Night and Day Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  The young man shut the door with a sharper slam than any visitor hadused that afternoon, and walked up the street at a great pace, cuttingthe air with his walking-stick. He was glad to find himself outside thatdrawing-room, breathing raw fog, and in contact with unpolished peoplewho only wanted their share of the pavement allowed them. He thoughtthat if he had had Mr. or Mrs. or Miss Hilbery out here he would havemade them, somehow, feel his superiority, for he was chafed by thememory of halting awkward sentences which had failed to give even theyoung woman with the sad, but inwardly ironical eyes a hint of hisforce. He tried to recall the actual words of his little outburst,and unconsciously supplemented them by so many words of greaterexpressiveness that the irritation of his failure was somewhat assuaged.Sudden stabs of the unmitigated truth assailed him now and then, for hewas not inclined by nature to take a rosy view of his conduct, butwhat with the beat of his foot upon the pavement, and the glimpsewhich half-drawn curtains offered him of kitchens, dining-rooms, anddrawing-rooms, illustrating with mute power different scenes fromdifferent lives, his own experience lost its sharpness.

  His own experience underwent a curious change. His speed slackened, hishead sank a little towards his breast, and the lamplight shone now andagain upon a face grown strangely tranquil. His thought was so absorbingthat when it became necessary to verify the name of a street, he lookedat it for a time before he read it; when he came to a crossing, heseemed to have to reassure himself by two or three taps, such as a blindman gives, upon the curb; and, reaching the Underground station, heblinked in the bright circle of light, glanced at his watch, decidedthat he might still indulge himself in darkness, and walked straight on.

  And yet the thought was the thought with which he had started. He wasstill thinking about the people in the house which he had left; butinstead of remembering, with whatever accuracy he could, their looks andsayings, he had consciously taken leave of the literal truth. A turn ofthe street, a firelit room, something monumental in the processionof the lamp-posts, who shall say what accident of light or shape hadsuddenly changed the prospect within his mind, and led him to murmuraloud:

  "She'll do.... Yes, Katharine Hilbery'll do.... I'll take KatharineHilbery."

  As soon as he had said this, his pace slackened, his head fell, his eyesbecame fixed. The desire to justify himself, which had been so urgent,ceased to torment him, and, as if released from constraint, so thatthey worked without friction or bidding, his faculties leapt forward andfixed, as a matter of course, upon the form of Katharine Hilbery. It wasmarvellous how much they found to feed upon, considering the destructivenature of Denham's criticism in her presence. The charm, which he hadtried to disown, when under the effect of it, the beauty, the character,the aloofness, which he had been determined not to feel, now possessedhim wholly; and when, as happened by the nature of things, he hadexhausted his memory, he went on with his imagination. He was consciousof what he was about, for in thus dwelling upon Miss Hilbery'squalities, he showed a kind of method, as if he required this vision ofher for a particular purpose. He increased her height, he darkenedher hair; but physically there was not much to change in her. His mostdaring liberty was taken with her mind, which, for reasons of his own,he desired to be exalted and infallible, and of such independence thatit was only in the case of Ralph Denham that it swerved from its high,swift flight, but where he was concerned, though fastidious at first,she finally swooped from her eminence to crown him with her approval.These delicious details, however, were to be worked out in all theirramifications at his leisure; the main point was that Katharine Hilberywould do; she would do for weeks, perhaps for months. In taking her hehad provided himself with something the lack of which had left abare place in his mind for a considerable time. He gave a sigh ofsatisfaction his consciousness of his actual position somewhere in theneighborhood of Knightsbridge returned to him, and he was soon speedingin the train towards Highgate.

  Although thus supported by the knowledge of his new possession ofconsiderable value, he was not proof against the familiar thoughts whichthe suburban streets and the damp shrubs growing in front gardensand the absurd names painted in white upon the gates of those gardenssuggested to him. His walk was uphill, and his mind dwelt gloomily uponthe house which he approached, where he would find six or seven brothersand sisters, a widowed mother, and, probably, some aunt or uncle sittingdown to an unpleasant meal under a very bright light. Should he put inforce the threat which, two weeks ago, some such gathering had wrungfrom him--the terrible threat that if visitors came on Sunday he shoulddine alone in his room? A glance in the direction of Miss Hilberydetermined him to make his stand this very night, and accordingly,having let himself in, having verified the presence of Uncle Joseph bymeans of a bowler hat and a very large umbrella, he gave his orders tothe maid, and went upstairs to his room.

  He went up a great many flights of stairs, and he noticed, as he hadvery seldom noticed, how the carpet became steadily shabbier, until itceased altogether, how the walls were discolored, sometimes by cascadesof damp, and sometimes by the outlines of picture-frames since removed,how the paper flapped loose at the corners, and a great flake of plasterhad fallen from the ceiling. The room itself was a cheerless one toreturn to at this inauspicious hour. A flattened sofa would, laterin the evening, become a bed; one of the tables concealed a washingapparatus; his clothes and boots were disagreeably mixed with bookswhich bore the gilt of college arms; and, for decoration, therehung upon the wall photographs of bridges and cathedrals and large,unprepossessing groups of insufficiently clothed young men, sitting inrows one above another upon stone steps. There was a look of meannessand shabbiness in the furniture and curtains, and nowhere any sign ofluxury or even of a cultivated taste, unless the cheap classics in thebook-case were a sign of an effort in that direction. The only objectthat threw any light upon the character of the room's owner was a largeperch, placed in the window to catch the air and sun, upon which a tameand, apparently, decrepit rook hopped dryly from side to side. The bird,encouraged by a scratch behind the ear, settled upon Denham's shoulder.He lit his gas-fire and settled down in gloomy patience to await hisdinner. After sitting thus for some minutes a small girl popped her headin to say,

  "Mother says, aren't you coming down, Ralph? Uncle Joseph--"

  "They're to bring my dinner up here," said Ralph, peremptorily;whereupon she vanished, leaving the door ajar in her haste to be gone.After Denham had waited some minutes, in the course of which neitherhe nor the rook took their eyes off the fire, he muttered a curse, randownstairs, intercepted the parlor-maid, and cut himself a slice ofbread and cold meat. As he did so, the dining-room door sprang open, avoice exclaimed "Ralph!" but Ralph paid no attention to the voice, andmade off upstairs with his plate. He set it down in a chair oppositehim, and ate with a ferocity that was due partly to anger and partly tohunger. His mother, then, was determined not to respect his wishes; hewas a person of no importance in his own family; he was sent for andtreated as a child. He reflected, with a growing sense of injury, thatalmost every one of his actions since opening the door of his room hadbeen won from the grasp of the family system. By rights, he should havebeen sitting downstairs in the drawing-room describing his afternoon'sadventures, or listening to the afternoon's adventures of other people;the room itself, the gas-fire, the arm-chair--all had been fought for;the wretched bird, with half its feathers out and one leg lamed by acat, had been rescued under protest; but what his family most resented,he reflected, was his wish for privacy. To dine alone, or to sit aloneafter dinner, was flat rebellion, to be fought with every weaponof underhand stealth or of open appeal. Which did he dislikemost--deception or tears? But, at any rate, they could not rob him ofhis thoughts; they could not make him say where he had been or whom hehad seen. That was his own affair; that, indeed, was a step entirely inthe right direction, and, lighting his pipe, and cutting up the remainsof his meal for the benefit of the rook, Ralph calmed his ratherexcessive irritation and settled down t
o think over his prospects.

  This particular afternoon was a step in the right direction, because itwas part of his plan to get to know people beyond the family circuit,just as it was part of his plan to learn German this autumn, and toreview legal books for Mr. Hilbery's "Critical Review." He had alwaysmade plans since he was a small boy; for poverty, and the fact thathe was the eldest son of a large family, had given him the habit ofthinking of spring and summer, autumn and winter, as so many stages in aprolonged campaign. Although he was still under thirty, this forecastinghabit had marked two semicircular lines above his eyebrows, whichthreatened, at this moment, to crease into their wonted shapes. Butinstead of settling down to think, he rose, took a small piece ofcardboard marked in large letters with the word OUT, and hung itupon the handle of his door. This done, he sharpened a pencil, lit areading-lamp and opened his book. But still he hesitated to take hisseat. He scratched the rook, he walked to the window; he parted thecurtains, and looked down upon the city which lay, hazily luminous,beneath him. He looked across the vapors in the direction of Chelsea;looked fixedly for a moment, and then returned to his chair. But thewhole thickness of some learned counsel's treatise upon Torts did notscreen him satisfactorily. Through the pages he saw a drawing-room,very empty and spacious; he heard low voices, he saw women's figures, hecould even smell the scent of the cedar log which flamed in the grate.His mind relaxed its tension, and seemed to be giving out now whatit had taken in unconsciously at the time. He could remember Mr.Fortescue's exact words, and the rolling emphasis with which hedelivered them, and he began to repeat what Mr. Fortescue had said, inMr. Fortescue's own manner, about Manchester. His mind then began towander about the house, and he wondered whether there were other roomslike the drawing-room, and he thought, inconsequently, how beautiful thebathroom must be, and how leisurely it was--the life of these well-keptpeople, who were, no doubt, still sitting in the same room, only theyhad changed their clothes, and little Mr. Anning was there, and the auntwho would mind if the glass of her father's picture was broken. MissHilbery had changed her dress ("although she's wearing such a prettyone," he heard her mother say), and she was talking to Mr. Anning,who was well over forty, and bald into the bargain, about books. Howpeaceful and spacious it was; and the peace possessed him so completelythat his muscles slackened, his book drooped from his hand, and heforgot that the hour of work was wasting minute by minute.

  He was roused by a creak upon the stair. With a guilty start he composedhimself, frowned and looked intently at the fifty-sixth page of hisvolume. A step paused outside his door, and he knew that the person,whoever it might be, was considering the placard, and debating whetherto honor its decree or not. Certainly, policy advised him to sit stillin autocratic silence, for no custom can take root in a family unlessevery breach of it is punished severely for the first six months or so.But Ralph was conscious of a distinct wish to be interrupted, and hisdisappointment was perceptible when he heard the creaking sound ratherfarther down the stairs, as if his visitor had decided to withdraw. Herose, opened the door with unnecessary abruptness, and waited on thelanding. The person stopped simultaneously half a flight downstairs.

  "Ralph?" said a voice, inquiringly.

  "Joan?"

  "I was coming up, but I saw your notice."

  "Well, come along in, then." He concealed his desire beneath a tone asgrudging as he could make it.

  Joan came in, but she was careful to show, by standing upright withone hand upon the mantelpiece, that she was only there for a definitepurpose, which discharged, she would go.

  She was older than Ralph by some three or four years. Her face was roundbut worn, and expressed that tolerant but anxious good humor which isthe special attribute of elder sisters in large families. Her pleasantbrown eyes resembled Ralph's, save in expression, for whereas he seemedto look straightly and keenly at one object, she appeared to be in thehabit of considering everything from many different points of view. Thismade her appear his elder by more years than existed in fact betweenthem. Her gaze rested for a moment or two upon the rook. She then said,without any preface:

  "It's about Charles and Uncle John's offer.... Mother's been talking tome. She says she can't afford to pay for him after this term. She saysshe'll have to ask for an overdraft as it is."

  "That's simply not true," said Ralph.

  "No. I thought not. But she won't believe me when I say it."

  Ralph, as if he could foresee the length of this familiar argument, drewup a chair for his sister and sat down himself.

  "I'm not interrupting?" she inquired.

  Ralph shook his head, and for a time they sat silent. The lines curvedthemselves in semicircles above their eyes.

  "She doesn't understand that one's got to take risks," he observed,finally.

  "I believe mother would take risks if she knew that Charles was the sortof boy to profit by it."

  "He's got brains, hasn't he?" said Ralph. His tone had taken on thatshade of pugnacity which suggested to his sister that some personalgrievance drove him to take the line he did. She wondered what it mightbe, but at once recalled her mind, and assented.

  "In some ways he's fearfully backward, though, compared with what youwere at his age. And he's difficult at home, too. He makes Molly slavefor him."

  Ralph made a sound which belittled this particular argument. It wasplain to Joan that she had struck one of her brother's perverse moods,and he was going to oppose whatever his mother said. He called her"she," which was a proof of it. She sighed involuntarily, and the sighannoyed Ralph, and he exclaimed with irritation:

  "It's pretty hard lines to stick a boy into an office at seventeen!"

  "Nobody WANTS to stick him into an office," she said.

  She, too, was becoming annoyed. She had spent the whole of the afternoondiscussing wearisome details of education and expense with hermother, and she had come to her brother for help, encouraged, ratherirrationally, to expect help by the fact that he had been out somewhere,she didn't know and didn't mean to ask where, all the afternoon.

  Ralph was fond of his sister, and her irritation made him think howunfair it was that all these burdens should be laid on her shoulders.

  "The truth is," he observed gloomily, "that I ought to have acceptedUncle John's offer. I should have been making six hundred a year by thistime."

  "I don't think that for a moment," Joan replied quickly, repenting ofher annoyance. "The question, to my mind, is, whether we couldn't cutdown our expenses in some way."

  "A smaller house?"

  "Fewer servants, perhaps."

  Neither brother nor sister spoke with much conviction, and afterreflecting for a moment what these proposed reforms in a strictlyeconomical household meant, Ralph announced very decidedly:

  "It's out of the question."

  It was out of the question that she should put any more household workupon herself. No, the hardship must fall on him, for he was determinedthat his family should have as many chances of distinguishing themselvesas other families had--as the Hilberys had, for example. He believedsecretly and rather defiantly, for it was a fact not capable of proof,that there was something very remarkable about his family.

  "If mother won't run risks--"

  "You really can't expect her to sell out again."

  "She ought to look upon it as an investment; but if she won't, we mustfind some other way, that's all."

  A threat was contained in this sentence, and Joan knew, without asking,what the threat was. In the course of his professional life, which nowextended over six or seven years, Ralph had saved, perhaps, three orfour hundred pounds. Considering the sacrifices he had made in order toput by this sum it always amazed Joan to find that he used it to gamblewith, buying shares and selling them again, increasing it sometimes,sometimes diminishing it, and always running the risk of losing everypenny of it in a day's disaster. But although she wondered, she couldnot help loving him the better for his odd combination of Spartanself-control and what appeared to her romant
ic and childish folly. Ralphinterested her more than any one else in the world, and she often brokeoff in the middle of one of these economic discussions, in spite oftheir gravity, to consider some fresh aspect of his character.

  "I think you'd be foolish to risk your money on poor old Charles,"she observed. "Fond as I am of him, he doesn't seem to me exactlybrilliant.... Besides, why should you be sacrificed?"

  "My dear Joan," Ralph exclaimed, stretching himself out with a gestureof impatience, "don't you see that we've all got to be sacrificed?What's the use of denying it? What's the use of struggling against it?So it always has been, so it always will be. We've got no money and wenever shall have any money. We shall just turn round in the mill everyday of our lives until we drop and die, worn out, as most people do,when one comes to think of it."

  Joan looked at him, opened her lips as if to speak, and closed themagain. Then she said, very tentatively:

  "Aren't you happy, Ralph?"

  "No. Are you? Perhaps I'm as happy as most people, though. God knowswhether I'm happy or not. What is happiness?"

  He glanced with half a smile, in spite of his gloomy irritation, at hissister. She looked, as usual, as if she were weighing one thing withanother, and balancing them together before she made up her mind.

  "Happiness," she remarked at length enigmatically, rather as if she weresampling the word, and then she paused. She paused for a considerablespace, as if she were considering happiness in all its bearings. "Hildawas here to-day," she suddenly resumed, as if they had never mentionedhappiness. "She brought Bobbie--he's a fine boy now." Ralph observed,with an amusement that had a tinge of irony in it, that she was nowgoing to sidle away quickly from this dangerous approach to intimacy onto topics of general and family interest. Nevertheless, he reflected,she was the only one of his family with whom he found it possible todiscuss happiness, although he might very well have discussed happinesswith Miss Hilbery at their first meeting. He looked critically at Joan,and wished that she did not look so provincial or suburban in her highgreen dress with the faded trimming, so patient, and almost resigned. Hebegan to wish to tell her about the Hilberys in order to abuse them,for in the miniature battle which so often rages between two quicklyfollowing impressions of life, the life of the Hilberys was getting thebetter of the life of the Denhams in his mind, and he wanted to assurehimself that there was some quality in which Joan infinitely surpassedMiss Hilbery. He should have felt that his own sister was more original,and had greater vitality than Miss Hilbery had; but his main impressionof Katharine now was of a person of great vitality and composure; and atthe moment he could not perceive what poor dear Joan had gained fromthe fact that she was the granddaughter of a man who kept a shop, andherself earned her own living. The infinite dreariness and sordidness oftheir life oppressed him in spite of his fundamental belief that, as afamily, they were somehow remarkable.

  "Shall you talk to mother?" Joan inquired. "Because, you see, thething's got to be settled, one way or another. Charles must write toUncle John if he's going there."

  Ralph sighed impatiently.

  "I suppose it doesn't much matter either way," he exclaimed. "He'sdoomed to misery in the long run."

  A slight flush came into Joan's cheek.

  "You know you're talking nonsense," she said. "It doesn't hurt any oneto have to earn their own living. I'm very glad I have to earn mine."

  Ralph was pleased that she should feel this, and wished her to continue,but he went on, perversely enough.

  "Isn't that only because you've forgotten how to enjoy yourself? Younever have time for anything decent--"

  "As for instance?"

  "Well, going for walks, or music, or books, or seeing interestingpeople. You never do anything that's really worth doing any more than Ido."

  "I always think you could make this room much nicer, if you liked," sheobserved.

  "What does it matter what sort of room I have when I'm forced to spendall the best years of my life drawing up deeds in an office?"

  "You said two days ago that you found the law so interesting."

  "So it is if one could afford to know anything about it."

  ("That's Herbert only just going to bed now," Joan interposed, as adoor on the landing slammed vigorously. "And then he won't get up in themorning.")

  Ralph looked at the ceiling, and shut his lips closely together. Why,he wondered, could Joan never for one moment detach her mind from thedetails of domestic life? It seemed to him that she was getting more andmore enmeshed in them, and capable of shorter and less frequent flightsinto the outer world, and yet she was only thirty-three.

  "D'you ever pay calls now?" he asked abruptly.

  "I don't often have the time. Why do you ask?"

  "It might be a good thing, to get to know new people, that's all."

  "Poor Ralph!" said Joan suddenly, with a smile. "You think your sister'sgetting very old and very dull--that's it, isn't it?"

  "I don't think anything of the kind," he said stoutly, but he flushed."But you lead a dog's life, Joan. When you're not working in an office,you're worrying over the rest of us. And I'm not much good to you, I'mafraid."

  Joan rose, and stood for a moment warming her hands, and, apparently,meditating as to whether she should say anything more or not. A feelingof great intimacy united the brother and sister, and the semicircularlines above their eyebrows disappeared. No, there was nothing more tobe said on either side. Joan brushed her brother's head with her hand asshe passed him, murmured good night, and left the room. For some minutesafter she had gone Ralph lay quiescent, resting his head on his hand,but gradually his eyes filled with thought, and the line reappearedon his brow, as the pleasant impression of companionship and ancientsympathy waned, and he was left to think on alone.

  After a time he opened his book, and read on steadily, glancing once ortwice at his watch, as if he had set himself a task to be accomplishedin a certain measure of time. Now and then he heard voices in the house,and the closing of bedroom doors, which showed that the building, atthe top of which he sat, was inhabited in every one of its cells. Whenmidnight struck, Ralph shut his book, and with a candle in his hand,descended to the ground floor, to ascertain that all lights were extinctand all doors locked. It was a threadbare, well-worn house that he thusexamined, as if the inmates had grazed down all luxuriance and plenty tothe verge of decency; and in the night, bereft of life, bare placesand ancient blemishes were unpleasantly visible. Katharine Hilbery, hethought, would condemn it off-hand.