs. Trenchard received her remarks with the nonchalant indifference of a croupier raking in the money at Monte Carlo. Katherine sat staring into the fire and saying nothing.
Aunt Aggie, watching her, felt quite suddenly as though the firelight had leapt from some crashing coal into a flaring43 splendour, that something strange and unusual was with them in the room. She was not at all, like her sister Elizabeth, given to romantic and sentimental44 impressions. She seldom read novels, and cared nothing for the theatre. What she felt now was really unpleasant and uncomfortable, as though she had soap in her eyes or dropped her collection under the seat during the Litany. The room positively45 glowed, the dim shadows were richly coloured, and in Aunt Aggie’s heart was alarm and agitation46.
She stared about her; she looked about the room and pierced the shadows; she sewed a wrong stitch into the parrots’ tail, and then decided47 that it was Katherine’s eyes.... She looked at the girl—she looked again and again—saw her bending forward a little, her hands pressed together on her lap, her breast rising and falling with the softest suspicion of some agitation, and, in her eyes, such a light as could come from no fire, no flame from without, but only from the very soul itself. Katherine’s good-tempered, humorous eyes, so charged with common-sense, affectionate but always mild, unagitated, calm, like her mother’s—now what was one to say?
Aunt Aggie said nothing. Her own heart felt for an instant some response. She would have liked to have taken the girl into her arms and kissed her and petted her. In a moment the impulse passed. What was the matter with Katherine? Who was the matter with Katherine? It was almost improper48 that anyone should look like that in a drawing-room that had witnessed so much good manners. Moreover it was selfish, this terrible absorption. If Katherine began to think of herself, whatever would happen to them all! And there were Millie and her mother, poor things, chattering50 blindly together. Aunt Aggie felt that the business of watching over this helpless family did indeed devolve upon her. From that moment Katherine and the things that were possibly happening to Katherine never left her thoughts. She was happier than she had been for many months.
But Katherine, in the days that followed, gave her curiosity no satisfaction. Aunt Aggie dated, in future years, all the agitation that was so shortly to sweep down upon the Trenchard waters from that afternoon when ‘Katherine’s eyes had seemed so strange’, but her insistence51 on that date did not at all mean that it was then that Katherine invited her aunt’s confidence, Aunt Aggie was compelled to drive on her mysterious way alone. She was now assured that ‘something was the matter’, but the time had not yet arrived when all the family was concerned in it.
In any case, to begin with, what was her sister-in-law Harriet Trenchard thinking? No one ever knew what Harriet Trenchard thought; and foolish and hasty observers said that that was because Harriet Trenchard never thought at all. Aggie Trenchard was neither foolish nor hasty; she was afraid of Harriet because, after all these years, she knew nothing about her. She had never penetrated52 that indifferent stolidity53. Harriet had never spoken to her intimately about anything, nor had Harriet once displayed any emotions, whether of surprise or anger, happiness or grief, but Aggie was penetrating55 enough to fear that brooding quiet.
At least Aggie knew her sister-in-law well enough to realise that her children were an ever-present, ever-passionate element in her life. On certain occasions, concerning Millie, Katherine, Henry or Vincent, Aggie had seen that silence, for a moment, quiver as a still lake trembles with a sudden shake or roll when the storm is raging across the hills—especially was Katherine linked to her mother’s most intimate hold upon life, even though the words that they exchanged were of the most commonplace; Aunt Aggie knew that, and strangely, obscurely, she was moved, at times, to sudden impulses of bitter jealousy56. Why was it that no one cared for her as Katherine cared for her mother? What was there in Harriet to care for?... and yet—nevertheless, Aggie Trenchard loved her sister-in-law. With regard to this present business Aggie knew, with sufficient assurance, that Harriet disliked Philip Mark, had disliked him from the first. Had Harriet noticed this change in her daughter, and had she drawn57 her conclusions? What would Harriet say if...? Aunt Aggie added stitches to the green parrot’s tail with every comfortable assurance that ‘in a time or two’, there would be plenty of trouble.
Ultimately, through it all, it was her jealousy that moved her and her jealousy that provoked the first outburst ... instantly, without warning, new impulses, new relationships, new motives58 were working amongst them all, and their world was changed.
Upon an afternoon, Aunt Aggie hearing that Henry wished to change a novel at Mudie’s Library (that very novel that he had been reading on the day of Philip’s arrival) offered to take it for him. This was at luncheon59, and she felt, because she liked her food and barley-water, a sudden impulse towards the Ideal Unselfishness. She made her offer, and then reflected that it would be very troublesome to go so far as Oxford60 Street; she therefore allowed Katherine to accept the mission, retaining at the same time her own nobility. She became quite angry: “Of course,” she said, “you consider me too old to do anything—to sit in a corner and sew is all I’m good for—well, well—you’ll be old yourself one day, Katherine, my dear. I should have liked to have helped Henry.... However ...”
She was conscious, during the afternoon, of some injustice; she had been treated badly. At dinner that night Rocket forgot the footstool that was essential to her comfort; she was compelled at last to ask him for it. He had never forgotten it before; they all thought her an old woman who didn’t matter; no one troubled now about her—well, they should see....
Great Aunt Sarah was, as often happened to her, rheumatic but Spartan61 in bed. The ladies, when they left the dining-room and closed around the drawing-room fire, were Mrs. Trenchard, Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty, Katherine and Millie. Happy and comfortable enough they looked, with the shadowed dusky room behind them and the blaze in front of them. In the world outside it was a night of intense frost: here they were reflected in the Mirror, Mrs. Trenchard’s large gold locket (Henry as a baby inside it), Aggie’s plump neck and black silk dress, Aunt Betty’s darting62, sparkling eyes, Millie’s lovely shoulders, Katherine’s rather dumpy ones—there they all were, right inside the Mirror, with a reflected fire to make them cosy63 and the walls ever so thick and old. The freezing night could not touch them.
“Rocket’s getting very old and careless,” said Aggie.
Everyone had known that Aunt Aggie was out of temper this evening, and everyone, therefore, was prepared for a tiresome64 hour or two. Rocket was a great favourite; Mrs. Trenchard, her arms folded across her bosom65, her face the picture of placid66 content, said:
“Oh, Aggie, do you think so?... I don’t.”
“No, of course, you don’t, Harriet,” answered her sister sharply. “He takes care with you. Of course he does. But if you considered your sister sometimes—”
“My dear Aggie!” Mrs. Trenchard, as she spoke54, bent67 forward and very quietly picked up a bright green silk thread from the carpet.
“Oh, I’m not complaining! That’s a thing I don’t believe in! After all, if you think Rocket’s perfection I’ve no more to say. I want others to be comfortable—for myself I care nothing. It is for the rest of the family.”
“We’re quite comfortable, Aunt Aggie, thank you,” said Millie laughing.
“I hope you don’t think, Harriet,” said Aggie, disregarding her niece, “that I’m complaining—I—”
Mrs. Trenchard leant towards her, holding out the thread of green silk!
“That must be from your silks, Aggie dear,” she said. “It’s just the colour of your parrot’s tail. I couldn’t think what it was, lying there on the carpet.”
It was then that Katherine, who had paid no attention to this little conversation but had followed her own thoughts, said:
“Oh! how careless of me! I never took Henry’s book, after all—and I went right up Oxford Street too!”
This was unfortunate, because it reminded Aunt Aggie of something that she had very nearly forgotten. Of course Katherine had never intended to take the book—she had simply offered to do so because she thought her Aunt old, feeble, and incapable68.
“Really, Katherine,” said Aunt Aggie, “you might have let me take it after all. I may be useless in most ways and not worth anyone’s consideration, but at least I’m still able to walk up Oxford Street in safety!”
Her aunt’s tones were so bitter that Katherine looked across at her in some dismay.
Aunt Betty did not assist the affair by saying:
“Why, Aggie dear, who ever supposed you couldn’t; I’m sure you can do anything you want to!”
“Well, perhaps, next time,” Aunt Aggie said sharply. “When I offer some help someone will listen to me. I should not have forgotten the book.”
“I can’t think why I did,” said Katherine, “I remembered it just before I started, and then something happened—”
Aunt Aggie looked about her, and thought that this would be a very good opportunity for discovering the real state of Katherine’s mind.
“You must take care, Katherine dear,” she said, “you don’t seem to me to have been quite yourself lately. I’ve noticed a number of little things. You’re tired, I think.”
Katherine laughed. “Why should I be? I’ve had nothing to make me.”
It was then that Aunt Aggie caught a look of strange, almost furtive69 anxiety in Harriet’s eyes. Following this, for the swiftest moment, Katherine and her mother exchanged a gleam of affection, of reassurance70, of confidence.
“Ah!” thought Aunt Aggie, “they’re laughing at me. Everyone’s laughing at me.”
“My dear Katherine,” she snapped, “I’m sure I don’t know what’s tired you, but I think you must realise what I mean. You are not your normal self; and, if your old aunt may say so, that’s a pity.”
Millie, looking across at her sister, was astonished to see the colour rising in her cheeks. Katherine was annoyed! Katherine minded Aunt Aggie! Katherine, who was never out of temper—never perturbed71! and at Aunt Aggie!
“Really, Aunt Aggie,” Katherine said, “it’s very tiresome if all the family are going to watch one day and night as though one were something from the Zoo. Tiresome is not nearly strong enough.”
Her aunt smiled bitterly.
“It’s only my affection for you,” she said. “But of course you don’t want that. Why should you? One day, however, you may remember that someone once cared whether you were tired or not.”
Aunt Aggie’s hands trembled on her lap.
Katherine shook her head impatiently.
“I’m very grateful for your kindness—but I’d much rather be left alone. I’m not tired, nor odd, nor anything—so, please, don’t tell me that I am.”
Aggie rose from her chair, and very slowly with trembling fingers drew her work together. “I think,” she said, her voice quivering a little, “that I’ll go to bed. Next time you wish to insult me, Katherine, I’d rather you did it when we were alone.”
A very slow and stately figure, she walked down the drawing-room and disappeared.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Oh, dear!” cried Katherine, “I’m so sorry!” She looked round upon them all, and saw quite clearly that they were surprised at her. Again behind Mrs. Trenchard’s eyes there hovered72 that suspicion of anxiety.
“What did I do? What did I say? Aunt Aggie’s so funny.” Then, as still they did not answer, she turned round upon them: “Have I been cross and tiresome lately? Have you all noticed it? Tell me.”
Aunt Betty said, “No, dear, of course not.”
Millie said, “What does it matter what Aunt Aggie says?”
Mrs. Trenchard said, “There’s another of Aggie’s green threads. Under your chair, Millie dear. I’d better go up and see whether she wants anything.”
But Katherine rose and, standing for an instant with a little half-smile, half-frown, surveying them, moved then slowly away from them down the room.
She went up through the dark passages slowly, meditatively74. She waited for a moment outside her aunt’s door and then knocked, heard then her aunt’s voice, “Come in!”—in tones that showed that she had been expecting some ambassador.
Katherine stood by the door, then moved forward, put her arms about Aunt Aggie and kissed her.
“I’m so sorry. I’m afraid that I hurt you. You know that I didn’t mean to.”
Upon Aunt Aggie’s dried cheeks there hovered a tiny cold and glassy tear. She drew back from Katherine’s embrace, then with a strange, almost feverish75 movement caught Katherine’s hand.
“It wasn’t, my dear, that you hurt me. I expect I’m too sensitive—that has always been my misfortune. But I felt” (another glassy tear now upon the other cheek) “that you and Millie are finding me tiresome now.”
“Aunt Aggie! Of course not!”
“I wish to be of some use—it is my continual prayer—some use to someone—and you make me feel—but of course you are young and impatient—that I’d be better perhaps out of the way.”
Katherine answered her very gravely: “If I’ve ever made you feel that for a moment, Aunt Aggie, there’s nothing too bad for me. But how can you say such a thing? Aren’t you a little unjust?”
The two tears had disappeared.
“I daresay I am, my dear, I daresay I am—or seem so to you. Old people often do to young ones. But I’m not unjust, I think, in fancying that you yourself have changed lately. I made you angry when I said that just now, but I felt it my duty—”
Katherine was silent. Aunt Aggie watched her with bright, inquisitive76 eyes, from which tears were now very far away.
“Well, we won’t say any more, dear. My fault is, perhaps, that I am too anxious to do things for others, and so may seem to you young ones interfering77. I don’t know, I’m sure. It has always been my way. I’m glad indeed when you tell me that nothing is the matter. To my old eyes it seems that ever since Mr. Mark stayed here the house has not been the same. You have not been the same.”
“Mr. Mark?” Katherine’s voice was sharp, then suddenly dropped and, after an instant’s silence, was soft, “You’ve got Mr. Mark on the brain, Aunt Aggie.”
“Well, my dear, I didn’t like him. I’m sure he was very bad for Henry. But then I’m old-fashioned, I suppose. Mr. Mark shocked me, I confess. Russia must be a very wild country.”
Then, for a space, they looked at one another. Katherine said nothing, only, her cheeks flushed, her breath coming sharply, stared into the mirror on the dressing-table. Aunt Aggie faced in this silence something alarming and uneasy; it was as though they were, both of them, listening for some sound, but the house was very still.
“I think I’ll go to bed, my dear. Kiss me, Katherine. Don’t forget that I’m older than you, dear. I know something of the world—yes ... good-night, my dear.”
They embraced; Katherine left the room. Her cheeks were flaming; her body seemed wrapt in dry, scorching78 heat. She hurried, her heart beating so loudly that it seemed to her to fill the passage with sound, into her own room.
She did not switch on the electric-light, but stood there in the darkness, the room very cool and half-shadowed; some reflected outside light made a pool of grey twilight79 upon the floor, and just above this pool Katherine stood, quite motionless, her head raised, her hands tightly clasped together. She knew. That moment in her aunt’s room had told her!
She was lifted, by one instant of glorious revelation, out of herself, her body, her life, and caught up into her divine heaven, could look down upon that other arid80, mordant81 world with eyes of incredulous happiness.
She loved Philip Mark. She had always loved him. She had never loved anyone before. She had thought that life was enough with its duties, its friendships, its little pleasures and little sorrows. She had never lived; she was born now here in the still security of her room.... The clocks were striking ten, the light on the carpet quivered, dimly she could see her books, her bed, her furniture. Some voice, very far away, called her name, waited and then called again—called the old Katherine, who was dead now ... dead and gone ... buried in Aunt Aggie’s room. The new Katherine had powers, demands, values, insistences, of which the old Katherine had never dreamed.
Katherine, at this instant, asked herself no questions—whether he loved her, what the family would say, how she herself would face a new world, why it was that, through all these weeks, she had not known that she loved him? She asked herself nothing.... Only waited, motionless, staring in front of her.
Then suddenly her heart was so weighed down with happiness that she was utterly82 weary; her knees trembled, her hands wavered as though seeking some support. She turned, fell down on her knees beside the bed, her face sank deep in her hands and so remained, thinking of nothing, conscious of nothing, her spirit bathed in an intensity83 of overwhelming joy.
She recovered, instantly in the days that followed, her natural sweetness; she was, as all the household, with relief, discovered, the real Katherine again. She did not to herself seem to have any existence at all. The days in this early December were days of frost, red skies, smoking leaves, and hovering84 silver mists that clouded the chimneys, made the sun a remotely yellow ball, shot sunset and sunrise with all rainbow colours.
Beautiful days—she passed through them with no consciousness of herself, her friends, not even of Philip. No thought of anything was possible, only that breathless, burning, heart-beat, the thickness of the throat, the strange heat and then sudden cold about her face, the vision of everyone near her as ghosts who moved many, many worlds away. Her daily duties were performed by someone else—some kindly85, considerate, sensible person, who saw that she was disturbed and preoccupied86. She watched this kind person, and wondered how it was that the people about her did not notice this. At night for many hours she lay there, thinking of nothing, feeling the beating of her heart, wrapped in a glorious ecstasy87 of content, then suddenly soothed88 as though by some anaesthetic she would sleep, dumbly, dreamlessly, heavily.
For a week this continued—then Philip came to dinner, scarcely a dinner-party, although it had solemnity. The only invited guests were Philip, Rachel Seddon, her fat uncle, Lord John Beaminster, and an ancient Trenchard cousin. Lord John was fat, shining, and happy. Having survived with much complacency the death of his mother, the Duchess of Wrexe, and the end of the Beaminster grandeur89, he led a happy bachelor existence in a little house behind Shepherds Market. He was the perfect symbol of good temper, good food, and a good conscience. Deeply attached to his niece, Rachel, he had, otherwise, many friends, many interests, many happinesses, all of a small bird-like amiable90 character. He bubbled with relief because he was not compelled, any longer, to sustain the Beaminster character. He had beautiful white hair, rosy91 cheeks, and perfect clothes. He often dined at the Trenchard’s house with Rachel—he called himself ‘Roddy’s Apology.’ The Trenchards liked him because he thought very highly of the Trenchards.
He sat beside Katherine at dinner and chattered92 to her. Philip sat on her side of the table, and she could not see him, but when he had entered the drawing-room earlier in the evening the sudden sight of him had torn aside, as though with a fierce, almost revengeful gesture, all the mists, the unrealities, the glories that had, during the last weeks, surrounded her. She saw him and instantly, as though with a fall into icy water, was plunged93 into her old world again. He looked at her, she thought, as he would look at a stranger. He did not care for her—he had not even thought about her. Why had she been so confident during all these strange days? Her one longing94 now was to avoid him. With a great effort she drove her common-sense to her service, talked to him for a moment or two with her customary quiet, half-humorous placidity95, and went into dinner. She heard his voice now and then. He was getting on well with Rachel. They would become great friends. Katherine was glad. Dinner was interminable; Lord John babbled96 and babbled and babbled. Dinner was over. The ladies went into the drawing-room.
“I like your friend, Katie,” said Rachel. “He’s interesting.”
“I’m glad you do,” said Katherine.
The men joined them. Philip was conveyed by Mrs. Trenchard to the ancient Trenchard cousin, who had a bony face and an eager, unsatisfied eye. Philip devoted97 himself to these.
Katherine sat and talked to anyone. She was so miserable98 that she felt that she had never known before what to be miserable was. Then, when she was wondering whether the evening would ever end, she looked up, across the room. Philip, from his corner, also looked up. Their eyes met and, at that moment, the fire, hitherto decorously confined behind its decent bounds, ran golden, brilliant about the room, up to the ceiling, crackling, flaming. The people in the room faded, disappeared; there was no furniture there, the book-cases, the chairs, the tables were gone, the mirror, blazing with light, burning with some strange heat, shone down upon chaos99. Only, through it all, Katherine and Philip were standing, their eyes shining, for all to see, and Heaven, let loose upon a dead, dusty world, poured recklessly its glories upon them.
“I was saying,” said Lord John, “that it’s these young fellows who think they can shoot and can’t who are doin’ all the harm.”
Slowly, very slowly Katherine’s soul retreated within its fortresses100 again. Slowly the fires faded, Heaven was withdrawn102. For a moment she closed her eyes, then, once more, she regarded Lord John. “Oh, God! I’m so happy!” something within her was saying, “I shall be absurd and impossible in a moment if I can’t do something with my happiness!”
She was saved by the ancient cousin’s deciding that it was late. She always ended an evening party by declaring that it was later than she could ever have supposed. She was followed by Rachel, Lord John and Philip.
When Philip and Katherine said good-bye their hands scarcely touched, but they were burning.
“I will come to-morrow afternoon,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she whispered back to him.
Through the history of that old Westminster house there ran the thread of many of such moments, now it could not be surprised nor even so greatly stirred, whispering through its passages and corridors. “Here it is again.... Pleasant enough for the time. I wish them luck, poor dears, but I’ve never known it answer. This new breath, out through my rafters, up through my floors, down my chimneys, in at my windows—just the same as it used to be. Very pleasant while it lasts—poor young things.”
It was only natural that the House, long practised in the affairs of men, should perceive these movements in advance of the Trenchard family. As to warning the Trenchards, that was not the House’s business. It was certainly owing to no especial virtue103 of perception that Aunt Aggie decided that she would spend the afternoon of the day following the dinner-party in the drawing-room.
This decision was owing to the physical fact that she fancied that she had a slight cold, and the spiritual one that her sister Harriet had said: would she mind being most unselfish: would she stay in and receive callers as she, Harriet, was compelled to attend an unfortunate Committee? There was nothing that Aunt Aggie could have preferred to sitting close to the drawing-room fire, eating muffin if alone, and being gracious were there company. However, Harriet had said that it would be unselfish—therefore unselfish it was.
Katherine, it appeared, also intended to stay at home.
“You needn’t, my dear,” said Aunt Aggie, “I promised your mother. I had rather looked forward to going to the Misset-Faunders’, but never mind—I promised your mother.”
“I’m sure it’s better for your cold that you shouldn’t go out,” said Katherine. “I think you ought to be upstairs—in bed with a hot bottle.”
“My cold’s nothing”—Aunt Aggie’s voice was sharp, “Certainly the Misset-Faunders wouldn’t have hurt it. I could have gone in a cab. But I promised your mother.... It’s a pity. They always have music on their second Fridays. Alice plays the violin very well ... and I dare say, after all, no one will come this afternoon. You really needn’t bother to stay in, Katherine.”
“I think I will to-day,” said Katherine quietly.
So aunt and niece sat, one on each side of the fire, waiting. Katherine was very quiet, and Aunt Aggie, who, like all self-centred people, was alarmed by silence, spun104 a little web of chatter49 round and round the room.
“It was all quite pleasant last night I thought; I must say Lord John can make himself very agreeable if he pleases. How did you think Rachel was looking? I wanted to ask her about Michael, who had a nasty little cold last week, but Mr. Mark quite absorbed her—talking about his Russia, I suppose. I don’t suppose anyone will come this afternoon. The very last thing Clare Faunder said on Sunday was ‘Mind you come on Friday. We’ve some special music on Friday, and I know how you love it.’ But of course one must help your mother when one can. Your Aunt Betty would take one of her walks. Walking in London seems to me such an odd thing to do. If everyone walked what would the poor cabmen and busses do? One must think of others, especially with the cold weather coming on.”
Her voice paused and then dropped; she looked sharply across at Katherine, and realized that the girl had not been listening. She was staring up into the Mirror; in her eyes was the look of burning, dreaming expectation that had on that other afternoon been so alarming.
At that moment Rocket opened the door and announced Philip Mark.
Katherine’s eyes met Philip’s for an instant, then they travelled to Aunt Aggie. That lady rose with the little tremor105 of half-nervous, half-gratified greeting that she always bestowed106 on a guest. She disliked Mr. Mark cordially, but that was no reason why the memory of an hour or two filled with close attention from a young man should not brighten to-morrow’s reminiscences. She was conscious also that she was keeping guard over Katherine. Not for an instant would she leave that room until Mr. Mark had also left it. She looked at the two young people, Katherine flushed with the fire, Philip flushed with the frosty day, and regarded with satisfaction their distance one from the other. Tea was brought; life was very civilised; the doors were all tightly closed.
Philip had come with the determined107 resolve of asking Katherine to marry him. Last night he had not slept. With a glorious Katherine at his side he had paced his room, his soul in the stars, his body somewhere underground. All day he had waited for a decent hour to arrive. He had almost run to the house. Now he was faced by Aunt Aggie. As he smiled at her he could have taken her little body, her bundle of clothes, her dried little soul, crunched108 it to nothing in his hands and flung it into the fire.
Although he gave no sign of outward dismay, he was raging with impatience109. He would not look at Katherine lest, borne upon some wave of passion stronger than he, he should have rushed across the room, caught her to his side, and so defied all the Trenchard decencies; he knew that it was wiser, at present, to preserve them.
They talked about Rachel Seddon, Dinner-parties, Cold Weather, Dancing, Exercise, growing Stout110, Biscuits, the best Church in London, Choirs111, Committees, Aunt Aggie’s duties, growing Thin, Sleeplessness112, Aunt Aggie’s trials, Chilblains, Cold Weather.... At this renewed appearance of the weather Philip noticed an old calf-bound book lying upon a little table at his side. Behind his eyes there flashed the discovery of an idea.
“Pride and Prejudice,” he said.
“Oh!” cried Katherine. “That’s one of Father’s precious Jane Austen’s—a first edition. He keeps them all locked up in his study. Henry must have borrowed that one. They’re never allowed to lie about.”
Philip picked it up. From between the old leaves, brown a little now, with the black print sunk deep into their very heart, there stole a scent113 of old age, old leather, old tobacco, old fun and wisdom.
Philip had opened it where Mr. Collins, proposing to Elizabeth Bennet, declines to accept her refusal.
“I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the hand, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a third time. I am, therefore, by no means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.”
“Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your hope is rather an extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am perfectly114 serious in my refusal. You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who would make you so. Nay115, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill-qualified for the situation.”
“Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr. Collins very gravely—“but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all disapprove28 of you. And you may be certain that when I have the honour of seeing her again, I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty116, economy, and other amiable qualifications.”
“?‘Pride and Prejudice,’ I always thought,” said Aunt Aggie with amiable approval, “a very pretty little tale. It’s many years since I read it. Father read it aloud to us, I remember, when we were girls.”
Philip turned a little from her, as though he would have the light more directly over his shoulder. He had taken a piece of paper from his pocket, and in an instant he had written in pencil:
“I love you. Will you marry me? Philip.”
This he slipped between the pages.
He knew that Katherine had watched him; very gravely he passed the book across to her, then he turned to Aunt Aggie, and with a composure that surprised himself, paid her a little of the deference that she needed.
Katherine, with hands that trembled, had opened the book. She found the piece of paper, saw the words, and then, in a sort of dreaming bewilderment, read to the bottom of the old printed page.
“Mr. Collins thus addressed her:
“When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on this subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable117 answer than you have now given me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the first—”
She did not turn the page; for a moment she waited, her mind quite empty of any concentrated thought, her eyes seeing nothing but the shining, glittering expanse of the Mirror.
Very quickly, using a gold pencil that hung on to her watch chain, she wrote below his name: “Yes. Katherine.”
“Let me see the book, my dear,” said Aunt Aggie. “You must know, Mr. Mark, that I care very little for novels. There is so much to do in this world, so many people that need care, so many things that want attention, that I think one is scarcely justified118 in spending the precious time over stories. But I own Miss Austen is a memory—a really precious memory to me. Those little simple stories have their charm still, Mr. Mark.... Yes.... Thank you, my dear.”
She took the book from Katherine, and began very slowly to turn over the pages, bending upon Miss Austen’s labours exactly the look of kindly patronage119 that she would have bent upon that lady herself had she been present.
Katherine glanced at Philip, half rose in her chair, and then sat down again. She felt, as she waited for the dreadful moment to pass, a sudden perception of the family—until this moment they had not occurred to her. She saw her mother, her father, her grandfather, her aunts, Henry, Millie. Let this affair be suddenly flung upon them as a result of Aunt Aggie’s horrified120 discovery and the tumult121 would be, indeed, terrible. The silence in the room, during those moments, almost forced her to cry out.
Had Philip not been there she would have rushed to her aunt, torn the book from her hands, and surrendered to the avalanche122.
Aunt Aggie paused—she peered forward over the page. With a little cry Katherine stood up, her knees trembling, her eyes dimmed, as though the room were filled with fog.
“I doubt very much,” said Aunt Aggie, “whether I could read it now. It would seem strangely old-fashioned, I daresay, I’m sure to a modern young man like yourself, Mr. Mark.”
Philip took the book from her; he opened it, read Katherine’s answer, laid the volume very carefully upon the table.
“I can assure, Miss Trenchard,” he said, “a glance is enough to assure me that ‘Pride and Prejudice’ is and always will be my favourite novel.”
Katherine moved to the table, picked up the book, and slipped the paper from the leaves into her belt. For an instant her hand touched Philip’s.
Aunt Aggie looked at them, and satisfied with hot tea, a fire, a perfect conscience and a sense of her real importance in the business of the world, thought to herself—“Well, this afternoon at any rate those two have had no chance.”
She was drowsy123 and anxious for a little rest before dinner, but her guard, she assured herself with a pleasant little bit of conscious self-sacrifice, should not be relaxed....
Eleven had boomed that night, from the Abbey clock, when Philip Mark took his stand opposite the old house, looking up, as all the lovers in fiction and most of the lovers in real life have done, at his mistress’ window. A little red glow of light was there. The frosty night had showered its sky with stars, frozen into the blue itself in this clear air, a frozen sea; an orange moon scooped124 into a dazzling curve, lay like a sail that had floated from its vessel125, idly above the town; the plane trees rustled126 softly once and again, as though, now that the noise of men had died away, they might whisper in comfort together. Sometimes a horn blew from the river, or a bell rang.
Philip waited there, and worshipped with all the humility127 and reverence128 of a human soul at the threshold of Love.
The lights in the house went out. Now all the Trenchards were lying upon their backs, their noses towards the ceilings, the ceilings that shut off that starry129 sky. They were very secure, fenced round by Westminster. No danger could threaten their strong fortress101.... Their very dreams were winged about with security, their happy safety was penetrated by no consciousness of that watching, motionless figure.
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1
aggie
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| n.农校，农科大学生 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
altruistic
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| adj.无私的，为他人着想的 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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10
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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12
altruism
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| n.利他主义，不自私 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
irritations
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| n.激怒( irritation的名词复数 )；恼怒；生气；令人恼火的事 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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17
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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rebuking
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的现在分词 ) | |
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24
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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42
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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43
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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49
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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50
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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51
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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52
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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53
stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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55
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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57
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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61
spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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63
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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71
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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75
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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81
mordant
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| adj.讽刺的；尖酸的 | |
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82
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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84
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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85
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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86
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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87
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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88
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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89
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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90
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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91
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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92
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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93
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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94
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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95
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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96
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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97
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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98
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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99
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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100
fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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101
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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102
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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103
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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104
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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105
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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106
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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108
crunched
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的过去式和过去分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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109
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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111
choirs
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| n.教堂的唱诗班( choir的名词复数 )；唱诗队；公开表演的合唱团；（教堂）唱经楼 | |
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112
sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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113
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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114
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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115
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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116
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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117
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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118
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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119
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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120
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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121
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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122
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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123
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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124
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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125
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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126
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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128
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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129
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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