Green Mirror — Book 1, Chapter 5

And Katherine!

At the thought of her he rose, defied all the Trenchards in the world, lit his lamp and pulled down the blinds.

The smell of Uncle Tim’s tobacco was very strong in the room.

CHAPTER V THE FINEST THING

When a stranger surveys the life of a family it is very certain that the really determining factor in the development of that group of persons will escape his notice.

For instance, in surveying the Trenchards, Philip had disregarded Aunt Aggie.

As this is a record of the history of a family and not only of individuals, Aunt Aggie must be seriously considered; it was the first ominous mistake that Philip made that he did not seriously consider her.

Agnes Trenchard, when quite a young girl, had been pretty in a soft and rounded manner.

Two offers of marriage had been made to her, but she had refused these because she had a great sense of her destiny.

From her first thinking moment she had considered herself very seriously.

She had very high ideals; the finest thing in this world was a life of utter unselfishness, a life of noble devotion and martyred self-interest.

She looked about her and could see no signs of such lives; all the more then was it clear that she was set apart to give the world such an example.

Unfortunately, allied to this appreciation of a fine self-sacrificing character was a nature self-indulgent, indolent and suspicious.

Could she be unselfish without trouble or loss then how unselfish she would be!

She liked the idea of it immensely....

For some years she was pretty, sang a little and obviously ‘thought more’ than either of her sisters.

People listened then to her creed and believed in her intentions.

She talked often of unselfishness, was always ready to do anything for anybody, and was always prevented or forestalled by less altruistic people.

When, after her two offers of marriage, she stepped very quickly into the shapes and colours of an old maid, went to live with her sister-in-law and brother, and formed ‘habits’, people listened to her less readily.

She herself however, quite unaware that at thirty-five, life for a woman is, sexually, either over or only just commencing, hoped to continue the illusions of her girlhood.

The nobility of unselfishness appealed to her more than ever, but she found that the people around her were always standing in her way.

She became, therefore, quite naturally, rather bitter.

Her round figure expressed, in defiance of its rotundity, peevishness.

She had to account for her failures in self-sacrificing altruism, and found it not in her own love of ease and dislike of effort, but, completely, in other people’s selfishness.

Had she been permitted she would have been the finest Trenchard alive, and how fine that was only a Trenchard could know!

But the world was in a conspiracy against her—the world, and especially her sister Elizabeth, whom she despised and bullied, but, somewhere in her strange suspicious crust of a heart, loved.

That was, perhaps, the strangest thing about her—that, in spite of her ill-humour, discontents and irritations, she really loved the family, and would like to have told it so were she not continually prevented by its extraordinary habit of being irritating just when she felt most affectionate!

She really did love them, and she would go down sometimes in the morning with every intention of saying so, but in five minutes they had destroyed that picture of herself which, during her absence from them, she had painted—for that, of course, she could not forgive them.

In the mansion of the human soul there are many chambers; Aunt Aggie’s contradictions were numberless; but, on broad lines it may be said that her assurance of the injustice of her own fate was balanced only by her conviction of the good luck of everyone else.

She hoped, perpetually, that they would all recognise this—namely, that their Life had treated them with the most wonderful good fortune.

Her brother George Trenchard, for instance, with his careless habits, his indifference to the facts of life, his obvious selfishness.

What disasters he would, had he not been incredibly favoured, most surely have encountered!

Aunt Aggie was afraid that he did not sufficiently realise this, and so, in order that he might offer up thanks to God, she reminded him, as often as was possible, of his failings.

Thus, too, with the others.

Even Katherine, for whom she cared deeply, betrayed, at times, a haughty and uplifted spirit, and, frequently forestalled her aunt’s intended unselfishness, thus, in a way, rebuking her aunt, a thing that a niece should never do.

With this consciousness of her relations’ failings went an insatiable curiosity.

Aunt Aggie, because she was the finest character in the family, should be rewarded by the trust and confidence of the family;

she must, at any rate, maintain the illusion that she received it.

Did

they keep her quiet with little facts and stories that were of no importance, she must make them important in order to support her dignity.

She made them very important indeed....

A great factor was her religion.

She was, like her sister, a most sincere and devout member of the Church of England.

She believed in God as revealed to her by relations and clergymen in the day of her baptism;

time and a changing world had done nothing to shake her confidence.

But, unlike her sisters, she believed that this God existed chiefly as a friend and supporter of Miss Agnes Trenchard.

He had other duties and purposes, of course, but did not hide from her His especial interest in herself.

The knowledge of this gave her great confidence.

She was now fifty years of age, and believed that she was still twenty-five; that is not to say that she dressed as a young woman or encouraged, any longer, the possibility of romantic affairs.

It was simply that the interest and attraction that she offered to the world as a fine and noble character were the same as they had ever been—and if the world did not recognize this that was because fine and noble characters were few and difficult to discover.

One knew this because the Trenchard family offered so seldom an example of one, and the Trenchards were, of course, the finest people in England.

She had great power with her relations because she knew, so intimately, their weaknesses.

People, on the whole, may be said to triumph over those who believe in them and submit to those who don’t. The Trenchards, because life was full and time was short, submitted to Aunt Aggie and granted anything in order that they might not be made uncomfortable.

They could not, however, allow her to abuse them, one to another, and would submit to much personal criticism before they permitted treachery.

Their mutual affection was a very real factor in their lives.

Aunt Aggie herself had her share in it.

She possessed, nevertheless, a genius for creating discomfort or for promoting an already unsteady atmosphere.

She was at her best when the family was at its worst, because then she could perceive, quite clearly, her own fine nobility.

Philip Mark had made a grave mistake when he disregarded her.

* * * * * She had disliked Philip from the first.

She had disapproved of the way that he had burst in upon the family just when she had been at her best in the presentation to her father.

He had not known that she had been at her best, but then that was his fault.

She had been ready to forgive this, however, if, in the days that followed, he had shown that he appreciated her.

He had not shown this, at all—he had, in fact, quite obviously preferred her sister Elizabeth.

He had not listened to her with close attention when she had talked to him about the nobility of unselfishness, and he had displayed both irritation and immorality in his views of life.

She had been shocked by the abruptness with which he had rebuked Mr. Seymour, and she thought his influence on Henry was, already, as bad as it could be.

It was of course only too characteristic of George that he should encourage the young man.

She could see what her father and Aunt Sarah thought of him, and she could only say that she entirely shared their opinion.

Philip’s visit had upset her, and Millie’s return from Paris upset her still more.

She had never cared greatly about Millie, who had never showed her any deference or attention, but Millie had until now always been a Trenchard.

She had come back from Paris only half a Trenchard.

Aunt Aggie was grievously afraid that troublesome times were in store for them all.

It was just at this point that her attention was directed towards Katherine.

She always considered that Katherine knew her better than any other member of the family did, which simply meant that Katherine considered her feelings.

Lately, however, Katherine had not considered her feelings.

She had, on at least two occasions, been deliberately uncivil!

Once Aunt Aggie had suffered from neuralgia, and Katherine had promised to come and read her to sleep and had forgotten to do so.

Next morning, her neuralgia being better, Aunt Aggie said—“I can’t, dear Katherine, imagine myself, under similar conditions, acting as you have done....

I had a sleepless night....

But of course you had more important duties”—and Katherine had scarcely apologised.

On the second occasion Aunt Aggie at breakfast, (she was always bitter at breakfast, mildly unhappy over her porridge and violently sarcastic by marmalade time) had remarked with regret that Millie, who was late, had “picked up these sad habits abroad.

She had never known anyone the finer, whether in character or manners, for living abroad;” here was a little dust flung at the inoffensive person of Philip, now soundly asleep in Jermyn Street.

At once Katherine was “in a flurry.

” “What right had Aunt Aggie to say so?

How could she tell?

It might be better if one went abroad more, lost some of one’s prejudices ...

” quite a little scene!

Very unlike Katherine!

Aunt Aggie did not forget.

Like some scientist or mathematician, happily let loose into some new theory or problem, so now did she consider Katherine.

Katherine was different, Katherine was restless and out of temper.

She had been so ever since Philip Mark’s visit....

With her sewing or her book Aunt Aggie sat in a corner by the drawing-room fire and watched and waited.

Upon that afternoon that had seen Katherine’s meeting with Philip by the river Aunt Aggie had been compelled to have tea alone.

That had been annoying, because it looked as though the gay world was inviting everyone except Aunt Aggie to share in its excitements and pleasures.

At last there arrived Mrs. Trenchard and Millie, and finally Katherine.

Aunt Aggie had sat in her warm corner, pursuing with her needle the green tail of an unnatural parrot which she was working into a slowly-developing cushion cover and had considered her grievances.

It had been a horrible day, cold and gloomy.

Aunt Aggie had a chilblain that, like the Waits, always appeared about Christmas and, unlike them, stayed on well into the spring.

It had made its appearance, for the first time this season, during the past night.

Millie talked a great deal about very little, and Mrs. Trenchard received her remarks with the nonchalant indifference of a croupier raking in the money at Monte Carlo.

Katherine sat staring into the fire and saying nothing.

Aunt Aggie, watching her, felt quite suddenly as though the firelight had leapt from some crashing coal into a flaring splendour, that something strange and unusual was with them in the room.

She was not at all, like her sister Elizabeth, given to romantic and sentimental impressions.

She seldom read novels, and cared nothing for the theatre.

What she felt now was really unpleasant and uncomfortable, as though she had soap in her eyes or dropped her collection under the seat during the Litany.

The room positively glowed, the dim shadows were richly coloured, and in Aunt Aggie’s heart was alarm and agitation.

She stared about her; she looked about the room and pierced the shadows;

she sewed a wrong stitch into the parrots’ tail, and then decided that it was Katherine’s eyes....

She looked at the girl—she looked again and again—saw her bending forward a little, her hands pressed together on her lap, her breast rising and falling with the softest suspicion of some agitation, and, in her eyes, such a light as could come from no fire, no flame from without, but only from the very soul itself.

Katherine’s good-tempered, humorous eyes, so charged with common-sense, affectionate but always mild, unagitated, calm, like her mother’s—now what was one to say?

Aunt Aggie said nothing.

Her own heart felt for an instant some response.

She would have liked to have taken the girl into her arms and kissed her and petted her.

In a moment the impulse passed.

What was the matter with Katherine?

_Who_ was the matter with Katherine?

It was almost improper that anyone should look like that in a drawing-room that had witnessed so much good manners.

Moreover it was selfish, this terrible absorption.

If Katherine began to think of herself, whatever would happen to them all!

And there were Millie and her mother, poor things, chattering blindly together.

Aunt Aggie felt that the business of watching over this helpless family did indeed devolve upon her.

From that moment Katherine and the things that were possibly happening to Katherine never left her thoughts.

She was happier than she had been for many months.

But Katherine, in the days that followed, gave her curiosity no satisfaction.

Aunt Aggie dated, in future years, all the agitation that was so shortly to sweep down upon the Trenchard waters from that afternoon when ‘Katherine’s eyes had seemed so strange’, but her insistence on that date did not at all mean that it was then that Katherine invited her aunt’s confidence, Aunt Aggie was compelled to drive on her mysterious way alone.

She was now assured that ‘something was the matter’, but the time had not yet arrived when all the family was concerned in it.

In any case, to begin with, what was her sister-in-law Harriet Trenchard thinking?

No one ever knew what Harriet Trenchard thought; and foolish and hasty observers said that that was because Harriet Trenchard never thought at all.

Aggie Trenchard was neither foolish nor hasty; she was afraid of Harriet because, after all these years, she knew nothing about her.

She had never penetrated that indifferent stolidity.

Harriet had never spoken to her intimately about anything, nor had Harriet once displayed any emotions, whether of surprise or anger, happiness or grief, but Aggie was penetrating enough to fear that brooding quiet.

At least Aggie knew her sister-in-law well enough to realise that her children were an ever-present, ever-passionate element in her life.

On certain occasions, concerning Millie, Katherine, Henry or Vincent, Aggie had seen that silence, for a moment, quiver as a still lake trembles with a sudden shake or roll when the storm is raging across the hills—especially was Katherine linked to her mother’s most intimate hold upon life, even though the words that they exchanged were of the most commonplace; Aunt Aggie knew that, and strangely, obscurely, she was moved, at times, to sudden impulses of bitter jealousy.

Why was it that no one cared for her as Katherine cared for her mother?

What was there in Harriet to care for?...

and yet—nevertheless, Aggie Trenchard loved her sister-in-law.

With regard to this present business Aggie knew, with sufficient assurance, that Harriet disliked Philip Mark, had disliked him from the first.

Had Harriet noticed this change in her daughter, and had she drawn her conclusions?

What would Harriet say if...?

Aunt Aggie added stitches to the green parrot’s tail with every comfortable assurance that ‘in a time or two’, there would be plenty of trouble.

Ultimately, through it all, it was her jealousy that moved her and her jealousy that provoked the first outburst ...

instantly, without warning, new impulses, new relationships, new motives were working amongst them all, and their world was changed.

Upon an afternoon, Aunt Aggie hearing that Henry wished to change a novel at Mudie’s Library (that very novel that he had been reading on the day of Philip’s arrival) offered to take it for him.

This was at luncheon, and she felt, because she liked her food and barley-water, a sudden impulse towards the Ideal Unselfishness.

She made her offer, and then reflected that it would be very troublesome to go so far as Oxford Street; she therefore allowed Katherine to accept the mission, retaining at the same time her own nobility.

She became quite angry: “Of course,” she said, “you consider me too old to do anything—to sit in a corner and sew is all I’m good for—well, well—you’ll be old yourself one day, Katherine, my dear.

I should have liked to have helped Henry....

However ” She was conscious, during the afternoon, of some injustice; she had been treated badly.

At dinner that night Rocket forgot the footstool that was essential to her comfort; she was compelled at last to ask him for it.

He had never forgotten it before; they all thought her an old woman who didn’t matter; no one troubled now about her—well, they should see....

Great Aunt Sarah was, as often happened to her, rheumatic but Spartan in bed.

The ladies, when they left the dining-room and closed around the drawing-room fire, were Mrs. Trenchard, Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty, Katherine and Millie.

Happy and comfortable enough they looked, with the shadowed dusky room behind them and the blaze in front of them.

In the world outside it was a night of intense frost: here they were reflected in the Mirror, Mrs. Trenchard’s large gold locket (Henry as a baby inside it), Aggie’s plump neck and black silk dress, Aunt Betty’s darting, sparkling eyes, Millie’s lovely shoulders, Katherine’s rather dumpy ones—there they all were, right inside the Mirror, with a reflected fire to make them cosy and the walls ever so thick and old.

The freezing night could not touch them.

“Rocket’s getting very old and careless,” said Aggie.

Everyone had known that Aunt Aggie was out of temper this evening, and everyone, therefore, was prepared for a tiresome hour or two.

Rocket was a great favourite; Mrs. Trenchard, her arms folded across her bosom, her face the picture of placid content, said: “Oh, Aggie, do you think so?...

I don’t. ” “No, of course, you don’t, Harriet,” answered her sister sharply.

“He takes care with you.

Of course he does.

But if you considered your sister sometimes—” “My dear Aggie!

” Mrs. Trenchard, as she spoke, bent forward and very quietly picked up a bright green silk thread from the carpet.

“Oh, I’m not complaining!

That’s a thing I don’t believe in!

After all, if you think Rocket’s perfection I’ve no more to say.

I want others to be comfortable—for myself I care nothing.

It is for the rest of the family.

” “We’re _quite_ comfortable, Aunt Aggie, thank you,” said Millie laughing.

“I hope you don’t think, Harriet,” said Aggie, disregarding her niece, “that I’m complaining—I—” Mrs. Trenchard leant towards her, holding out the thread of green silk!

“That must be from your silks, Aggie dear,” she said.

“It’s just the colour of your parrot’s tail.

I couldn’t think what it was, lying there on the carpet.

” It was then that Katherine, who had paid no attention to this little conversation but had followed her own thoughts, said: “Oh!

how careless of me!

I never took Henry’s book, after all—and I went right up Oxford Street too!

” This was unfortunate, because it reminded Aunt Aggie of something that she had very nearly forgotten.

Of course Katherine had never intended to take the book—she had simply offered to do so because she thought her Aunt old, feeble, and incapable.

“Really, Katherine,” said Aunt Aggie, “you might have let me take it after all.

I may be useless in most ways and not worth anyone’s consideration, but at least I’m still able to walk up Oxford Street in safety!

” Her aunt’s tones were so bitter that Katherine looked across at her in some dismay.

Aunt Betty did not assist the affair by saying: “Why, Aggie dear, who ever supposed you couldn’t; I’m sure you can do anything you want to!

” “Well, perhaps, next time,” Aunt Aggie said sharply.

“When I offer some help someone will listen to me.

_I_ should not have forgotten the book.

” “I _can’t_ think why _I_ did,” said Katherine, “I remembered it just before I started, and then something happened—” Aunt Aggie looked about her, and thought that this would be a very good opportunity for discovering the real state of Katherine’s mind.

“You must take care, Katherine dear,” she said, “you don’t seem to me to have been quite yourself lately.

I’ve noticed a number of little things.

You’re tired, I think.

” Katherine laughed.

“Why should I be?

I’ve had nothing to make me.

” It was then that Aunt Aggie caught a look of strange, almost furtive anxiety in Harriet’s eyes.

Following this, for the swiftest moment, Katherine and her mother exchanged a gleam of affection, of reassurance, of confidence.

“Ah!

” thought Aunt Aggie, “they’re laughing at me.

_Everyone’s_ laughing at me.

” “My dear Katherine,” she snapped, “I’m sure _I_ don’t know what’s tired you, but I think you must realise what I mean.

You are not your normal self; and, if your old aunt may say so, that’s a pity.

” Millie, looking across at her sister, was astonished to see the colour rising in her cheeks.

Katherine was annoyed!

Katherine minded Aunt Aggie!

Katherine, who was never out of temper—never perturbed!

and at Aunt Aggie!

“Really, Aunt Aggie,” Katherine said, “it’s very tiresome if all the family are going to watch one day and night as though one were something from the Zoo.

Tiresome is not nearly strong enough.

” Her aunt smiled bitterly.

“It’s only my affection for you,” she said.

“But of course you don’t want that.

Why should you?

One day, however, you may remember that someone once cared whether you were tired or not.

” Aunt Aggie’s hands trembled on her lap.

Katherine shook her head impatiently.

“I’m very grateful for your kindness—but I’d much rather be left alone.

I’m not tired, nor odd, nor anything—so, please, don’t tell me that I am.

” Aggie rose from her chair, and very slowly with trembling fingers drew her work together.

“I think,” she said, her voice quivering a little, “that I’ll go to bed.

Next time you wish to insult me, Katherine, I’d rather you did it when we were alone.

” A very slow and stately figure, she walked down the drawing-room and disappeared.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Oh, dear!

” cried Katherine, “I’m so sorry!

” She looked round upon them all, and saw quite clearly that they were surprised at her.

Again behind Mrs. Trenchard’s eyes there hovered that suspicion of anxiety.

“What did I do?

What did I say?

Aunt Aggie’s so funny.

” Then, as still they did not answer, she turned round upon them: “_Have_ I been cross and tiresome lately?

_Have_ you all noticed it?

Tell me.

” Aunt Betty said, “No, dear, of course not.

” Millie said, “What _does_ it matter what Aunt Aggie says?

” Mrs. Trenchard said, “There’s another of Aggie’s green threads.

Under your chair, Millie dear.

I’d better go up and see whether she wants anything.

” But Katherine rose and, standing for an instant with a little half-smile, half-frown, surveying them, moved then slowly away from them down the room.

“No. I’ll go, Mother, and apologise.

I suppose I was horrid.

” She left them.

She went up through the dark passages slowly, meditatively.

She waited for a moment outside her aunt’s door and then knocked, heard then her aunt’s voice, “Come in!

”—in tones that showed that she had been expecting some ambassador.

Katherine stood by the door, then moved forward, put her arms about Aunt Aggie and kissed her.

“I’m so sorry.

I’m afraid that I hurt you.

You know that I didn’t mean to.

” Upon Aunt Aggie’s dried cheeks there hovered a tiny cold and glassy tear.

She drew back from Katherine’s embrace, then with a strange, almost feverish movement caught Katherine’s hand.

“It wasn’t, my dear, that you hurt me.

I expect I’m too sensitive—that has always been my misfortune.

But I felt” (another glassy tear now upon the other cheek) “that you and Millie are finding me tiresome now.

” “Aunt Aggie!

Of _course_ not!

” “I wish to be of some use—it is my continual prayer—some use to someone—and you make me feel—but of course you are young and impatient—that I’d be better perhaps out of the way.

” Katherine answered her very gravely: “If I’ve ever made you feel that for a moment, Aunt Aggie, there’s nothing too bad for me.

But how can you say such a thing?

Aren’t you a little unjust?

” The two tears had disappeared.

“I daresay I am, my dear, I daresay I am—or seem so to you.

Old people often do to young ones.

But I’m not unjust, I think, in fancying that you yourself have changed lately.

I made you angry when I said that just now, but I felt it my duty—” Katherine was silent.

Aunt Aggie watched her with bright, inquisitive eyes, from which tears were now very far away.

“Well, we won’t say any more, dear.

My fault is, perhaps, that I am too anxious to do things for others, and so may seem to you young ones interfering.

I don’t know, I’m sure.

It has always been my way.

I’m glad indeed when you tell me that nothing is the matter.

To my old eyes it seems that ever since Mr. Mark stayed here the house has not been the same.

You have not been the same.

” “Mr. Mark?

” Katherine’s voice was sharp, then suddenly dropped and, after an instant’s silence, was soft, “You’ve got Mr. Mark on the brain, Aunt Aggie.

” “Well, my dear, I didn’t like him.

I’m sure he was very bad for Henry.

But then I’m old-fashioned, I suppose.

Mr. Mark shocked me, I confess.

Russia must be a very wild country.

” Then, for a space, they looked at one another.

Katherine said nothing, only, her cheeks flushed, her breath coming sharply, stared into the mirror on the dressing-table.

Aunt Aggie faced in this silence something alarming and uneasy; it was as though they were, both of them, listening for some sound, but the house was very still.

“I think I’ll go to bed, my dear.

Kiss me, Katherine.

Don’t forget that I’m older than you, dear.

I know something of the world—yes ...

good-night, my dear.

” They embraced; Katherine left the room.

Her cheeks were flaming; her body seemed wrapt in dry, scorching heat.

She hurried, her heart beating so loudly that it seemed to her to fill the passage with sound, into her own room.

She did not switch on the electric-light, but stood there in the darkness, the room very cool and half-shadowed; some reflected outside light made a pool of grey twilight upon the floor, and just above this pool Katherine stood, quite motionless, her head raised, her hands tightly clasped together.

She knew.

That moment in her aunt’s room had told her!

She was lifted, by one instant of glorious revelation, out of herself, her body, her life, and caught up into her divine heaven, could look down upon that other arid, mordant world with eyes of incredulous happiness.

She loved Philip Mark.

She had always loved him.

She had never loved anyone before.

She had thought that life was enough with its duties, its friendships, its little pleasures and little sorrows.

She had never lived; she was born now here in the still security of her room....

The clocks were striking ten, the light on the carpet quivered, dimly she could see her books, her bed, her furniture.

Some voice, very far away, called her name, waited and then called again—called the old Katherine, who was dead now ...