CHAPTER VI

er,thetypewritingwouldstopabruptly,andMrs.Sealwouldburstintotheroomwithaletterwhichneededexplanationinherhand.Thiswasamoreseriousinterruptionthantheother,becausesheneverknewexactlywhatshewanted,andhalfadozenrequestswouldboltfromher,nooneofwhichwasclearlystated.Dressedinplum-coloredvelveteen,withshort,grayhair,andafacethatseemedpermanentlyflushedwithphilanthropicenthusiasm,shewasalwaysinahurry,andalwaysinsomedisorder.Sheworetwocrucifixes,whichgotthemselvesentangledinaheavygoldchainuponherbreast,andseemedtoMaryexpressiveofhermentalambiguity.OnlyhervastenthusiasmandherworshipofMissMarkham,oneofthepioneersofthesociety,keptherinherplace,forwhichshehadnosoundqualification. Sothemorningworeon,andthepileoflettersgrew,andMaryfelt,atlast,thatshewasthecenterganglionofaveryfinenetworkofnerveswhichfelloverEngland,andoneofthesedays,whenshetouchedtheheartofthesystem,wouldbeginfeelingandrushingtogetherandemittingtheirsplendidblazeofrevolutionaryfireworks—forsomesuchmetaphorrepresentswhatshefeltaboutherwork,whenherbrainhadbeenheatedbythreehoursofapplication. Shortlybeforeoneo’clockMr.ClactonandMrs.Sealdesistedfromtheirlabors,andtheoldjokeaboutluncheon,whichcameoutregularlyatthishour,wasrepeatedwithscarcelyanyvariationofwords.Mr.ClactonpatronizedavegetarianrestaurantMrs.Sealbroughtsandwiches,whichsheatebeneaththeplane-treesinRussellSquarewhileMarygenerallywenttoagaudyestablishment,upholsteredinredplush,nearby,where,muchtothevegetarian’sdisapproval,youcouldbuysteak,twoinchesthick,oraroastsectionoffowl,swimminginapewterdish. “Thebarebranchesagainsttheskydoonesomuchgood,”Mrs.Sealasserted,lookingoutintotheSquare. “Butonecan’tlunchofftrees,Sally,”saidMary. “IconfessIdon’tknowhowyoumanageit,MissDatchet,”Mr.Clactonremarked.“Ishouldsleepalltheafternoon,Iknow,ifItookaheavymealinthemiddleoftheday.” “What’stheverylatestthinginliterature?”Maryasked,good-humoredlypointingtotheyellow-coveredvolumebeneathMr.Clacton’sarm,forheinvariablyreadsomenewFrenchauthoratlunch-time,orsqueezedinavisittoapicturegallery,balancinghissocialworkwithanardentcultureofwhichhewassecretlyproud,asMaryhadverysoondivined. SotheypartedandMarywalkedaway,wonderingiftheyguessedthatshereallywantedtogetawayfromthem,andsupposingthattheyhadnotquitereachedthatdegreeofsubtlety.Sheboughtherselfaneveningpaper,whichshereadassheate,lookingoverthetopofitagainandagainatthequeerpeoplewhowerebuyingcakesorimpartingtheirsecrets,untilsomeyoungwomanwhomsheknewcamein,andshecalledout,“Eleanor,comeandsitbyme,”andtheyfinishedtheirlunchtogether,partingonthestripofpavementamongthedifferentlinesoftrafficwithapleasantfeelingthattheyweresteppingoncemoreintotheirseparateplacesinthegreatandeternallymovingpatternofhumanlife. But,insteadofgoingstraightbacktotheofficeto-day,MaryturnedintotheBritishMuseum,andstrolleddownthegallerywiththeshapesofstoneuntilshefoundanemptyseatdirectlybeneaththegazeoftheElginmarbles.Shelookedatthem,andseemed,asusual,borneuponsomewaveofexaltationandemotion,bywhichherlifeatoncebecamesolemnandbeautiful—animpressionwhichwasdueasmuch,perhaps,tothesolitudeandchillandsilenceofthegalleryastotheactualbeautyofthestatues.Onemustsuppose,atleast,thatheremotionswerenotpurelyesthetic,because,aftershehadgazedattheUlyssesforaminuteortwo,shebegantothinkaboutRalphDenham.Sosecuredidshefeelwiththesesilentshapesthatshealmostyieldedtoanimpulsetosay“Iaminlovewithyou”aloud.Thepresenceofthisimmenseandenduringbeautymadeheralmostalarminglyconsciousofherdesire,andatthesametimeproudofafeelingwhichdidnotdisplayanythinglikethesameproportionswhenshewasgoingaboutherdailywork. Sherepressedherimpulsetospeakaloud,androseandwanderedaboutratheraimlesslyamongthestatuesuntilshefoundherselfinanothergallerydevotedtoengravedobelisksandwingedAssyrianbulls,andheremotiontookanotherturn.ShebegantopictureherselftravelingwithRalphinalandwherethesemonsterswerecouchantinthesand.“For,”shethoughttoherself,asshegazedfixedlyatsomeinformationprintedbehindapieceofglass,“thewonderfulthingaboutyouisthatyou’rereadyforanythingyou’renotintheleastconventional,likemostclevermen.” Andsheconjuredupasceneofherselfonacamel’sback,inthedesert,whileRalphcommandedawholetribeofnatives. “Thatiswhatyoucando,”shewenton,movingontothenextstatue.“Youalwaysmakepeopledowhatyouwant.” Aglowspreadoverherspirit,andfilledhereyeswithbrightness.Nevertheless,beforeshelefttheMuseumshewasveryfarfromsaying,evenintheprivacyofherownmind,“Iaminlovewithyou,”andthatsentencemightverywellneverhaveframeditself.Shewas,indeed,ratherannoyedwithherselfforhavingallowedsuchanill-consideredbreachofherreserve,weakeningherpowersofresistance,shefelt,shouldthisimpulsereturnagain.For,asshewalkedalongthestreettoheroffice,theforceofallhercustomaryobjectionstobeinginlovewithanyoneovercameher.Shedidnotwanttomarryatall.Itseemedtoherthattherewassomethingamateurishinbringingloveintotouchwithaperfectlystraightforwardfriendship,suchasherswaswithRalph,which,fortwoyearsnow,hadbaseditselfuponcommoninterestsinimpersonaltopics,suchasthehousingofthepoor,orthetaxationoflandvalues. Buttheafternoonspiritdifferedintrinsicallyfromthemorningspirit.Maryfoundherselfwatchingtheflightofabird,ormakingdrawingsofthebranchesoftheplane-treesuponherblotting-paper.PeoplecameintoseeMr.Clactononbusiness,andaseductivesmellofcigarettesmokeissuedfromhisroom.Mrs.Sealwanderedaboutwithnewspapercuttings,whichseemedtohereither“quitesplendid”or“reallytoobadforwords.”Sheusedtopastetheseintobooks,orsendthemtoherfriends,havingfirstdrawnabroadbarinbluepencildownthemargin,aproceedingwhichsignifiedequallyandindistinguishablythedepthsofherreprobationortheheightsofherapproval. Aboutfouro’clockonthatsameafternoonKatharineHilberywaswalkingupKingsway.Thequestionofteapresenteditself.Thestreetlampswerebeinglitalready,andasshestoodstillforamomentbeneathoneofthem,shetriedtothinkofsomeneighboringdrawing-roomwheretherewouldbefirelightandtalkcongenialtohermood.Thatmood,owingtothespinningtrafficandtheeveningveilofunreality,wasill-adaptedtoherhomesurroundings.Perhaps,onthewhole,ashopwasthebestplaceinwhichtopreservethisqueersenseofheightenedexistence.Atthesametimeshewishedtotalk.RememberingMaryDatchetandherrepeatedinvitations,shecrossedtheroad,turnedintoRussellSquare,andpeeredabout,seekingfornumberswithasenseofadventurethatwasoutofallproportiontothedeeditself.Shefoundherselfinadimlylightedhall,unguardedbyaporter,andpushedopenthefirstswingdoor.Buttheoffice-boyhadneverheardofMissDatchet.DidshebelongtotheS.R.F.R.?Katharineshook