Part 8 (1/2)

Katharine came into the room a moment later. He stood watching her come towards him, and thought her more beautiful and strange than his dream of her; for the real Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes, and the commonest sentence would be flashed on by this immortal light. And she overflowed the edges of the dream; he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger.

'My mother wants me to tell you,' she said, 'that she hopes you have begun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry . . . All my relations write poetry,' she went on. 'I can't bear to think of it sometimes-because, of course, it's none of it any good. But then one needn't read it-'

'You don't encourage me to write a poem,' said Ralph.

'But you're not a poet, too, are you?' she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh.

'Should I tell you if I were?'

'Yes. Because I think you speak the truth,' she said, searching him for proof of this apparently, with eyes now almost impersonally direct. It would be easy, Ralph thought, to wors.h.i.+p one so far removed, and yet of so straight a nature; easy to submit recklessly to her, without thought of future pain.

'Are you a poet?' she demanded. He felt that her question had an unexplained weight of meaning behind it, as if she sought an answer to a question that she did not ask.

'No. I haven't written any poetry for years,' he replied. 'But all the same, I don't agree with you. I think it's the only thing worth doing.'

'Why do you say that?' she asked, almost with impatience, tapping her spoon two or three times against the side of her cup.

'Why?' Ralph laid hands on the first words that came to mind. 'Because, I suppose, it keeps an ideal alive which might die otherwise.'

A curious change came over her face, as if the flame of her mind were subdued; and she looked at him ironically and with the expression which he had called sad before, for want of a better name for it.

'I don't know that there's much sense in having ideals,' she said.

'But you have them,' he replied energetically. 'Why do we call them ideals? It's a stupid word. Dreams, I mean-'

She followed his words with parted lips, as though to answer eagerly when he had done; but as he said, 'Dreams, I mean,' the door of the drawing-room swung open, and so remained for a perceptible instant. They both held themselves silent, her lips still parted.

Far off, they heard the rustle of skirts. Then the owner of the skirts appeared in the doorway, which she almost filled, nearly concealing the figure of a very much smaller lady who accompanied her.

'My aunts!' Katharine murmured, under her breath. Her tone had a hint of tragedy in it, but no less, Ralph thought, than the situation required. She addressed the larger lady as Aunt Millicent; the smaller was Aunt Celia, Mrs Milvain, who had lately undertaken the task of marrying Cyril to his wife. Both ladies, but Mrs Cosham (Aunt Millicent) in particular, had that look of heightened, smoothed, incarnadinedba existence which is proper to elderly ladies paying calls in London about five o'clock in the afternoon. Portraits by Romney, existence which is proper to elderly ladies paying calls in London about five o'clock in the afternoon. Portraits by Romney,bb seen through gla.s.s, have something of their pink, mellow look, their blooming softness, as of apricots hanging upon a red wall in the afternoon sun. Mrs Cosham was so apparelled with hanging m.u.f.fs, chains, and swinging draperies that it was impossible to detect the shape of a human being in the ma.s.s of brown and black which filled the arm-chair. Mrs Milvain was a much slighter figure; but the same doubt as to the precise lines of her contour filled Ralph, as he regarded them, with dismal foreboding. What remark of his would ever reach these fabulous and fantastic characters?-for there was something fantastically unreal in the curious swayings and noddings of Mrs Cosham, as if her equipment included a large wire spring. Her voice had a high-pitched, cooing note, which prolonged words and cut them short until the English language seemed no longer fit for common purposes. In a moment of nervousness, so Ralph thought, Katharine had turned on innumerable electric lights. But Mrs Cosham had gained impetus (perhaps her swaying movements had that end in view) for sustained speech; and she now addressed Ralph deliberately and elaborately. seen through gla.s.s, have something of their pink, mellow look, their blooming softness, as of apricots hanging upon a red wall in the afternoon sun. Mrs Cosham was so apparelled with hanging m.u.f.fs, chains, and swinging draperies that it was impossible to detect the shape of a human being in the ma.s.s of brown and black which filled the arm-chair. Mrs Milvain was a much slighter figure; but the same doubt as to the precise lines of her contour filled Ralph, as he regarded them, with dismal foreboding. What remark of his would ever reach these fabulous and fantastic characters?-for there was something fantastically unreal in the curious swayings and noddings of Mrs Cosham, as if her equipment included a large wire spring. Her voice had a high-pitched, cooing note, which prolonged words and cut them short until the English language seemed no longer fit for common purposes. In a moment of nervousness, so Ralph thought, Katharine had turned on innumerable electric lights. But Mrs Cosham had gained impetus (perhaps her swaying movements had that end in view) for sustained speech; and she now addressed Ralph deliberately and elaborately.

'I come from Woking, Mr Popham. You may well ask me, why Woking? and to that I answer, for perhaps the hundredth time, because of the sunsets. We went there for the sunsets, but that was five-and-twenty years ago. Where are the sunsets now? Alas! There is no sunset now nearer than the South Coast.'1 Her rich and romantic notes were accompanied by a wave of a long white hand, which, when waved, gave off a flash of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. Ralph wondered whether she more resembled an elephant, with a jewelled head-dress, or a superb c.o.c.katoo, balanced insecurely upon its perch, and pecking capriciously at a lump of sugar. Her rich and romantic notes were accompanied by a wave of a long white hand, which, when waved, gave off a flash of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. Ralph wondered whether she more resembled an elephant, with a jewelled head-dress, or a superb c.o.c.katoo, balanced insecurely upon its perch, and pecking capriciously at a lump of sugar.

'Where are the sunsets now?' she repeated. 'Do you find sunsets now, Mr Popham?'

'I live at Highgate,' he replied.

'At Highgate? Yes, Highgate has its charms; your Uncle John lived at Highgate,' she jerked in the direction of Katharine. She sank her head upon her breast, as if for a moment's meditation, which past, she looked up and observed: 'I dare say there are very pretty lanes in Highgate. I can recollect walking with your mother, Katharine, through lanes blossoming with wild hawthorn. But where is the hawthorn now? You remember that exquisite description in De Quincey,bc Mr Popham?-but I forget, you, in your generation, with all your activity and enlightenment, at which I can only marvel'-here she displayed both her beautiful white hands-'do not read De Quincey. You have your Belloc, your Chesterton, your Bernard Shaw Mr Popham?-but I forget, you, in your generation, with all your activity and enlightenment, at which I can only marvel'-here she displayed both her beautiful white hands-'do not read De Quincey. You have your Belloc, your Chesterton, your Bernard Shawbd-why should you read De Quincey?'

'But I do read De Quincey,' Ralph protested, 'more than Belloc and Chesterton, anyhow.'

'Indeed!' exclaimed Mrs Cosham, with a gesture of surprise and relief mingled. 'You are, then, a rara avis rara avis in your generation. I am delighted to meet any one who reads De Quincey.' in your generation. I am delighted to meet any one who reads De Quincey.'

Here she hollowed her hand into a screen, and, leaning towards Katharine, inquired, in a very audible whisper, 'Does your friend write?' write?'

'Mr Denham,' said Katharine, with more than her usual clearness and firmness, 'writes for the Review. He is a lawyer.'

'The clean-shaven lips, showing the expression of the mouth! I recognized them at once. I always feel at home with lawyers, Mr Denham-'

'They used to come about us so much in the old days,' Mrs Milvain interposed, the frail, silvery notes of her voice falling with the sweet tone of an old bell.

'You say you live at Highgate,' she continued. 'I wonder whether you happen to know if there is an old house called Tempest Lodge still in existence-an old white house in a garden?'

Ralph shook his head, and she sighed.

'Ah, no; it must have been pulled down by this time, with all the other old houses. There were such pretty lanes in those days. That was how your uncle met your Aunt Emily, you know,' she addressed Katharine. 'They walked home through the lanes.'

A sprig of May in her bonnet,' Mrs Cosham e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, reminiscently.

And next Sunday he had violets in his b.u.t.tonhole. And that was how we guessed.'

Katharine laughed. She looked at Ralph. His eyes were meditative, and she wondered what he found in this old gossip to make him ponder so contentedly. She felt, she hardly knew why, a curious pity for him.

'Uncle John-yes, ”poor John,” you always called him. Why was that?' she asked, to make them go on talking, which, indeed, they needed little invitation to do.

'That was what his father, old Sir Richard, always called him. Poor John, or the fool of the family,' Mrs Milvain hastened to inform them. 'The other boys were so brilliant, and he could never pa.s.s his examinations, so they sent him to India-a long voyage in those days, poor fellow. You had your own room, you know, and you did it up. But he will get his knighthood and a pension, I believe,' she said, turning to Ralph, 'only it is not England.'

'No,' Mrs Cosham confirmed her, 'it is not England. In those days we thought an Indian Judges.h.i.+p about equal to a county-court judges.h.i.+p at home. His Honour-a pretty t.i.tle, but still, not the top of the tree. However,' she sighed, 'if you have a wife and seven children, and people nowadays very quickly forget your father's name-well, you have to take what you can get,' she concluded.

'And I fancy,' Mrs Milvain resumed, lowering her voice rather confidentially, 'that John would have done more if it hadn't been for his wife, your Aunt Emily. She was a very good woman, devoted to him, of course, but she was not ambitious for him, and if a wife isn't ambitious for her husband, especially in a profession like the law, clients soon get to know of it. In our young days, Mr Denham, we used to say that we knew which of our friends would become judges, by looking at the girls they married. And so it was, and so, I fancy, it always will be. I don't think,' she added, summing up these scattered remarks, 'that any man is really happy unless he succeeds in his profession.'

Mrs Cosham approved of this sentiment with more ponderous sagacity from her side of the tea-table, in the first place by swaying her head, and in the second by remarking: 'No, men are not the same as women. I fancy Alfred Tennyson spoke the truth about that as about many other things. How I wish he'd lived to write ”The Prince”-a sequel to ”The Princess”!2 I confess I'm almost tired of Princesses. We want some one to show us what a good man can be. We have Laura and Beatrice, Antigone and Cordelia, I confess I'm almost tired of Princesses. We want some one to show us what a good man can be. We have Laura and Beatrice, Antigone and Cordelia,3 but we have no heroic man. How do you, as a poet, account for that, Mr Denham?' but we have no heroic man. How do you, as a poet, account for that, Mr Denham?'

'I'm not a poet,' said Ralph good-humouredly. 'I'm only a solicitor.'

'But you write too?' Mrs Cosham demanded, afraid lest she should be baulked of her priceless discovery, a young man truly devoted to literature.

'In my spare time,' Denham rea.s.sured her.

'In your spare time!' Mrs Cosham echoed. 'That is a proof of devotion, indeed.' She half closed her eyes, and indulged herself in a fascinating picture of a briefless barrister lodged in a garret, writing immortal novels by the light of a farthing dip.be But the romance which fell upon the figures of great writers and illumined their pages was no false radiance in her case. She carried her pocket Shakespeare about with her, and met life fortified by the words of the poets. How far she saw Denham, and how far she confused him with some hero of fiction, it would be hard to say. Literature had taken possession even of her memories. She was matching him, presumably, with certain characters in the old novels, for she came out after a pause, with: But the romance which fell upon the figures of great writers and illumined their pages was no false radiance in her case. She carried her pocket Shakespeare about with her, and met life fortified by the words of the poets. How far she saw Denham, and how far she confused him with some hero of fiction, it would be hard to say. Literature had taken possession even of her memories. She was matching him, presumably, with certain characters in the old novels, for she came out after a pause, with: 'Um-um-Pendennis-Warrington-I could never forgive Laura,' she p.r.o.nounced energetically, 'for not marrying George, in spite of everything. George Eliot did the very same thing;4 and Lewes was a little frog-faced man, with the manner of a dancing master. But Warrington, now, had everything in his favour; intellect, pa.s.sion, romance, distinction, and the connexion was a mere piece of undergraduate folly. Arthur, I confess, has always seemed to me a bit of a fop; I can't imagine how Laura married him. But you say you're a solicitor, Mr Denham. Now there are one or two things I should like to ask you-about Shakespeare-' She drew out her small, worn volume with some difficulty, opened it, and shook it in the air. 'They say, nowadays, that Shakespeare was a lawyer. They say that accounts for his knowledge of human nature. There's a fine example for you, Mr Denham. Study your clients, young man, and the world will be the richer one of these days, I have no doubt. Tell me, how do we come out of it, now; better or worse than you expected?' and Lewes was a little frog-faced man, with the manner of a dancing master. But Warrington, now, had everything in his favour; intellect, pa.s.sion, romance, distinction, and the connexion was a mere piece of undergraduate folly. Arthur, I confess, has always seemed to me a bit of a fop; I can't imagine how Laura married him. But you say you're a solicitor, Mr Denham. Now there are one or two things I should like to ask you-about Shakespeare-' She drew out her small, worn volume with some difficulty, opened it, and shook it in the air. 'They say, nowadays, that Shakespeare was a lawyer. They say that accounts for his knowledge of human nature. There's a fine example for you, Mr Denham. Study your clients, young man, and the world will be the richer one of these days, I have no doubt. Tell me, how do we come out of it, now; better or worse than you expected?'

Thus called upon to sum up the worth of human nature in a few words, Ralph answered unhesitatingly: 'Worse, Mrs Cosham, a good deal worse. I'm afraid the ordinary man is a bit of a rascal-'

'And the ordinary woman?'

'No, I don't like the ordinary woman either-'

'Ah, dear me, I've no doubt that's very true, very true.' Mrs Cosham sighed. 'Swiftbf would have agreed with you, anyhow-' She looked at him, and thought that there were signs of distinct power in his brow. He would do well, she thought, to devote himself to satire. would have agreed with you, anyhow-' She looked at him, and thought that there were signs of distinct power in his brow. He would do well, she thought, to devote himself to satire.

'Charles Lavington, you remember, was a solicitor,' Mrs Milvain interposed, rather resenting the waste of time involved in talking about fict.i.tious people when you might be talking about real people. 'But you wouldn't remember him, Katharine.'

'Mr Lavington? Oh yes, I do,' said Katharine, waking from other thoughts with her little start. 'The summer we had a house near Tenby.bg I remember the field and the pond with the tadpoles, and making hay-stacks with Mr Lavington.' I remember the field and the pond with the tadpoles, and making hay-stacks with Mr Lavington.'

'She is right. There was was a pond with tadpoles,' Mrs Cosham corroborated. 'Millais made studies of it for ”Ophelia.” a pond with tadpoles,' Mrs Cosham corroborated. 'Millais made studies of it for ”Ophelia.”5 Some say that is the best picture he ever painted-' Some say that is the best picture he ever painted-'