Green Mirror — Book 1, Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI THE SHOCK
George Trenchard’s study expressed, very pleasantly, his personality.
The room’s walls were of a deep warm red, and covering three sides ran high book-cases with glass fronts; within these book-cases were beautiful new editions, ugly old ones, books, for the greater part, relating to his favourite period, all ranged and ordered with the most delicate care.
The windows of the room were tall and bright even on dull and foggy days, the carpet soft and thick, the leather chairs large and yielding, the fireplace wide and shining.
Most significant of all was his writing-table; upon this lay everything that any writer could possibly desire, from the handsomest of gold inkstands to the minutest of elastic bands.
There was also here a little bust of Sir Walter Scott.
Within this room George Trenchard knew, always, perfect happiness—a very exceptional man, indeed, that he could know it so easily.
He knew it by the simple expedient of shutting off entirely from his consciousness the rest of mankind; his study door once closed, he forgot his family absolutely.
No one was allowed to disturb or interrupt him;
it was understood that he was at work upon a volume that would ultimately make another of that series that contained already such well-known books as “William Wordsworth and his Circle,” “Hazlitt—The Man in his Letters” and “The Life of Thomas de Quincey.
” These had appeared a number of years ago; he had been indeed a young man when he had written them.
It was supposed that a work entitled “The Lake Poets, a Critical Survey” would appear ‘Next Autumn’.
For some time now the literary schemes of the weekly journals had announced this.
George Trenchard only laughed at enquiries: “It takes a damned long time, you know,” he said, “’tisn’t any use rushing the thing.
” He enjoyed, however, immensely, making notes.
From half-past nine in the morning until half-past one, behind his closed doors, he considered the early Nineteenth Century, found it admirable (Scott seemed to him the perfect type) took first one book, then another from his book-shelves, wrote a few lines, and before his fire imagined the Trenchards of that period, considered their food and their drink, their morals, their humour and their literature.
Hazlitt’s essays seemed to him the perfection, not of English prose, but of a temporal and spiritual attitude.
“Hang it all,” he would conclude, “we’re a rotten lot now-a-days.
” He did not worry over this conclusion, but it gave him the opportunity of a superior attitude during the rest of the day when he joined the world.
“If you knew as much about the early Nineteenth Century as I do,” he seemed to say, “you wouldn’t be so pleased with yourselves.
” He did not, however, express his superiority in any unpleasant manner.
There was never anyone more amiable.
All that he wanted was that everyone should be happy, and to be that, he had long ago discovered, one must not go too deep.
“Keep out of close relationships and you’re safe” might be considered his advice to young people.
He had certainly avoided them all his life, and avoided them by laughing at them.
He couldn’t abide “gloomy fellows” and on no account would he allow a ‘scene’.
He had never lost his temper.
During the months that he spent at his place in Glebeshire he pursued a plan identically similar.
He possessed an invaluable ‘factotum’, a certain James Ritchie, who took everything in a way of management off his hands.
Ritchie in Glebeshire, Mrs. Trenchard and Rocket in London.
Life was made very simple for him.
As has been said elsewhere, Katherine, alone of his family, had in some degree penetrated his indifferent jollity; that was because she really did seem to him to have some of the Early Nineteenth Century characteristics.
She seemed to him (he did not know her very well) tranquil, humorous, unadventurous, but determined.
She reminded him of Elizabeth Bennet, and he always fancied (he regarded her, of course, from a distance,) that she would make a very jolly companion.
She seemed to him wiser than the others, with a little strain of satirical humour in her comment on things that pleased him greatly.
“She should have been the boy, and Henry the girl,” he would say.
He thought Henry a terrible ass.
He was really anxious that Katherine should be happy.
She deserved it, he thought, because she was a little wiser than the others.
He considered sometimes her future, and thought that it would be agreeable to have her always about the place, but she must not be an old maid.
She was too good for that.
“She’d breed a good stock,” he would say.
“She must marry a decent fellow—one day.
” He delighted in the gentle postponement of possibly charming climaxes.
His size, geniality and good appetite may be attributed very largely to his happy gifts of procrastination.
“Always leave until to-morrow what ought to be done to-day” had made him the best-tempered of men.
* * * * * After luncheon on the day that followed Philip’s tea with Aunt Aggie, George Trenchard retired to his study “to finish a chapter”.
He intended to finish it in his head rather than upon paper, and it was even possible that a nap would postpone the conclusion; he lit his pipe and preferred to be comfortable—it was then that Rocket informed him that Mr. Mark had called, wished to see him alone, would not keep him long, apologised, but it was important.
“Why the devil couldn’t he come to lunch?
What a time to appear!
” But Trenchard liked Philip, Philip amused him—he was so alive and talked such ridiculous nonsense.
“Of course he would see him!
” Then when Trenchard saw Philip Mark standing inside the room, waiting, with a smile half-nervous, half-friendly, the sight of that square, sturdy young man gave him to his own uneasy surprise a moment of vague and unreasonable alarm.
George Trenchard was not accustomed to feelings of alarm; it was his principle in life that he should deny himself such things.
He connected now, however, this very momentary sensation with other little sensations that he had felt before in Philip’s company.
The young man was so damnably full of his experiences, so eager to compare one thing with another, so insistent upon foreign places and changes in England and what we’d all got to do about it.
Trenchard did not altogether dislike this activity.
That was the devil of it.
It would never do to change his life at this time of day....
He stood, large, genial, and rosy, in front of his fire.
“Well, young man, what are you descending upon us at this hour for?
Why couldn’t you come to lunch?
” “I wanted to speak to you seriously about something.
I wanted to see you alone.
” “Well, here I am.
Sit down.
Have a cigar.
” Trenchard saw that Philip was nervous, and he liked him the better for that.
“He’s a nice young fellow, nice and clean and healthy—not too cocksure either, although he’s clever.
” Philip, on his part, felt, at this moment, a desperate determination to make all the Trenchard family love him.
They _must_....
They MUST.
His heart was bursting with charity, with fine illusions, with self-deprecation, with Trenchard exultation.
He carried the flaming banner of one who loves and knows that he is loved in return.
He looked round upon George Trenchard’s book-cases and thought that there could, surely, be nothing finer than writing critical books about early Nineteenth Century Literature.
“I love Katherine,” he said, sitting on the very edge of his arm-chair.
“And she loves me.
We want to be married.
” George Trenchard stared at him.
“Well, I’m damned!
” he said at last, “you’ve got some cheek!
” His first impression was one of a strange illumination around and about Katherine, as though his daughter had been standing before him in the dark and then had suddenly been surrounded with blazing candles.
Although he had, as has been said, already considered the possibility of Katherine’s marriage, he had never considered the possibility of her caring for someone outside the family.
That struck him, really, as amazing.
That made him regard his daughter, for a moment, as someone quite new and strange.
He burst into laughter.
“It’s ridiculous!
” he said.
“Why!
you two have scarcely seen one another!
” Philip blushed, but looked up into Trenchard’s face with eyes that were strangely pleading for a man who could, at other times, be so firmly authoritative.
“I know that it must seem so to you,” he said.
“But really we _have_ met a good deal.
I knew from the very beginning....
I’ll make her happy,” he ended, almost defiantly, as though he were challenging some unseen enemy.
“Well, state your case,” said Trenchard.
“I love her,” he stammered a little, then his voice cleared and he stared straight before him at Trenchard’s velvet waistcoat.
“Of course there’ve been people in my life before, but I’ve never felt anything like this.
I should like to tell you that my life is absolutely free from any entanglements—of any kind.
I’m thirty and as fit as a fiddle.
My share in the business and some other things come to about fifteen hundred a year.
It’s all very decently invested, but, of course, I’d show you all that.
I’m not bad about managing those things, although you mightn’t think so.
I want to buy a little place somewhere in England and settle down—a little place with a bit of land.
I do think I could make Katherine happy—I’d devote myself to that.
” “She cares for you?
” asked Trenchard.
“Yes,” said Philip quite simply.
“Well, I’m damned,” said Trenchard.
This was not so rude as it appeared to be.
He was not thinking about Philip at all—only about Katherine.
She had fallen in love, she, Katherine, the staid, humorous, comfortable companion.
He had not realised, until now, that he had always extracted much complacent comfort from the belief that she cared for him more than for any other member of the family.
He did not know that every individual member extracted from Katherine the same comfort.
He looked at Philip.
What did she see in the man to lead her to such wild courses?
He was nice enough to look at, to listen to—but to love?
It seemed to him that his quiet daughter must have been indulging in melodrama.
“Why, you know,” he cried at last, “it never entered my head—Katherine’s marrying anybody.
She’s very young—you’re very young too.
” “I don’t know,” said Philip, “I’m thirty—lots of men have families by then.
” “No, but you’re young though—both of you,” persisted Trenchard.
“I don’t think I want Katherine to marry anybody.
” “Isn’t that rather selfish?
” said Philip.
“Yes.
I suppose it is,” said Trenchard, laughing, “but it’s natural.
” “It isn’t, you see,” said Philip eagerly, “as though I wanted to take her away to Russia or in any way deprive you of her.
I know how much she is to all of you.
She’s sure to marry some day, isn’t she?
and it’s much better that she should marry someone who’s going to settle down here and live as you all do than someone who’d go right off with her.
” “It’s all right, I shouldn’t let him,” said Trenchard.
He bent his eyes upon the eager lover, and again said to himself that he liked the young man.
It would certainly be much pleasanter that Katherine should care about a fine healthy young fellow, a good companion after dinner, a good listener with a pleasant sense of humour, than that she should force into the heart of the family some impossibility—not that Katherine was likely to care about impossibilities, but you never knew; the world to-day was so full of impossibilities....
“I think we’ll send for Katherine,” he said.
He rang the bell, Rocket came, Katherine was summoned.
As they waited Trenchard delivered himself of a random, half-humorous, half-conscious, half-unconscious discourse: “You know, I like you—and I don’t often like modern young men.
I
wouldn’t mind you at all as a son-in-law, and you’d suit me as a son much better than Henry does.
At least I think so, but then I know you very slightly, and I may dislike you intensely later on.
We none of us know you, you see.
We never had anybody drop in upon us as you did....
It doesn’t seem to me a bit like Katherine—and I don’t suppose she knows you any better than the rest of us do.
_She_ mayn’t like you later on.
I can’t say that marriage is going to be what you think it is.
You’re very unsettling.
You won’t keep quiet and take things easily, and Katherine is sure not to like that.
She’s as quiet as anything....
If it were Millie now.
I suppose you wouldn’t care to have Millie instead?
she’d suit you much better.
Then, you know, the family won’t like your doing it.
My wife won’t like it.
” He paused, then, standing, his legs wide apart, his hands deep in his pockets, roared with laughter: “It _will_ disturb them all—not that it won’t be good for them perhaps.
You’re not to think though that I’ve given my consent—at any rate you’re not to marry her for a long time until we see what you’re like.
I’m not to give her just to anyone who comes along, you know.
I rather wish you’d stayed in Russia.
It’s very unsettling.
” The door opened—Katherine entered.
She looked at Philip, smiled, then came across to her father and put her arm through his.
She said nothing, but was radiant; her father felt her hand tremble as it touched his, and that suddenly moved him as, perhaps, nothing had ever moved him before.
“Do you want to marry him?
” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered.
“But you hardly know him.
” “I know him very well indeed,” she said, looking at Philip’s eyes.
“But I don’t want you to marry anyone,” her father went on.
“We were all very nice as we were....
What’ll you do if I say you’re not to marry him?
” “You won’t say that,” she answered, smiling at him.
“What do you want to marry him for?
” he asked.
“He’s just an ordinary young man.
You don’t know him,” he repeated, “you can’t yet, you’ve seen so little of him.
Then you’ll upset us all here very much—it will be very unpleasant for everybody.
Do you really think it’s worth it?
” Katherine laughed.
“I don’t think I can help it, father,” she answered.
Deep in Trenchard’s consciousness was the conviction, very common to men of good digestion over fifty, that had he been God he would have managed the affairs of the world very agreeably for everybody.
He had not, often, been in the position of absolute power, but that was because he had not often taken the trouble to come out of his comfortable shelter and see what people were doing.
He felt now that he could be Jove for a quarter of an hour without any discomfort to himself—a very agreeable feeling.
He was also the most kind-hearted of men.
“Seriously, Katherine,” he said, separating himself from her, drawing his legs together and frowning, “you’re over age.
You can do what you like.
In these days children aren’t supposed to consider their parents, and I don’t really see why they should ...
it’s not much I’ve done for you.
But you’re fond of us.
We’ve rather hung together as a family....
I like your young man, but I’ve only known him a week or two, and I can’t answer for him.
You know _us_, but you don’t know _him_.
Are you sure you’re making a wise exchange?
” Here Philip broke in eagerly but humbly.
“It isn’t that there need be any change,” he said.
“Katherine shall belong to you all just as much as ever she did.
” “Thank you,” said Trenchard laughing.
“I’ll be proud,” Philip cried, impulsively, jumping up from his chair, “if you’ll let me marry Katherine, but I’ll never forget that she was yours first.
Of course I can’t come into the family as though I’d always been one of you, but I’ll do my best....
I’ll do my best....
” “My dear boy,” said Trenchard, touched by the happy atmosphere that he seemed, with a nod of his head, to fling about him, “don’t think _I’m_ preventing you.
I want everyone to be pleased, I always have.
If you and Katherine have made up your minds about this, there isn’t very much for me to say.
If I thought you’d make her miserable I’d show you the door, but I don’t think you will.
All I say is—we don’t know you well enough yet.
Nor does she.
After all, does she?
” He paused, and then, enjoying the sense of their listening attention, thought that he would make a little speech.
“You’re like children in a dark wood, you know.
You think you’ve found one another—caught hold of one another—but when there’s a bit of a moon or something to see one another by you may find out you’ve each of you caught hold of someone quite different.
Then, there you are, you see.
That’s all I can tell you about marriage; all your lives you’ll be in the forest, thinking you’ve made a clutch at somebody, just for comfort’s sake.
But you never know whom you’re catching—it’s someone different every five minutes, even when it’s the same person.
Well, well—all I mean is that you mustn’t marry for a year at least.
” “Oh!
a year!
” cried Philip.
“Yes, a year.
Won’t hear of it otherwise.
What do you say, Katherine?
” “I think Philip and I can wait as long as that quite safely,” she answered, looking at her lover.
Trenchard held out his hand to Philip.
“I congratulate you,” he said.
“If you’ve made Katherine love you you’re a lucky fellow.
Dear me—yes, you are.
” He put his hand on Philip’s shoulder.
“You’d better be good to her,” he said, “or there’ll be some who’ll make you pay for it.
” “Be good to her!
My God!
” answered Philip.
“Now you’d better clear.
Reveal yourselves to the family....
There, Katherine, my dear, give me a kiss.
Don’t neglect me or I shall poison the villain....
There, there—God bless you.
” He watched them depart with real affection both for them and for himself.
“I’m not such a bad father after all,” he thought as he settled down into his chair.
* * * * * Outside the study door, in the dark corner of the little passage, Philip kissed Katherine.
Her lips met his with a passion that had in it complete and utter self-surrender.
They did not speak.
At last, drawing herself gently away from him, she said: “_I’ll_ tell Mother—I think it would be better not for both of us....
” “Yes,” he whispered back, as though they were conspirators.
“I don’t think I’ll face them all now—unless you’d like me to help you.
I’ll come in to-night.
” With a strange, fierce, almost desperate action she caught his arm and held him for a moment with his cheek against hers.
“Oh!
Philip ...
my _dear_!
” Her voice caught and broke.
They kissed once again, and then, very quietly, went back into the world.
Meanwhile they had been watched; Henry had watched them.
He had been crossing at the farther end of the little passage, and stopping, holding himself back against the wall, had seen, with staring eyes, the two figures.
He knew instantly.
They were Philip and Katherine.
He saw Katherine’s hand as it pressed into Philip’s shoulder; he saw Philip’s back set with so fierce a strength that Henry’s knees trembled before the energy of it.
He was disgusted—he was wildly excited.
“This is real life....
I’ve seen something at last.
I didn’t know people kissed like that, but they oughtn’t to do it in the passage.
Anyone might see them....
Katherine!
” Staggered by the contemplation of an utterly new Katherine with whom, for the rest of his life, he would be compelled to deal, he slipped into a room as he heard their steps.
When they had gone he came out; he knocked on his father’s door: “I’m sorry to bother you, Father,” he began.
“I wanted to know whether I might borrow—” he stopped; his heart was beating so wildly that his tongue did not belong to him.
“Well, get it and cut.
” His father looked at him.
“You’ve heard the news, I see.
” “What news?
” said Henry.
“Philip and Katherine.
They’re engaged, they tell me.
Not to marry for a year though....
I thought you’d heard it by the look of you.
What a mess you’re in!
Why can’t you brush your hair?
Look at your tie up the back of your collar!
Get your book and go!
I’m busy!
” But Henry went without his book.
* * * * * Katherine went up to her mother’s room.
She would catch her alone now for half an hour before tea-time, when many of the family would be assembled, ready for the news.
With such wild happiness was she surrounded that she saw them all in the light of that happiness; she had always shared so readily in any piece of good fortune that had ever befallen any one of them that she did not doubt that now they too would share in this fortune—this wonderful fortune!
—of hers.
She stopped at the little window in the passage where she had had the first of her little personal scraps of talk with Philip.
Little scraps of talks were all that they had been, and yet now, looking back upon them, how weighted they seemed with heavy golden significance.
The sky was amber-coloured, the Abbey tower sharply black, and the low archway of Dean’s Yard, that she could just catch with her eye, was hooped against the sky, pushing upwards to have its share in the evening light.
There was perfect quiet in the house and beyond it, as she went to her mother’s room.
This room was the very earliest thing that she could remember, this, or her mother’s bedroom in the Glebeshire house.
It was a bedroom that exactly expressed Mrs. Trenchard, large, clumsy, lit with five windows, mild and full of unarranged trifles that nevertheless arranged themselves.
At the foot of the large bed, defended with dark sateen faded curtains, was a comfortable old-fashioned sofa.
Further away in the middle of a clear space was a table with a muddle of things upon it—a doll half-clothed, a writing-case, a silver ink-stand, photographs of Millie, Henry and Katherine, a little younger than they were now, a square silver clock, a pile of socks with a needle sticking sharply out of them, a little oak book-case with ‘Keble’s Christian Year’, Charlotte Yonge’s ‘Pillars of the House’, two volumes of Bishop Westcott’s ‘Sermons’ and Mrs. Gaskell’s ‘Wives and Daughters’.
There was also a little brass tray with a silver thimble, tortoiseshell paper-knife, a little mat made of bright-coloured beads, a reel of red silk and a tiny pocket calendar.
Beside the bed there was a small square oaken table with a fine silver Crucifix and a Bible and a prayer book and copy of ‘Before the Throne’ in dark blue leather.
The pictures on the walls—they hung against a wall-paper of pink roses, faded like the bedroom curtains and the dark red carpet, but comfortably, happily faded—were prints of ‘Ulysses Deriding Polyphemus’, ‘Crossing the Brook’, and ‘Christ leaving the Temple’.
These three pictures were the very earliest things of Katherine’s remembrance.
There were also several photographs of old-fashioned but sturdy ladies and gentlemen—an officer in uniform, a lady with high shoulders against a background of a grey rolling sea.
There were photographs of the children at different ages.
There were many cupboards, and these, although they were closed, seemed to bulge, as though they contained more clothes than was comfortable for them.
There was a faint scent in the room of eau-de-cologne and burning candles.
The little clock on the table gave an irritating, self-important whirr and clatter now and then, and it had been doing that for a great many years.
Mrs. Trenchard was lying upon her sofa making a little crimson jacket for the half-clothed doll.
She did not move when Katherine came in, but went on with her work, her fat, rather clumsy-looking fingers moving very comfortably up and down the little piece of red cloth.
