‘The only hope for us,’ said Katharine, ‘is that William shall die, and Cassandra shall be given rooms as the widow of a distinguished poet.’2
‘Or-’ Cassandra began, but checked herself from the liberty of envisaging Katharine as the widow of a distinguished lawyer. Upon this, the third day of junketing,dx it was tiresome to have to restrain oneself even from such innocent excursions of fancy. She dared not question William; he was inscrutable; he never seemed even to follow the other couple with curiosity when they separated, as they frequently did, to name a plant, or examine a fresco. Cassandra was constantly studying their backs. She noticed how sometimes the impulse to move came from Katharine, and sometimes from Ralph; how, sometimes, they walked slow, as if in profound intercourse, and sometimes fast, as if in passionate. When they came together again nothing could be more unconcerned than their manner.
‘We have been wondering whether they ever catch a fish ... ’ or, ‘We must leave time to visit the Maze.’dy Then, to puzzle her further, William and Ralph filled in all intersticesdz of meal-times or railway journeys with perfectly good-tempered arguments; or they discussed politics, or they told stories, or they did sums together upon the backs of old envelopes to prove something. She suspected that Katharine was absent-minded, but it was impossible to tell. There were moments when she felt so young and inexperienced that she almost wished herself back with the silkworms at Stogdon House, and not embarked upon this bewildering intrigue.
These moments, however, were only the necessary shadow or chill which proved the substance of her bliss, and did not damage the radiance which seemed to rest equally upon the whole party. The fresh air of spring, the sky washed of clouds and already shedding warmth from its blue, seemed the reply vouchsafed by nature to the mood of her chosen spirits. These chosen spirits were to be found also among the deer, dumbly basking, and among the fish, set still in mid-stream, for they were mute sharers in a benignant state not needing any exposition by the tongue. No words that Cassandra could come by expressed the stillness, the brightness, the air of expectancy which lay upon the orderly beauty of the grass walks and gravel paths down which they went walking four abreast that Sunday afternoon. Silently the shadows of the trees lay across the broad sunshine; silence wrapt her heart in its folds. The quivering stillness of the butterfly on the half-opened flower, the silent grazing of the deer in the sun, were the sights her eye rested upon and received as the images of her own nature laid open to happiness and trembling in its ecstasy.
But the afternoon wore on, and it became time to leave the gardens. As they drove from Waterloo to Chelsea, Katharine began to have some compunction about her father, which, together with the opening of offices and the need of working in them on Monday, made it difficult to plan another festival for the following day. Mr Hilbery had taken their absence, so far, with paternal benevolence, but they could not trespass upon it indefinitely. Indeed, had they known it, he was already suffering from their absence, and longing for their return.
He had no dislike of solitude, and Sunday, in particular, was pleasantly adapted for letter-writing, paying calls, or a visit to his club. He was leaving the house on some such suitable expedition towards tea-time when he found himself stopped on his own doorstep by his sister, Mrs Milvain. She should, on hearing that no one was at home, have withdrawn submissively, but instead she accepted his half-hearted invitation to come in, and he found himself in the melancholy position of being forced to order tea for her and sit in the drawing-room while she drank it. She speedily made it plain that she was only thus exacting because she had come on a matter of business. He was by no means exhilarated at the news.
‘Katharine is out this afternoon,’ he remarked. ‘Why not come round later and discuss it with her—with us both, eh?’
‘My dear Trevor, I have particular reasons for wishing to talk to you alone ... Where is Katharine?’
‘She’s out with her young man, naturally. Cassandra plays the part of chaperone very usefully. A charming young woman that—a great favourite of mine.’ He turned his stone between his fingers, and conceived different methods of leading Celia away from her obsession, which, he supposed, must have reference to the domestic affairs of Cyril as usual.
‘With Cassandra,’ Mrs Milvain repeated significantly. ‘With Cassandra.’
‘Yes, with Cassandra,’ Mr Hilbery agreed urbanely, pleased at the diversion. ‘I think they said they were going to Hampton Court, and I rather believe they were taking a protégé of mine, Ralph Denham, a very clever fellow, too, to amuse Cassandra. I thought the arrangement very suitable.’ He was prepared to dwell at some length upon this safe topic, and trusted that Katharine would come in before he had done with it.
‘Hampton Court always seems to me an ideal spot for engaged couples. There’s the Maze, there’s a nice place for having tea—I forget what they call it—and then, if the young man knows his business he contrives to take his lady upon the river. Full of possibilities—full. Cake, Celia?’ Mr Hilbery continued. ‘I respect my dinner too much, but that can’t possibly apply to you. You’ve never observed that feast, so far as I can remember.’
Her brother’s affability did not deceive Mrs Milvain; it slightly saddened her; she well knew the cause of it. Blind and infatuated as usual!
‘Who is this Mr Denham?’ she asked.
‘Ralph Denham?’ said Mr Hilbery, in relief that her mind had taken this turn. ‘A very interesting young man. I’ve a great belief in him. He’s an authority upon our mediaeval institutions, and if he weren’t forced to earn his living he would write a book that very much wants writing.’
‘He is not well off, then?’ Mrs Milvain interposed.
‘Hasn’t a penny, I’m afraid, and a family more or less dependent on him.’
‘A mother and sisters?—his father is dead?’
‘Yes, his father died some years ago,’ said Mr Hilbery, who was prepared to draw upon his imagination, if necessary, to keep Mrs Milvain supplied with facts about the private history of Ralph Denham since, for some inscrutable reason, the subject took her fancy.
‘His father has been dead some time, and this young man had to take his place—’
‘A legal family?’ Mrs Milvain inquired. ‘I fancy I’ve seen the name somewhere.’
Mr Hilbery shook his head. ‘I should be inclined to doubt whether they were altogether in that walk of life,’ he observed. ‘I fancy that Denham once told me that his father was a corn merchant. Perhaps he said a stockbroker. He came to grief, anyhow, as stockbrokers have a way of doing. I’ve a great respect for Denham,’ he added. The remark sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive, and he was afraid that there was nothing more to be said about Denham. He examined the tips of his fingers carefully. ‘Cassandra’s grown into a very charming young woman,’ he started afresh. ‘Charming to look at, and charming to talk to, though her historical knowledge is not altogether profound. Another cup of tea?’
Mrs Milvain had given her cup a little push, which seemed to indicate some momentary displeasure. But she did not want any more tea.
‘It is Cassandra that I have come about,’ she began. ‘I am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie’s goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have seemed incredible—in this house of all houses—were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible.’