Night and Day

At these words Mrs. Milvain rose and stood for a moment beside her niece. She had never met with such treatment before, and she did not know with what weapons to break down the terrible wall of resistance offered her by one who, by virtue of youth and beauty and sex, should have been all tears and supplications. But Mrs. Milvain herself was obstinate; upon a matter of this kind she could not admit that she was either beaten or mistaken. She beheld herself the champion of married love in its purity and supremacy; what her niece stood for she was quite unable to say, but she was filled with the gravest suspicions. The old woman and the young woman stood side by side in unbroken silence. Mrs. Milvain could not make up her mind to withdraw while her principles trembled in the balance and her curiosity remained unappeased. She ransacked her mind for some question that should force Katharine to enlighten her, but the supply was limited, the choice difficult, and while she hesitated the door opened and William Rodney came in. He carried in his hand an enormous and splendid bunch of white and purple flowers, and, either not seeing Mrs. Milvain, or disregarding her, he advanced straight to Katharine, and presented the flowers with the words:

“These are for you, Katharine.”

Katharine took them with a glance that Mrs. Milvain did not fail to intercept. But with all her experience, she did not know what to make of it. She watched anxiously for further illumination. William greeted her without obvious sign of guilt, and, explaining that he had a holiday, both he and Katharine seemed to take it for granted that his holiday should be celebrated with flowers and spent in Cheyne Walk. A pause followed; that, too, was natural; and Mrs. Milvain began to feel that she laid herself open to a charge of selfishness if she stayed. The mere presence of a young man had altered her disposition curiously, and filled her with a desire for a scene which should end in an emotional forgiveness. She would have given much to clasp both nephew and niece in her arms. But she could not flatter herself that any hope of the customary exaltation remained.

“I must go,” she said, and she was conscious of an extreme flatness of spirit.

Neither of them said anything to stop her. William politely escorted her downstairs, and somehow, amongst her protests and embarrassments, Mrs. Milvain forgot to say good-bye to Katharine. She departed, murmuring words about masses of flowers and a drawing-room always beautiful even in the depths of winter.

William came back to Katharine; he found her standing where he had left her.

“I’ve come to be forgiven,” he said. “Our quarrel was perfectly hateful to me. I’ve not slept all night. You’re not angry with me, are you, Katharine?”

She could not bring herself to answer him until she had rid her mind of the impression that her aunt had made on her. It seemed to her that the very flowers were contaminated, and Cassandra’s pocket-handkerchief, for Mrs. Milvain had used them for evidence in her investigations.

“She’s been spying upon us,” she said, “following us about London, overhearing what people are saying – ”

“Mrs. Milvain?” Rodney exclaimed. “What has she told you?”

His air of open confidence entirely vanished.

“Oh, people are saying that you’re in love with Cassandra, and that you don’t care for me.”

“They have seen us?” he asked.

“Everything we’ve done for a fortnight has been seen.”

“I told you that would happen!” he exclaimed.

He walked to the window in evident perturbation. Katharine was too indignant to attend to him. She was swept away by the force of her own anger. Clasping Rodney’s flowers, she stood upright and motionless.

Rodney turned away from the window.

“It’s all been a mistake,” he said. “I blame myself for it. I should have known better. I let you persuade me in a moment of madness. I beg you to forget my insanity, Katharine.”

“She wished even to persecute Cassandra!” Katharine burst out, not listening to him. “She threatened to speak to her. She’s capable of it – she’s capable of anything!”

“Mrs. Milvain is not tactful, I know, but you exaggerate, Katharine. People are talking about us. She was right to tell us. It only confirms my own feeling – the position is monstrous.”

At length Katharine realized some part of what he meant.

“You don’t mean that this influences you, William?” she asked in amazement.

“It does,” he said, flushing. “It’s intensely disagreeable to me. I can’t endure that people should gossip about us. And then there’s your cousin – Cassandra – ” He paused in embarrassment.

“I came here this morning, Katharine,” he resumed, with a change of voice, “to ask you to forget my folly, my bad temper, my inconceivable behavior. I came, Katharine, to ask whether we can’t return to the position we were in before this – this season of lunacy. Will you take me back, Katharine, once more and for ever?”

No doubt her beauty, intensified by emotion and enhanced by the flowers of bright color and strange shape which she carried wrought upon Rodney, and had its share in bestowing upon her the old romance. But a less noble passion worked in him, too; he was inflamed by jealousy. His tentative offer of affection had been rudely and, as he thought, completely repulsed by Cassandra on the preceding day. Denham’s confession was in his mind. And ultimately, Katharine’s dominion over him was of the sort that the fevers of the night cannot exorcise.

“I was as much to blame as you were yesterday,” she said gently, disregarding his question. “I confess, William, the sight of you and Cassandra together made me jealous, and I couldn’t control myself. I laughed at you, I know.”

“You jealous!” William exclaimed. “I assure you, Katharine, you’ve not the slightest reason to be jealous. Cassandra dislikes me, so far as she feels about me at all. I was foolish enough to try to explain the nature of our relationship. I couldn’t resist telling her what I supposed myself to feel for her. She refused to listen, very rightly. But she left me in no doubt of her scorn.”

Katharine hesitated. She was confused, agitated, physically tired, and had already to reckon with the violent feeling of dislike aroused by her aunt which still vibrated through all the rest of her feelings. She sank into a chair and dropped her flowers upon her lap.

“She charmed me,” Rodney continued. “I thought I loved her. But that’s a thing of the past. It’s all over, Katharine. It was a dream – an hallucination. We were both equally to blame, but no harm’s done if you believe how truly I care for you. Say you believe me!”

He stood over her, as if in readiness to seize the first sign of her assent. Precisely at that moment, owing, perhaps, to her vicissitudes of feeling, all sense of love left her, as in a moment a mist lifts from the earth. And when the mist departed a skeleton world and blankness alone remained – a terrible prospect for the eyes of the living to behold. He saw the look of terror in her face, and without understanding its origin, took her hand in his. With the sense of companionship returned a desire, like that of a child for shelter, to accept what he had to offer her – and at that moment it seemed that he offered her the only thing that could make it tolerable to live. She let him press his lips to her cheek, and leant her head upon his arm. It was the moment of his triumph. It was the only moment in which she belonged to him and was dependent upon his protection.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he murmured, “you accept me, Katharine. You love me.”

For a moment she remained silent. He then heard her murmur:

“Cassandra loves you more than I do.”

“Cassandra?” he whispered.

“She loves you,” Katharine repeated. She raised herself and repeated the sentence yet a third time. “She loves you.”

William slowly raised himself. He believed instinctively what Katharine said, but what it meant to him he was unable to understand. Could Cassandra love him? Could she have told Katharine that she loved him? The desire to know the truth of this was urgent, unknown though the consequences might be. The thrill of excitement associated with the thought of Cassandra once more took possession of him. No longer was it the excitement of anticipation and ignorance; it was the excitement of something greater than a possibility, for now he knew her and had measure of the sympathy between them. But who could give him certainty? Could Katharine, Katharine who had lately lain in his arms, Katharine herself the most admired of women? He looked at her, with doubt, and with anxiety, but said nothing.

“Yes, yes,” she said, interpreting his wish for assurance, “it’s true. I know what she feels for you.”

“She loves me?”

Katharine nodded.

“Ah, but who knows what I feel? How can I be sure of my feeling myself? Ten minutes ago I asked you to marry me. I still wish it – I don’t know what I wish – ”

He clenched his hands and turned away. He suddenly faced her and demanded: “Tell me what you feel for Denham.”

“For Ralph Denham?” she asked. “Yes!” she exclaimed, as if she had found the answer to some momentarily perplexing question. “You’re jealous of me, William; but you’re not in love with me. I’m jealous of you. Therefore, for both our sakes, I say, speak to Cassandra at once.”

He tried to compose himself. He walked up and down the room; he paused at the window and surveyed the flowers strewn upon the floor. Meanwhile his desire to have Katharine’s assurance confirmed became so insistent that he could no longer deny the overmastering strength of his feeling for Cassandra.

“You’re right,” he exclaimed, coming to a standstill and rapping his knuckles sharply upon a small table carrying one slender vase. “I love Cassandra.”

As he said this, the curtains hanging at the door of the little room parted, and Cassandra herself stepped forth.

“I have overheard every word!” she exclaimed.

A pause succeeded this announcement. Rodney made a step forward and said:

“Then you know what I wish to ask you. Give me your answer – ”

She put her hands before her face; she turned away and seemed to shrink from both of them.

“What Katharine said,” she murmured. “But,” she added, raising her head with a look of fear from the kiss with which he greeted her admission, “how frightfully difficult it all is! Our feelings, I mean – yours and mine and Katharine’s. Katharine, tell me, are we doing right?”