CHAPTER XXX

rasiftoencourageher.“Katharineshallexplain,”hesaid,andgivingalittlenodtoDenham,helefttheroom. Katharinesatdownatonce,andleantherchinuponherhands.SolongasRodneywasintheroomtheproceedingsoftheeveninghadseemedtobeinhischarge,andhadbeenmarkedbyacertainunreality.NowthatshewasalonewithRalphshefeltatoncethataconstrainthadbeentakenfromthemboth.Shefeltthattheywerealoneatthebottomofthehouse,whichrose,storyuponstory,uponthetopofthem. “Whywereyouwaitingoutthere?”sheasked. “Forthechanceofseeingyou,”hereplied. “Youwouldhavewaitedallnightifithadn’tbeenforWilliam.It’swindytoo.Youmusthavebeencold.Whatcouldyousee?Nothingbutourwindows.” “Itwasworthit.Iheardyoucallme.” “Icalledyou?”Shehadcalledunconsciously. “Theywereengagedthismorning,”shetoldhim,afterapause. “You’reglad?”heasked. Shebentherhead.“Yes,yes,”shesighed.“Butyoudon’tknowhowgoodheis—whathe’sdoneforme—”Ralphmadeasoundofunderstanding.“Youwaitedtherelastnighttoo?”sheasked. “Yes.Icanwait,”Denhamreplied. ThewordsseemedtofilltheroomwithanemotionwhichKatharineconnectedwiththesoundofdistantwheels,thefootstepshurryingalongthepavement,thecriesofsirenshootingdowntheriver,thedarknessandthewind.Shesawtheuprightfigurestandingbeneaththelamp-post. “Waitinginthedark,”shesaid,glancingatthewindow,asifhesawwhatshewasseeing.“Ah,butit’sdifferent—”Shebrokeoff.“I’mnotthepersonyouthinkme.Untilyourealizethatit’simpossible—” Placingherelbowsonthetable,sheslidherrubyringupanddownherfingerabstractedly.Shefrownedattherowsofleather-boundbooksoppositeher.Ralphlookedkeenlyather.Verypale,butsternlyconcentrateduponhermeaning,beautifulbutsolittleawareofherselfastoseemremotefromhimalso,therewassomethingdistantandabstractaboutherwhichexaltedhimandchilledhimatthesametime. “No,you’reright,”hesaid.“Idon’tknowyou.I’veneverknownyou.” “Yetperhapsyouknowmebetterthananyoneelse,”shemused. Somedetachedinstinctmadeherawarethatshewasgazingatabookwhichbelongedbyrightstosomeotherpartofthehouse.Shewalkedovertotheshelf,tookitdown,andreturnedtoherseat,placingthebookonthetablebetweenthem.Ralphopeneditandlookedattheportraitofamanwithavoluminouswhiteshirt-collar,whichformedthefrontispiece. “IsayIdoknowyou,Katharine,”heaffirmed,shuttingthebook.“It’sonlyformomentsthatIgomad.” “Doyoucalltwowholenightsamoment?” “Isweartoyouthatnow,atthisinstant,Iseeyoupreciselyasyouare.NoonehaseverknownyouasIknowyou....CouldyouhavetakendownthatbookjustnowifIhadn’tknownyou?” “That’strue,”shereplied,“butyoucan’tthinkhowI’mdivided—howI’matmyeasewithyou,andhowI’mbewildered.Theunreality—thedark—thewaitingoutsideinthewind—yes,whenyoulookatme,notseeingme,andIdon’tseeyoueither....ButIdosee,”shewentonquickly,changingherpositionandfrowningagain,“heapsofthings,onlynotyou.” “Tellmewhatyousee,”heurged. Butshecouldnotreducehervisiontowords,sinceitwasnosingleshapecoloreduponthedark,butratherageneralexcitement,anatmosphere,which,whenshetriedtovisualizeit,tookformasawindscouringtheflanksofnorthernhillsandflashinglightuponcornfieldsandpools. “Impossible,”shesighed,laughingattheridiculousnotionofputtinganypartofthisintowords. “Try,Katharine,”Ralphurgedher. “ButIcan’t—I’mtalkingasortofnonsense—thesortofnonsenseonetalkstooneself.”Shewasdismayedbytheexpressionoflonginganddespairuponhisface.“IwasthinkingaboutamountainintheNorthofEngland,”sheattempted.“It’stoosill