CHAPTER XXVI

tingwhich,however,wasbeingdrivenasstraightasaRomanroadthroughthedarkhair.CassandrawasimpressedagainbyKatharine’smaturityand,assheenvelopedherselfinthebluedresswhichfilledalmostthewholeofthelonglooking-glasswithbluelightandmadeittheframeofapicture,holdingnotonlytheslightlymovingeffigyofthebeautifulwoman,butshapesandcolorsofobjectsreflectedfromthebackground,Cassandrathoughtthatnosighthadeverbeenquitesoromantic.Itwasallinkeepingwiththeroomandthehouse,andthecityroundthemforherearshadnotyetceasedtonoticethehumofdistantwheels. Theywentdownstairsratherlate,inspiteofKatharine’sextremespeedingettingready.ToCassandra’searsthebuzzofvoicesinsidethedrawing-roomwaslikethetuningupoftheinstrumentsoftheorchestra.Itseemedtoherthattherewerenumbersofpeopleintheroom,andthattheywerestrangers,andthattheywerebeautifulanddressedwiththegreatestdistinction,althoughtheyprovedtobemostlyherrelations,andthedistinctionoftheirclothingwasconfined,intheeyesofanimpartialobserver,tothewhitewaistcoatwhichRodneywore.Buttheyallrosesimultaneously,whichwasbyitselfimpressive,andtheyallexclaimed,andshookhands,andshewasintroducedtoMr.Peyton,andthedoorsprangopen,anddinnerwasannounced,andtheyfiledoff,WilliamRodneyofferingherhisslightlybentblackarm,asshehadsecretlyhopedhewould.Inshort,hadthescenebeenlookedatonlythroughhereyes,itmusthavebeendescribedasoneofmagicalbrilliancy.Thepatternofthesoup-plates,thestifffoldsofthenapkins,whichrosebythesideofeachplateintheshapeofarumlilies,thelongsticksofbreadtiedwithpinkribbon,thesilverdishesandthesea-coloredchampagneglasses,withtheflakesofgoldcongealedintheirstems—allthesedetails,togetherwithacuriouslypervasivesmellofkidgloves,contributedtoherexhilaration,whichmustberepressed,however,becauseshewasgrownup,andtheworldheldnomoreforhertomarvelat. Theworldheldnomoreforhertomarvelat,itistruebutitheldotherpeopleandeachotherpersonpossessedinCassandra’smindsomefragmentofwhatprivatelyshecalled“reality.”Itwasagiftthattheywouldimpartifyouaskedthemforit,andthusnodinner-partycouldpossiblybedull,andlittleMr.PeytononherrightandWilliamRodneyonherleftwereinequalmeasureendowedwiththequalitywhichseemedtohersounmistakableandsopreciousthatthewaypeopleneglectedtodemanditwasaconstantsourceofsurprisetoher.Shescarcelyknew,indeed,whethershewastalkingtoMr.PeytonortoWilliamRodney.Buttoonewho,bydegrees,assumedtheshapeofanelderlymanwithamustache,shedescribedhowshehadarrivedinLondonthatveryafternoon,andhowshehadtakenacabanddriventhroughthestreets.Mr.Peyton,aneditoroffiftyyears,bowedhisbaldheadrepeatedly,withapparentunderstanding.Atleast,heunderstoodthatshewasveryyoungandpretty,andsawthatshewasexcited,thoughhecouldnotgatheratoncefromherwordsorrememberfromhisownexperiencewhattherewastobeexcitedabout.“Werethereanybudsonthetrees?”heasked.“Whichlinedidshetravelby?” Hewascutshortintheseamiableinquiriesbyherdesiretoknowwhetherhewasoneofthosewhoread,oroneofthosewholookoutofthewindow?Mr.Peytonwasbynomeanssurewhichhedid.Heratherthoughthedidboth.Hewastoldthathehadmadeamostdangerousconfession.Shecoulddeducehisentirehistoryfromthatonefact.HechallengedhertoproceedandsheproclaimedhimaLiberalMemberofParliament. William,nominallyengagedinadesultoryconversationwithAuntEleanor,heardeveryword,andtakingadvantageofthefactthatelderlyladieshavelittlecontinuityofconversation,atleastwiththosewhomtheyesteemfortheiryouthandtheirsex,heassertedhispresencebyaverynervouslaugh. Cassandraturnedtohimdirectly.Shewasenchantedtofindthat,instantlyandwithsuchease,anotherofthesefascinatingbeingswasofferinguntoldwealthforherextraction. “There’snodoubtwhatyoudoinarailwaycarriage,William,”shesaid,makinguseinherpleasureofhisfirstname.“Youneveroncelookoutofthewindowyoureadallthetime.” “Andwhatfactsdoyoudeducefromthat?”Mr.Peytonasked. “Oh,thathe’sapoet,ofcourse,”saidCassandra.“ButImustconfessthatIknewthatbefore,soitisn’tfair.I’vegotyourmanuscriptwithme,”shewenton,disregardingMr.Peytoninashamelessway.“I’vegotallsortsofthingsIwanttoaskyouaboutit.” Williaminclinedhisheadandtriedtoconcealthepleasurethatherremarkgavehim.Butthepleasurewasnotunalloyed.HoweversusceptibletoflatteryWilliammightbe,hewouldnevertolerateitfrompeoplewhoshowedagrossoremotionaltasteinliterature,andifCassandraerredevenslightlyfromwhatheconsideredessentialinthisrespecthewouldexpresshisdiscomfortbyflingingouthishandsandwrinklinghisforeheadhewouldfindnopleasureinherflatteryafterthat. “Firstofall,”sheproceeded,“Iwanttoknowwhyyouchosetowriteaplay?” “Ah!Youmeanit’snotdramatic?” “ImeanthatIdon’tseewhatitwouldgainbybeingacted.ButthendoesShakespearegain?HenryandIarealwaysarguingaboutShakespeare.I’mcertainhe’swrong,butIcan’tproveitbecauseI’veonlyseenShakespeareactedonceinLincoln.ButI’mquitepositive,”sheinsisted,“thatShakespearewroteforthestage.” “You’reperfectlyright,”Rodneyexclaimed.“Iwashopingyouwereonthatside.Henry’swrong—entirelywrong.Ofcourse,I’vefailed,asallthemodernsfail.Dear,dear,IwishI’dconsultedyoubefore.” Fromthispointtheyproceededtogoover,asfarasmemoryservedthem,thedifferentaspectsofRodney’sdrama.Shesaidnothingthatjarreduponhim,anduntraineddaringhadthepowertostimulateexperiencetosuchanextentthatRodneywasfrequentlyseentoholdhisforksuspendedbeforehim,whilehedebatedthefirstprinciplesoftheart.Mrs.Hilberythoughttoherselfthatshehadneverseenhimtosuchadvantageyes,hewassomehowdifferentheremindedherofsomeonewhowasdead,someonewhowasdistinguished—shehadforgottenhisname. Cassandra’svoicerosehighinitsexcitement. “You’venotread‘TheIdiot’!”sheexclaimed. “I’veread‘WarandPeace’,”Williamreplied,alittletestily. “WarandPeace!”sheechoed,inatoneofderision. “IconfessIdon’tunderstandtheRussians.” “Shakehands!Shakehands!”boomedUncleAubreyfromacrossthetable.“NeitherdoI.AndIhazardtheopinionthattheydon’tthemselves.” TheoldgentlemanhadruledalargepartoftheIndianEmpire,buthewasinthehabitofsayingthathehadratherhavewrittentheworksofDickens.Thetablenowtookpossessionofasubjectmuchtoitsliking.AuntEleanorshowedpremonitorysignsofpronouncinganopinion.Althoughshehadbluntedhertasteuponsomeformofphilanthropyfortwenty-fiveyears,shehadafinenaturalinstinctforanupstartorapretender,andknewtoahairbreadthwhatliteratureshouldbeandwhatitshouldnotbe.Shewasborntotheknowledge,andscarcelythoughtitamattertobeproudof. “Insanityisnotafitsubjectforfiction,”sheannouncedpositively. “There’sthewell-knowncaseofHamlet,”Mr.Hilberyinterposed,inhisleisurely,half-humoroustones. “Ah,butpoetry’sdifferent,Trevor,”saidAuntEleanor,asifshehadspecialauthorityfromShakespearetosayso.“Differentaltogether.AndI’veneverthought,formypart,thatHamletwasasmadastheymakeout.Whatisyouropinion,Mr.Peyton?”For,astherewasaministerofliteraturepresentinthepersonoftheeditorofanesteemedreview,shedeferredtohim. Mr.Peytonleantalittlebackinhischair,and,puttinghisheadratherononeside,observedthatthatwasaquestionthathehadneverbeenabletoanswerentirelytohissatisfaction.Therewasmuchtobesaidonbothsides,butasheconsidereduponwhichsideheshouldsayit,Mrs.Hilberybrokeinuponhisjudiciousmeditations. “Lovely,lovelyOphelia!”sheexclaimed.“Whatawonderfulpoweritis—poetry!Iwakeupinthemorningallbedraggledthere’sayellowfogoutsidelittleEmilyturnsontheelectriclightwhenshebringsmemytea,andsays,‘Oh,ma’am,thewater’sfrozeninthecistern,andcook’scutherfingertothebone.’AndthenIopenalittlegreenbook,andthebirdsaresinging,thestarsshining,theflowerstwinkling—”Shelookedaboutherasifthesepresenceshadsuddenlymanifestedthemselvesroundherdining-roomtable. “Hasthecookcutherfingerbadly?”AuntEleanordemanded,addressingherselfnaturallytoKatharine. “Oh,thecook’sfingerisonlymywayofputtingi