CHAPTER XII

“IsMr.Hilberyathome,orMrs.Hilbery?”Denhamasked,oftheparlor-maidinChelsea,aweeklater. “No,sir.ButMissHilberyisathome,”thegirlanswered. Ralphhadanticipatedmanyanswers,butnotthisone,andnowitwasunexpectedlymadeplaintohimthatitwasthechanceofseeingKatharinethathadbroughthimallthewaytoChelseaonpretenceofseeingherfather. Hemadesomeshowofconsideringthematter,andwastakenupstairstothedrawing-room.Asuponthatfirstoccasion,someweeksago,thedoorclosedasifitwereathousanddoorssoftlyexcludingtheworldandoncemoreRalphreceivedanimpressionofaroomfullofdeepshadows,firelight,unwaveringsilvercandleflames,andemptyspacestobecrossedbeforereachingtheroundtableinthemiddleoftheroom,withitsfrailburdenofsilvertraysandchinateacups.ButthistimeKatharinewastherebyherselfthevolumeinherhandshowedthatsheexpectednovisitors. Ralphsaidsomethingabouthopingtofindherfather. “Myfatherisout,”shereplied.“Butifyoucanwait,Iexpecthimsoon.” Itmighthavebeenduemerelytopoliteness,butRalphfeltthatshereceivedhimalmostwithcordiality.Perhapsshewasboredbydrinkingteaandreadingabookallaloneatanyrate,shetossedthebookontoasofawithagestureofrelief. “Isthatoneofthemodernswhomyoudespise?”heasked,smilingatthecarelessnessofhergesture. “Yes,”shereplied.“Ithinkevenyouwoulddespisehim.” “EvenI?”herepeated.“WhyevenI?” “YousaidyoulikedmodernthingsIsaidIhatedthem.” Thiswasnotaveryaccuratereportoftheirconversationamongtherelics,perhaps,butRalphwasflatteredtothinkthatsherememberedanythingaboutit. “OrdidIconfessthatIhatedallbooks?”shewenton,seeinghimlookupwithanairofinquiry.“Iforget—” “Doyouhateallbooks?”heasked. “ItwouldbeabsurdtosaythatIhateallbookswhenI’veonlyreadten,perhapsbut—’Hereshepulledherselfupshort. “Well?” “Yes,Idohatebooks,”shecontinued.“Whydoyouwanttobeforevertalkingaboutyourfeelings?That’swhatIcan’tmakeout.Andpoetry’sallaboutfeelings—novelsareallaboutfeelings.” Shecutacakevigorouslyintoslices,andprovidingatraywithbreadandbutterforMrs.Hilbery,whowasinherroomwithacold,sherosetogoupstairs. Ralphheldthedooropenforher,andthenstoodwithclaspedhandsinthemiddleoftheroom.Hiseyeswerebright,and,indeed,hescarcelyknewwhethertheybehelddreamsorrealities.Alldownthestreetandonthedoorstep,andwhilehemountedthestairs,hisdreamofKatharinepossessedhimonthethresholdoftheroomhehaddismissedit,inordertopreventtoopainfulacollisionbetweenwhathedreamtofherandwhatshewas.Andinfiveminutesshehadfilledtheshelloftheolddreamwiththefleshoflifelookedwithfireoutofphantomeyes.Heglancedabouthimwithbewildermentatfindinghimselfamongherchairsandtablestheyweresolid,forhegraspedthebackofthechairinwhichKatharinehadsatandyettheywereunrealtheatmospherewasthatofadream.Hesummonedallthefacultiesofhisspirittoseizewhattheminuteshadtogivehimandfromthedepthsofhismindthereroseuncheckedajoyfulrecognitionofthetruththathumannaturesurpasses,initsbeauty,allthatourwildestdreamsbringushintsof. Katharinecameintotheroomamomentlater.Hestoodwatchinghercometowardshim,andthoughthermorebeautifulandstrangethanhisdreamofherfortherealKatharinecouldspeakthewordswhichseemedtocrowdbehindtheforeheadandinthedepthsoftheeyes,andthecommonestsentencewouldbeflashedonbythisimmortallight.Andsheoverflowedtheedgesofthedreamheremarkedthathersoftnesswaslikethatofsomevastsnowyowlsheworearubyonherfinger. “Mymotherwantsmetotellyou,”shesaid,“thatshehopesyouhavebegunyourpoem.Shesayseveryoneoughttowritepoetry....Allmyrelationswritepoetry,”shewenton.“Ican’tbeartothinkofitsometimes—because,ofcourse,it’snoneofitanygood.Butthenoneneedn’treadit—” “Youdon’tencouragemetowriteapoem,”saidRalph. “Butyou’renotapoet,too,areyou?”sheinquired,turninguponhimwithalaugh. “ShouldItellyouifIwere?” “Yes.BecauseIthinkyouspeakthetruth,”shesaid,searchinghimforproofofthisapparently,witheyesnowalmostimpersonallydirect.Itwouldbeeasy,Ralphthought,toworshiponesofarremoved,andyetofsostraightanatureeasytosubmitrecklesslytoher,withoutthoughtoffuturepain. “Areyouapoet?”shedemanded.Hefeltthatherquestionhadanunexplainedweightofmeaningbehindit,asifshesoughtananswertoaquestionthatshedidnotask. “No.Ihaven’twrittenanypoetryforyears,”hereplied.“Butallthesame,Idon’tagreewithyou.Ithinkit’stheonlythingworthdoing.” “Whydoyousaythat?”sheasked,almostwithimpatience,tappingherspoontwoorthreetimesagainstthesideofhercup. “Why?”Ralphlaidhandsonthefirstwordsthatcametomind.“Because,Isuppose,itkeepsanidealalivewhichmightdieotherwise.” Acuriouschangecameoverherface,asiftheflame