She resolved at once, however, that now was the time to show the family that she was the same Katherine as she had ever been. As she waited for a little in her bedroom, finally dismissing Philip’s presence and summoning the others, she laughed to think how simply now she would brush away the little distrusts and suspicions that seemed, during those last weeks, to have grown about her.
“They shall know Phil,” she thought to herself. “They can’t help loving him when they see him as he really is. Anyway, no more keeping anything back.” It seemed to her, at that moment, a very simple thing to impart her happiness to all of them. She had no fear that she would fail. Then, almost at once, the most delightful2 thing occurred.
Two or three days after Philip’s departure Mrs. Trenchard, alone with Katherine in the dining-room before breakfast, said:
“I’ve written to Philip, my dear, to ask him to go down with us to Garth.”
Katherine’s eyes shone with pleasure.
“Mother!... How delightful of you! I was hoping that perhaps you might ask him later. But isn’t it tiresome3 to have him so soon?”
“No—my dear—no. Not tiresome at all. I hope he’ll be able to come.”
“Of course he’ll be able to come,” laughed Katherine.
“Yes—well—I’ve written to ask him. We go down on the fifth of March. Your father thinks that’s the best day. Griffiths writes that that business of the fences in Columb meadow should be looked into—Yes. No, Alice, not the ham—tell Grace to boil two more eggs—not enough—I’m glad you’re pleased, Katherine.”
Katherine looked up, and her eyes meeting her mother’s, the confidence that had been clouded ever since that fatal affair with the hot-water bottles seemed to leap into life between them. Mrs. Trenchard put out her hand, Katherine moved forward, but at that moment Aunt Aggie4 and Aunt Betty entered; breakfast began.
“I believe,” thought Katherine, “Aunt Aggie waits outside the door and chooses her moment. She’s always interrupting....” The fact that there was now some restraint between her mother and herself was only emphasised the more by the feeling of both of them that an opportunity had been missed.
And why, Katherine wondered afterwards, had her mother asked Philip? If he had been invited to come to them after Easter—but now, to go down with them, as one of the family! Was not this exactly what Katherine had been desiring? And yet she was uncomfortable. She felt sometimes now that her mother, who had once been her other self, in whose every thought, distress5, anxiety she had shared, was almost a stranger.
“It’s just as though there were ghosts in the house,” she thought. As she went to bed she was, for the first time in her life, lonely. She longed for Philip ... then suddenly, for no reason that she could name, began to cry and, so crying, fell asleep. She was much younger than everyone thought her....
Throughout the three weeks that followed she felt as though she were beating the air. Rachel Seddon had taken her husband abroad. There was no one to whom she could speak. She wrote to Philip every day, and discovered how useless letters were. She tried to approach Millie, but found that she had not the courage to risk Millie’s frankness. Her sister’s attitude to her was: “Dear Katie, let’s be happy and jolly together without talking about it—it’s much better....” There had been a time, not so very long ago, when they had told one another everything. Henry was the strangest of all. He removed himself from the whole family, and would speak to no one. He went apparently6 for long solitary7 walks. Even his father noticed his depression, and decided8 that something must really be done with the boy. “We might send him abroad for six months—learn some French or German ...” but of course nothing was done.
Aunt Betty was the only entirely9 satisfactory member of the family. She frankly10 revelled11 in the romance of the whole affair. She was delighted that Katherine had fallen in love “with such a fine manly12 fellow” as Philip. Her attention was always centred upon Katherine to the exclusion13 of the others, therefore she noticed no restraint nor awkwardness. She was intensely happy, and went humming about the house in a way that annoyed desperately14 her sister Aggie. She even wrote a little letter to Philip, beginning “My dear Boy,” saying that she thought that he’d like to know from one of the family that Katherine was in perfect health and looking beautiful. She received a letter from Philip that surprised and delighted her by its warmth of feeling. This letter was the cause of a little battle with Aggie.
They were alone together in Betty’s room when she said, half to herself:
“Such a delightful letter from the ‘dear boy’.”
“What dear boy?” said Aunt Aggie sharply.
Aunt Betty started, as she always did when anyone spoke15 to her sharply, sucked her fingers, and then, the colour mounting into her cheeks, said:
“Philip. He’s written to me from Manchester.”
“I do think, Betty,” Aggie answered, “that instead of writing letters to young men who don’t want them you might try to take a little of the burden of this house off my shoulders. Now that Katherine has lost all her common-sense I’m supposed to do everything. I don’t complain. They wish me to help as much as I can, but I’m far from strong, and a little help from you ...”
Then Aunt Betty, with the effect of standing16 on her toes, her voice quite shrill17 with excitement, spoke to her sister as she had never, in all her life, spoken to anyone before.
“It’s too bad, Aggie. I used to think that you were fond of Katherine, that you wished her happiness—Now, ever since her engagement, you’ve done nothing but complain about her. Sometimes I think you really want to see her unhappy. We ought to be glad, you and I, that she’s found someone who will make her happy. It’s all your selfishness, Aggie; just because you don’t like Philip for some fancied reason ... it’s unfair and wicked. At anyrate to me you shan’t speak against Katherine and Philip.... I love Katherine, even though you don’t.”
Now it happened that, as I have said elsewhere, Aggie Trenchard loved her niece very deeply. It was a love, however, that depended for its life on an adequate return. “That young man has turned Katherine against me. Ever since he first came into the house I knew it.” Now at her sister’s accusation18 her face grew grey and her hands trembled.
“Thank you, Betty. I don’t think we’ll discuss the matter. Because you’re blind and know nothing of what goes on under your nose is no reason that other people’s sight should be blinded too. Can’t you see for yourself the change in Katherine? If you loved her a little more sensibly than you do, instead of romancing about the affair, you’d look into the future. I tell you that the moment Philip Mark entered this house was the most unfortunate moment in Katherine’s life. Nothing but unhappiness will come of it. If you knew what I know—”
Aunt Betty was, in spite of herself, struck by the feeling and softness in her sister’s voice.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean nothing. I’m right, that’s all. You’re a silly, soft fool, Elizabeth, and so you always were. But Harriet ... asking him to go down to Garth with us, when she hates him as I know she does! I don’t know what it means. Do you suppose that I don’t love Katherine any longer? I love her so much that I’d like to strangle Mr. Philip Mark in his sleep!”
She flung from the room, banging the door behind her.
Philip arrived on the evening before the departure into the country. He came well pleased with all the world, because his Manchester relations had liked him and he had liked his Manchester relations. Viewed from that happy distance, the Trenchards had been bathed in golden light. He reviewed his recent agitations19 and forebodings with laughter. “Her family,” he told his relations, “are a bit old-fashioned. They’ve got their prejudices, and I don’t think they liked the idea, at first, of her being engaged—she’s so valuable. But they’re getting used to it.” He arrived in London in the highest spirits, greeted Rocket as though he had been his life-long friend, and going straight up to his room to dress for dinner, thought to himself that he really did feel at home in the old house. He looked at his fire, at the cosy20 shape of the room, heard a purring, contented21 clock ticking away, thought for a moment of Moscow, with its puddles22, its mud, its dark, uneven23 streets, its country roads, its weeks of rain.
“No, I’ve found my place,” he thought, “this is home.”
And yet, during dinner, his uneasiness, like a forgotten ghost, crept back to him. Henry had a headache, and had gone to bed.
“He’s not been very well lately,” said Aunt Aggie to Philip, “that evening with you upset him, I believe—over-excited him, perhaps. I’m glad you liked Manchester.” He could not deny that dinner was a little stiff. He was suddenly aware over his pudding that he was afraid of Mrs. Trenchard, and that his fear of her that had been vague and nebulous before his absence was now sharp and defined.
He looked at her, and saw that her eyes were anything but placid24 and contented, like the rest of her.
“More pudding, Philip?” she asked him, and his heart beat as though he had received a challenge.
Afterwards in the drawing-room he thought to himself: “?’Tis this beastly old house. It’s so stuffy25”—forgetting that two hours earlier it had seemed to welcome him home. “We’ll be all right when we get down to the country,” he thought.
Finally he said good-night to Katherine in the dark little passage. As though he were giving himself some desperate reassurance26, he caught her to him and held her tightly in his arms:
“Katie—darling, have you missed me?”
“Missed you? I thought the days were never going to pass.”
“Katie, I want to be married, here, now, to-night, at once. I hate this waiting. I hate it. It’s impossible—”
Katherine laughed, looking up into his eyes.
“I like you to be impatient. I’m so happy. I don’t think anything can ever be happier. Besides, you know,” and her eyes sparkled—“you may change—you may want to break it off—and then think how glad you’ll be that we waited.”
He held her then so fiercely that she cried out.
“Don’t say that—even as a joke. How dare you—even as a joke? I love you—I love you—I love you.” He kissed her mouth again and again, then suddenly, with a little movement of tenderness, stroked her hair very softly, whispering to her, “I love you—I love you—I love you—Oh! how I love you!”
That night she was so happy that she lay for many hours staring at the black ceiling, a smile on her lips. He, also, was awake until the early morning....
The departure to the station was a terrific affair. There were Mr. Trenchard, senior, Great Aunt Sarah (risen from a bed of sickness, yellow and pinched in the face, very yellow and pinched in the temper, and deafer than deaf), Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty, George Trenchard, Mrs. Trenchard, Millie (very pretty), Henry (very sulky), Katherine, Philip, Rocket and Aunt Sarah’s maid (the other maids had left by an earlier train)—twelve persons. The train to be caught was the eleven o’clock from Paddington, and two carriages had been reserved. The first business was to settle old Mr. Trenchard and Aunt Sarah. They were placed, like images, in the best corners, Mr. Trenchard saying sometimes in his silvery voice: “It’s very kind of you, Harriet,” or “Thank ye, Betty, my dear,” and once to Millie, “I like to see ye laughing, my dear—very pretty, very pretty”. Aunt Sarah frowned and wrinkled her nose, but was, in her high black bonnet27, a very fine figure. Her maid, Clarence, was plain, elderly and masculine in appearance, having a moustache and a stiff linen28 collar and very little hair visible under her black straw hat. She, however, knew just how Great-Aunt Sarah liked to be....
The others in that compartment29 were Aunt Aggie, George Trenchard (he sat next to his father and told him jokes out of the papers) and Mrs. Trenchard. In the other carriage Katherine and Philip had the corners by the window. Aunt Betty sat next to Philip, Millie and Henry had the farther corners. When the train started, Katherine’s heart gave a jump, as it always did when she set off for Garth. “We’re really off. We’ll really be in Garth by the evening. We’ll really wake up there to-morrow morning.”
Philip had not seen Henry since his return from Manchester, so he tried to talk to him. Henry, however, was engaged upon a very large edition of “War and Peace,” and, although he answered Philip’s enquiries very politely, he was obviously determined30 to speak to no one. Millie had Henry Galleon’s “Roads” to read, but she did not study it very deeply—Aunt Betty had a novel called “The Rosary” and her knitting; now and then she would break into little scraps31 of talk as: “But if I moved the bed across lengthways that would leave room for the book-case,” or “I do think people must be clever to make up conversations in books,” or “There’s Reading”. The lovers, therefore, were left to one another....
Katherine had upon her lap the novel that had so greatly excited Henry; he had insisted upon her reading it, but now it lay idly there, unopened. That little smile that had hovered32 about her lips last night was still there to-day. Often her eyes were closed, and she might have seemed to be asleep were it not that the little smile was alive—her eyes would open, they would meet Philip’s eyes, they would be drawn33, the two of them, closer and closer and closer.
They talked together, their voices scarcely above a whisper. The day was one of those that are given sometimes, in a fit of forgetfulness, by the gods, at the beginning of March. It was a very soft, misty34 day, with the sun warm and golden but veiled. Trees on the dim blue horizon were faintly pink, and streams that flashed for an instant before the windows were pigeon-colour. Everywhere the earth seemed to be breaking, flowers pushing through the soil, rivers released from their winter bondage35 laughing in their new freedom, the earth chuckling36, whispering, humming with the glorious excitement of its preparation, as though it had never had a spring in all its life before, as though it did not know that there would yet be savage37 winds, wild storms of rain, many cold and bitter days. Blue mist—running water—trees with their bursting buds—a haze38 of sun and rain in the air—a great and happy peace.
Katherine and Philip, although they saw no one but one another, were aware of the day—it was as though it had been arranged especially for them. The rise and fall of their voices had a sleepy rhythm, as though they were keeping time with the hum of the train:
“I’m so glad,” said Katherine, “that your first view of Glebeshire will be on a day like this.”
“I’m a little afraid,” he answered. “What will you say if I don’t like it?”
She seemed really for an instant to be afraid. “But, of course, of course, you will.”
“Everyone doesn’t. Someone told me the other day that either it was desolate enough to depress you for a lifetime or stuffy like a hot-house, and that the towns were the ugliest in the United Kingdom.”
Katherine sighed and then smiled.
“I expect they’d think Manchester the loveliest place on earth,” she said. Then, looking at him very intently, she asked him: “Do you regret Russia—the size and the space and the strangeness? I daresay you do. Do you know, Phil, I’m rather jealous of Russia, of all the things you did before I knew you, I wonder whether I’d have liked you if I’d met you then, whether you’d have liked me. I expect you were very different. Tell me about it. I’m always asking you about Moscow, and you’re so mysterious—yes, I believe I’m jealous.”
Philip looked away from her, out of the window, at the fields with their neat hedges, the gentle hills faintly purple, villages tucked into nests of trees, cows grazing, horses mildly alert at the passing train. For a moment he was conscious of irritation39 at the tidy cosiness40 of it all. Then he spoke, dreamily, as though he were talking in his sleep:
“No. That’s all behind me. I shall never go back there again. I don’t think of it often, but sometimes I fancy I’m there. Sounds will bring it back, and I dream sometimes.... One gets so used to it that it’s hard now to say what one did feel about it. I had a little flat in a part of the town called the Arbat. Out of my window I could see a church with sky-blue domes41 covered with silver stars, there was a shop with food, sausages and all kinds of dried fish, and great barrels of red caviare and mountains of cheese. The church had a cherry-coloured wall, with a glittering Ikon at the gate and a little lamp burning in front of it. There were always some cabs at the end of my street, with the cabmen in their fat, bunched-up clothes sleeping very often, their heads hanging from the shafts42. Lines of carts from the country would pass down the street with great hoops43 of coloured wood over the horses’ necks and wild-looking peasants in charge of them. They didn’t seem wild to me then—they were quite ordinary. Always just before six the bells at the church would ring, one slow, deep note and a little funny noisy jangle as well—one beautiful and unearthly; the other like a talkative woman, all human.... In the autumn there’d be weeks of rain and the mud would rise and rise, and the carts and cabs go splashing through great streams of water. When the snow came there’d be fine days and the town on fire, all sparkling and quivering, and every ugly thing in the place would be beautiful. There’d be many days too when the sky would fall lower and lower and the town be like grey blotting-paper and the most beautiful things hideous44. Opposite my window there was a half-built house that had been there for three years, and no one had troubled to finish it. There was a beggar at the corner—a fine old man with no legs. He must have made a fortune, because everyone who passed gave him something. It would be fine on a snowy night when the night-watchmen built great fires of logs to keep them warm.
“On a starry45 night I could see the domes of St. Saviour’s Cathedral like little golden clouds—very beautiful.”
“And what was the inside of your flat like?” asked Katherine. She had been leaning a little forward, her hands clasped together, deeply interested.
“Oh! very small! I made it as English as I could. It had central heating and, in the winter, with the double windows, it got very stuffy. I had English pictures and English books, but it was never very comfortable. I don’t know why. Nothing in Russia’s comfortable. I had a funny old servant called Sonia. She was fond of me, but she drank; she was always having relations to stay with her. I would find funny-looking men in the kitchen in the morning. She had no idea of time, and would cook well or badly as she pleased. She liked to tell fairy stories; she stole and she drank and she lied, but I kept her because I couldn’t bother to change her.”
He stopped—then began again, but now more dreamily than before, as though he’d been carried far away from the train, from England, from Katherine. “Yes—that was it—one couldn’t be bothered. One couldn’t be bothered about anything, and one didn’t need to bother, because no one else bothered either. Perhaps that’s just why I loved it, as I see now that I did love it. No one cared for anything but what was in the air—dreams, superstitions46, stories. The country itself was like that too—so vague, so vast and boundless47, so careless and heedless, so unpractical, so good for dreams, so bad for work, so unfinished, letting so many things go to pieces, so beautiful and so ugly, so depressing and so cheerful, so full of music and of ugly sounds ... so bad to live in, so good to dream in. I was happy there and I didn’t know it—I was happy and didn’t know it.” His voice had sunk to a whisper, so that Katherine could not catch his words. She touched the sleeve of his coat.
“Come back, Phil, come back,” she said, laughing. “You’re lost.”
He started, then smiled at her.
“It’s all right ... but it’s odd. There are so many things that didn’t seem to me to be curious and beautiful then that are so now.” Then, looking at Katherine very intently, as though he were calling her back to him, he said:
“But don’t talk to me about Russia. It’s bad for me. I don’t want to think of it. I’ve left it for ever. And when you ask me questions it revives me, as though it still had some power.... You say that you’re afraid of it—why,” he ended, laughing, “I believe I’m afraid of it too—I don’t want to think of it. It’s England now and Glebeshire and you—and you,” he whispered. They were interrupted then by an attendant, who told them that it was time for the first luncheon48.
Afterwards, when the shadows were lengthening49 across the fields and the misty sun rode low above the far hills, they sat silently dreaming of their great happiness. It was an afternoon that was to remain, for both of them, throughout their lives, in spite of all after events, a most perfect memory. There are moments in the histories of all of us when we are carried into heights that by the splendour of their view, the fine vigour50 of their air, the rapture51 of their achievement offer to us a sufficient reassurance against the ironic52 powers. We find in them a justification53 of our hopes, our confidences, our inspirations, our faith....
So, for these few hours at least, Katherine and Philip found their justification.
This was a moment that two others, also, in that carriage were never afterwards to forget. Millie, under the warm afternoon sun, had fallen asleep. She woke to a sudden, half-real, half-fantastic realisation of Philip. She was awake, of course, and yet Philip was not quite human to her—or was it that he was more human than he had ever been before? She watched him, with her young, eager, inquisitive54 gaze, over the cover of her book. She watched him steadily55 for a long time.
She had always liked the clean, bullet-shaped head, his black eyes, his sturdiness and set, square shoulders, his colour and his strength. She had always liked him, but to-day, in this sudden glimpse, he seemed to be revealed to her as someone whom she was seeing for the first time. Millie, in all the freshness of her anticipated attack upon the world, had at this period very little patience for bunglers, for sentimentalists, for nervous and hesitating souls. Now, strangely, she saw in Philip’s eyes some hinted weakness, and yet she did not despise him. “I believe,” she thought, “he’s afraid of us.” That discovery came as though it had been whispered to her by someone who knew. Her old conviction that she knew him better than did the others showed now no signs of faltering56. “I believe I could help him as they none of them can,” she thought. “No, not even Katherine.” She had, in spite of her determined, practical common-sense, the most romantic idea of love, and now, as she thought of the two of them wrapped up there before her eyes in one another, she felt irritated by her own isolation57. “I wonder whether Katherine understands him really,” she thought. “Katherine’s so simple, and takes everything for granted. It’s enough for her that she’s in love. I don’t believe it’s enough for him.” She had always in very early days felt some protecting, motherly element in her love for Katherine. That protection seemed now to spread to Philip as well. “Oh! I do hope they’re going to be happy,” she thought, and so, taking them both with her under her wing, dozed58 off to sleep again....
The other was, of course, Henry.
No one could ever call Henry a gay youth. I don’t think that anyone ever did, and although with every year that he grows he is stronger, more cheerful and less clumsy and misanthropic59, he will never be really gay. He will always be far too conscious of the troubles that may tumble on to his head, of the tragedies of his friends and the evils of his country.
And yet, in spite of his temperament60, he had, deep down in his soul, a sense of humour, an appreciation61 of his own comic appearance, a ready applause for the optimists62 (although to this he would never, never confess). “He’s a surly brute,” I heard someone say of him once—but it is possible (I do not say probable) that he will be a great man one of these days, and then everyone will admire his fine reserve, “the taciturnity of a great man”; in one of his sudden moments of confidence he confessed to me that this particular journey down to Glebeshire was the beginning of the worst time in his life—not, of course, quite the beginning. Philip’s appearance on that foggy night of his grandfather’s birthday was that—and he is even now not so old but that there may be plenty of bad times in store for him. But he will know now how to meet them; this was his first test of responsibility.
He had always told himself that what he really wanted was to show, in some heroic fashion, his love for Katherine. Let him be tested, he cried, by fire, stake, torture and the block, and he would “show them.” Well, the test had come. As he sat opposite her in the railway carriage he faced it. He might go up to Philip and say to him: “Look here, is it true? Did you have a mistress in Moscow for three years and have a son by her?” But what then? If Philip laughed, and said: “Why, of course ... everyone knows it. That’s all over now. What is it to you?” He would answer: “It’s this to me. I’m not going to have a rotten swelp of a fellow marrying my sister and making her miserable63.”
Then Philip might say: “My dear child—how young you are! all men do these things. I’ve finished with that part of my life. But, anyway, don’t interfere65 between me and Katherine, you’ll only make her miserable and you’ll do no good.”
Ah! that was just it. He would make her miserable; he could not look at her happiness and contemplate66 his own destruction of it. And yet if Philip were to marry her and afterwards neglect her, and leave her as he had left this other woman, would not Henry then reproach himself most bitterly for ever and ever? But perhaps, after all, the story of that wretched man at the Club was untrue, it had been, perhaps, grossly exaggerated. Henry had a crude but finely-coloured fancy concerning the morals of the Man of the World. Had not Seymour dismissed such things with a jolly laugh and “my dear fellow, it’s no business of ours. We’re all very much alike if we only knew.” Had he not a secret envy of this same Man of the World who carried off his sins so lightly with so graceful67 an air? But now it was no case of an abstract sinner—it was a case of the happiness or unhappiness of the person whom Henry loved best in life.
A subtler temptation attacked him. He knew (he could not possibly doubt) that if his parents were told, Philip would have to go. One word from him to his mother, and the family were rid of this fellow who had come out of nowhere to disturb their peace. The thing was so infernally easy. As he sat there, reading, apparently, his novel, his eyes were on Katherine’s face. She was leaning back, her eyes closed, smiling at her thoughts. What would Katherine do? Would she leave them all and go with him? Would she hate him, Henry, for ever afterwards? Yes, that she would probably do.... Ah, he was a weak, feeble, indeterminate creature. He could make up his mind about nothing.... That evening he had had with Philip, it had been glorious and disgusting, thrilling and sordid68. He was rather glad that he had been drunk—he was also ashamed. He was intensely relieved that none of the family had seen him, and yet he saw himself shouting to them: “I was drunk the other night, and I talked to rotten women and I didn’t care what happened to me.... I’m a boy no longer.”
He hated Philip, and yet, perhaps, Philip was leading him to freedom. That fellow in the novel about the sea and the forests (Henry could see him challenging his foes69, walking quietly across the square towards his friend, who was waiting to slay70 him). He would have admired Philip. Henry saw himself as that fine solitary figure waiting for his opportunity. How grand he could be had he a chance, but life was so lofty, so unromantic, so conventional. Instead of meeting death like a hero, he must protect Katherine ... and he did not know how to do it....
As the sun was sinking in a thick golden web that glittered behind the dark purple woods—woods that seemed now to stand like watchers with their fingers upon their lips—the train crossed the boundary river. That crossing bad been, ever since he could remember, a very great moment to Henry. To-day the recognition of it dragged him away from Philip and Katherine, from everything but Glebeshire.
He looked across at Katherine instinctively—she, sitting now upright, gazing out of the window, turned as though she had known and smiled at him. They were in Glebeshire, there was the first valley, mysterious, now like a dark purple cup, there the white winding71 road that went over the hill on to Rasselas, Liskane, Clinton and Truxe, there was the first break in the hills, where you always peered forward expecting to catch a shimmer72 of the sea, here that cluster of white cottages that, when he had been small, had seemed to be tumbling down the hill, very dangerous to live in ... at last the pause at Carlyon, the last stop before Rasselas.
It was quite dark now. The light had suddenly been drawn from the sky, and the earth was filled with new sounds, new scents74, new mysteries. The train stopped for a minute before Rasselas, and, suddenly all about it, through the open window there crowded whispers, stealthy movements, the secret confidences of some hidden stream, the murmured greetings of the trees. The train lay there as though it had wanted them all to know how lovely the evening was. On the road that skirted the train a man with a lantern greeted a cart. “Well, good-night to ’ee,” a voice said clear and sharp like an invitation; Henry’s heart began to beat furiously. Glebeshire had welcomed them.
With a jerk the train stumbled forward again, and they were in Rasselas. The little station, which was of some importance because it was a junction75 for Pelynt and therefore also for Rafiel, lay very quietly at the bottom of the wooded hill. A porter went down the train swinging a lantern and crying: “Change for P’lynt. Change for P’lynt.”
A stream flowed near by, and the scent73 of a garden flooded the station: there would be already snowdrops and primroses76 and crocuses. The whole party of them were bundled out on to the platform—a great pile of luggage loomed77 in the distance. Heads from the carriage windows watched them, then a pause, a cry, and the train was off, leaving them all high and dry, with the wind blowing round their hair and clothes and ankles like a friendly and inquisitive dog. There was sea in the wind.
“Smell the sea!” cried Millie. “I must have left it in the restaurant car,” said Aunt Aggie. “Too provoking. I particularly wanted you to read that article, Harriet. I think you might have noticed, Millie ... you were sitting next to me.”
“There’s Jacob!” Henry, suddenly happy and excited and free from all burdens, cried:
“Hallo! Jacob! How are you? How’s everyone? How’s Rebekah?”
Jacob, with a face like a red moon, smiled, touched his hat, stormed at a young man in buttons. “Do ’ee bustle78 a bit, John. Didn’t I tell ’ee the box with the black ’andles?... very comfortable, Mr. ’Enry, sir, thank ’ee, as I ’opes you finds yourself. Been a bit o’ sickness around down along in the village ... but not to ’urt....”
Could they all get in? Of course they could. The luggage was all on the luggage-cart, and Rock and Clarence with it; a silver moon, just rising now above the station roofs, peeping at her, laughed at her serious dignity.
“No, we’ll go on the box, Philip and I,” said Katherine. “Of course I shan’t be cold. No, really, we’d rather, wouldn’t we, Philip? Plenty of room, Jacob.”
They were off, up the little hill, down over the little bridge and through the little village. Katherine, sitting between Philip and Jacob, pressing her cheek against Philip’s rough tweed coat, her hand lying in his under the rug, seemed to slip, dreaming, fulfilling some earlier vision, through space. She had wondered sometimes, in the earlier days, whether there could be any greater happiness in life than that ever-thrilling, ever-satisfying return to Garth. She knew now that there was a greater happiness....
A white world of crackling, burning stars roofed them in; an owl79 flew by them through the grey dusk; the air smelt80 of spring flowers and fresh damp soil. The stream that had been with them since their entrance into Glebeshire still accompanied them, running with its friendly welcome at their side. Beyond the deep black hedges cows and horses and sheep moved stealthily: it seemed that they might not disturb the wonderful silence of the night.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked her; he caught her hand more tightly and kissed her cheek, very softly and gently. She trembled with happiness, and pressed more closely against his coat.
“Can you smell the sea yet? You will when you get to the top of Rasselas Hill. This is the high road to Pelynt. It runs parallel with the railway until we get to the cross roads, Pelynt Cross, you know.... You’ll smell the sea there. You can see it on a clear day. To the left of you there is just Pelynt Moor81. It runs for miles and miles, right along by the Drymouth Road.... Look through the break in the hedge. Do you see that light across the field? That’s John Pollen’s cottage. John was murdered just about a hundred years ago. He was an old miser64, and some men robbed him, but they never found his head. They say he wanders about still looking for it.... Oh, if this could go on for ever. Philip, are you happy?”
“Happy?” ... Ah! she could feel his body quiver.
“Yes, and now we’re coming down to the Well. There’s a little wood just at the body of the hill. We always call it the Well because it’s so dark and green. It’s the most famous wood for primroses in all Glebeshire. They’ll be coming now.... We’ll walk here.... I cried once because I thought I was lost here. They forgot me and went home. Then I was comforted by the postman, who found me and carried me home.... Jacob, do you remember?”
“Ah, Miss Kathie, doan’t ’ee think that I’d forget ought about ’ee. Not likely. And your mother in a fine takin’, poor soul, too. We’re a-coming to P’lynt Cross now, sir—as famous as any spot o’ ground in the ’ole of Glebeshire, sir—Hup, then! Hup, then—Whey—Oh! oh! Hup, then!”
They pulled to the top, leaving the wood in the dip behind them. The wind met them, flinging its salt and freshness in their faces with a rough, wild greeting. Philip could hear suddenly the humming of the telegraph wires, as though they had sprung from their imprisonment82 in the valley and were chanting their victory. To his left, vague and formless under the starlight, stretched Pelynt Moor, waiting there, scornfully confident in its age and strength and power, for daylight. The salt wind flung its arms around them and dragged them forward; Philip, listening, could hear, very stealthily, with the rhythm of armed men marching, the beating of the sea....
“Now we’re near—now we’re very near. It’ll be Garth Cross in a minute. There it is. Now we turn off down to the Almshouses. We don’t really come into the village.... There are the Almshouses and the Common.... Now round the corner.... There it is—there’s the Gate—the Gate!... Oh! Philip, are you happy?”
She was crying a very little: her eyes were blurred83 as they turned up the long drive, past all the rhododendron bushes, past the lawn with the giant oak at the farther end of it, round the curve to the hall door, with Rebekah standing under the porch to welcome them. Philip was down, and had helped her to the ground. She stood a little away from them all as they laughed and chattered84 about the door. She wiped her eyes with her gloved hand to stop the tears.
Philip was conscious of standing in a long dark hall with stairs at the end of it and a large oak chest with a glass case that contained a stuffed bird taking up much of the space; that, he always afterwards remembered, was his first impression of the house, that it was absurd to put so large a chest just there where everyone would knock against it. A misty babel of talk surrounded him: he was conscious of a tall old woman wearing a high, stiffly-starched white cap: she had a fine colour, very dark red cheeks, hair a deep black and flashing eyes. She must be between sixty and seventy, but her body was straight and vigorous. This was, he supposed, Rebekah. He saw, in the background, old Mr. Trenchard being helped up the stairs by Rocket; he heard Aunt Betty in a happy twitter, “Ah, now, this is nice ... this is nice ... how nice this is.” He heard Mrs. Trenchard’s slow, sleepy voice: “No—the train was punctual, Rebekah, quite punctual. We had luncheon on the train ... yes, we were quite punctual.”
Someone said: “I’ll show Philip his room,” and George Trenchard, laughing, cried to him: “Come on, Philip, this way—this way.” Trenchard, like a boy, bounded up the stairs in front of him. They were old, black, winding and creaking stairs that sighed as you mounted them. Trenchard cried: “To the right now—mind your head!” They turned through a little passage, so low that Philip must bend double and so dark that he could see nothing before him. He put out his hand, touched Trenchard’s broad back, and was surprised at his sense of relief. Now they walked along another passage, very narrow, white walls with coloured sporting prints hanging on them. “Ah! here’s the Blue Room. Here you are. Hope you’ll like it—got a decent view. Brought you hot water? Ah, yes, there it is. When you’ve washed come down just as you are. Don’t bother to change.... It’s only supper to-night, you know.... Right you are.”
His room was charming, with cherry-coloured wall-paper on walls that seemed a thousand years old. He flung his windows open, and there was the moon, thin, sharp, quivering with light in the sky, and he could hear the stream that had accompanied him ever since his entry into Glebeshire still singing to him. The night air was so sweet, the trees, that sighed and trembled and sighed again, so intimate. There was an intimacy85 here that he had never felt in any country before.
There was an intimacy and also, for him, at any rate, some strange loneliness.... He closed the window. He found his way down into the hall, and there saw Katherine. “Quick!” she cried. “Quick! I hoped that you’d come down before the others. We’ve got ten minutes.” She was almost dancing with excitement (she his staid, reserved Katherine). She was pulling him by the arm, out through the door, under the porch, into the garden. She ran across the lawn, and he, more slowly, followed her. He caught her and held her close to him.
“You love it, Philip—don’t you? You must. Of course you’ve hardly seen anything to-night. To-morrow we must both get up early, before anyone else, and come down. But look back now. Isn’t the house simply—? Isn’t it? Don’t you feel the happiness and cosiness and friendliness86? Oh, you must! You must!”
“When I’ve got you I don’t want anything. Everything is lovely.”
“But you’re happy now to be here, aren’t you?”
“Very happy.”
“And you won’t be disappointed, will you? You must promise me that you won’t be disappointed.”
“I promise you.”
“And there’s so much to show you! Oh! it’s so wonderful to have all the old places that I’ve loved so long, to have them all to show you—to share them all with you.... Oh, wonderful, wonderful!”
“Yes, I’ll share them all with you. But—but ... Katherine, darling. No, turn round—come closer. There, like that: I don’t want to share you with them. I don’t want to share you with anyone or anything.”
“You don’t—you can’t. Of course you can’t. I’m all yours—but then this is part of me, so it’s all yours too.”
“And you couldn’t live away from it? You couldn’t imagine having to be right away from it—if I had to live somewhere else?”
“But why should you? You won’t have to live somewhere else. And let’s not imagine anything. Things are so lovely, so perfect, as they are. I don’t like imagining things. I can’t when this is all so real.”
“Katie ... Katie ... No, come closer. Much closer. I don’t care if I do hurt you. I want to. I want you, you, you. It’s what I said last night. Let’s marry soon—not this awful year. I feel—I don’t know—I imagine too much. I suppose—Rut I feel as though you’d escape me, as though they’d all come between and take you away. If once you were mine I’d never care again. We’d stay anywhere, do anything you like. But this is so hard—to wait like this. To see you caring so much for other people, who don’t, perhaps, care for me. I want you. I want you—all of you. And I’ve only got half.”
“Half!” She laughed triumphantly87. “You have all of me—all of me—for ever! Philip, how funny you are! Why, you don’t trust me! I’d wait for ever if necessary, and never doubt for an instant that anything could come between. I trust you as I trust this place.”
A voice broke in upon them. Someone called.
“Katherine! Katherine!”
Slowly she drew away from him. “That’s mother. I must go.”
He caught her hand. “Stay a little longer. They can wait.”
“No, it’s mother. She wants me. Come on, Phil darling. Supper time. We’ll creep out again afterwards.”
She crossed the lawn, expecting Philip to follow her. Rut he stayed there under the oak tree. He heard the voices laughing and calling in the lighted house. He was suddenly desperately lonely. He was frightened.... He crossed hurriedly the lawn, and as he walked he knew that what he wanted was that someone, someone who really knew him, should come and comfort him.
Before he entered the hall he stopped and looked back into the dark garden. Was there someone beneath the oak, someone who watched him with an ironical88, indulgent smile?... No, there was no one there. But he knew who it was that could comfort him. With a swift, sharp accusation of disloyalty he confessed to himself that it was Anna for whom, during that instant, he had looked.
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1
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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aggie
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| n.农校，农科大学生 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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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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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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13
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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15
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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16
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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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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38
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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39
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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cosiness
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| n.舒适，安逸 | |
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41
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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42
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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43
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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44
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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46
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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47
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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48
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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49
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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50
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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51
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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52
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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53
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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54
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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55
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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56
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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57
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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58
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
misanthropic
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| adj.厌恶人类的，憎恶（或蔑视）世人的；愤世嫉俗 | |
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60
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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61
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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optimists
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| n.乐观主义者( optimist的名词复数 ) | |
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63
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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64
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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65
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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66
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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67
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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68
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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69
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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70
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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71
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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72
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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73
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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74
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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75
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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76
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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77
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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78
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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79
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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80
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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81
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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82
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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83
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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84
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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85
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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86
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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87
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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88
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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