Green Mirror — Book 2, Chapter 4

In the dark hall of the house he saw Katherine.

She spoke to him; he tore past her, tumbling upstairs, running down the passage as though someone pursued him.

His bedroom door banged behind him.

CHAPTER IV GARTH IN ROSELANDS

Philip, on the day following his evening with Henry, left London to spend three weeks with some relations who lived near Manchester.

This was the first parting from him that Katherine had suffered since the beginning of their engagement, and when she had said good-bye to him at the station, she seemed to return through empty streets, through a town without colour or movement, and the house, when she entered it, echoed, through its desolate rooms and passages, to her steps.

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 delightful 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 tiresome 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 Aggie 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, distress, 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 apparently for long solitary walks.

Even his father noticed his depression, and decided 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 entirely satisfactory member of the family.

She frankly revelled in the romance of the whole affair.

She was delighted that Katherine had fallen in love “with such a fine manly fellow” as Philip.

Her attention was always centred upon Katherine to the exclusion 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 desperately 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 spoke 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 standing on her toes, her voice quite shrill 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 accusation 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 agitations 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 cosy shape of the room, heard a purring, contented clock ticking away, thought for a moment of Moscow, with its puddles, its mud, its dark, uneven 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 placid 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 stuffy”—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 reassurance, 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 bonnet, a very fine figure.

Her maid, Clarence, was plain, elderly and masculine in appearance, having a moustache and a stiff linen 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 compartment 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 determined 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 scraps 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 hovered 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 drawn, 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, misty 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 bondage laughing in their new freedom, the earth chuckling, 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 savage winds, wild storms of rain, many cold and bitter days.

Blue mist—running water—trees with their bursting buds—a haze 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 irritation at the tidy cosiness 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 domes 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 shafts.

Lines of carts from the country would pass down the street with great hoops 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 hideous.

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 starry 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, superstitions, stories.

The country itself was like that too—so vague, so vast and boundless, 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 luncheon.

* * * * * Afterwards, when the shadows were lengthening 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 vigour of their air, the rapture of their achievement offer to us a sufficient reassurance against the ironic powers.

We find in them a justification 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, inquisitive gaze, over the cover of her book.

She watched him steadily 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 faltering.

“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 isolation.

“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, dozed 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 misanthropic, 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 temperament, he had, deep down in his soul, a sense of humour, an appreciation of his own comic appearance, a ready applause for the optimists (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.