At about half-past four upon the afternoon of November 8th, 1903, the drawing-room of No. 5 Rundle Square Westminster, was empty. November 8th was, of course, Grandfather Trenchard’s birthday; a year ago on that day Philip Mark had made his first entrance into the Trenchard fastnesses. This Eighth of November, 1903, did not, in the manner of weather, repeat the Eighth of November, 1902. There had been, a year ago, the thickest of fogs, now there was a clear, mildly blue November evening, with the lamps like faint blurs of light against a sky in which tiny stars sparkled on a background that was almost white. It was cold enough to be jolly, and there was a thin wafer-like frost over the pools and gutters.

A large fire roared in the fireplace; the room seemed strangely altered since that day when Henry had read his novel and thought of his forests. In what lay the alteration? The old green carpet was still there; in front of the fireplace was a deep red Turkey rug—but it was not the rug that changed the room. The deep glass-fronted book-cases were still there, with the chilly and stately classics inside them; on the round table there were two novels with gaudy red and blue covers. One novel was entitled “The Lovely Mrs. Tempest”, the other “The Mystery of Dovecote Mill”—but it was not the novels that changed the room. The portraits of deceased Trenchards, weighted with heavy gold, still hung upon the walls; there was also, near the fireplace, a gay water-colour of some place on the Riviera, with a bright parasol in the foreground and the bluest of all blue seas in the background—but it was not the water-colour that changed the room.

No, the change lay here—the Mirror was gone.

After Henry had broken it, there was much discussion as to whether it should be mended. Of course it would be mended—but when?—Well, soon. Meanwhile it had better be out of the way somewhere ... it had remained out of the way. Until it should be restored, Sir George Trenchard, K.C.B., 1834-1896, a stout gentleman with side whiskers, hung in its place.

Meanwhile it would never be restored. People would forget it; people wanted to forget it ... the Mirror’s day was over.

It was, of course, impossible for Sir George Trenchard to reflect the room in his countenance or in his splendid suit of clothes, and the result of this was that the old room that had gathered itself so comfortably, with its faded and mossy green, into the shining embrace of the Mirror, had now nowhere for its repose; it seemed now an ordinary room, and the spots of colour—the Turkey rug, the novels, the water-colour, broke up the walls and the carpet, flung light here and light there, shattered that earlier composed remoteness, proclaimed the room a comfortable place that had lost its tradition.

The Room was broken up—the Mirror was in the cellar.

Henry came in. He had had permission to abandon—for one night—his labours at Cambridge to assist in the celebration of his grandfather’s birthday, the last, perhaps, that there would be, because the old man now was very broken and ill. He had never recovered from the blow of Katherine’s desertion.

The first thing that Henry had done on his arrival in London had been to pay a visit to Mrs. Philip Mark. Katherine and Philip lived in a little flat in Knightsbridge—Park Place—and a delightful little flat it was. This was not the first visit that Henry had paid there; George Trenchard, Millie, Aunt Betty had also been there—there had been several merry tea-parties.

The marriage had been a great success; the only thing that marred it for Katherine was her division from her mother. Mrs. Trenchard was relentless. She would not see Katherine, she would not read her letters, she would not allow her name to be mentioned in her presence. Secretly, one by one, the others had crept off to the Knightsbridge flat.... They gave no sign of their desertion. Did she know? She also gave no sign.

But Katherine would not abandon hope. The time must come when her mother needed her. She did not ask questions of the others, but she saw her mother lonely, aged, miserable; she saw this from no conceit of herself, but simply because she knew that she had, for so many years, been the centre of her mother’s life. Her heart ached; she lay awake, crying, at night, and Philip would strive to console her but could not. Nevertheless, through all her tears, she did not regret what she had done. She would do it again did the problem again arise. Philip was a new man, strong, happy, reliant, wise ... she had laid the ghosts for him. He was hers, as though he had been her child.

Henry, upon this afternoon, was clearly under the influence of great excitement. He entered the drawing-room as though he were eager to deliver important news, and then, seeing that no one was there, he uttered a little exclamation and flung himself into a chair. Anyone might see that a few weeks of Cambridge life had worked a very happy change in Henry; much of his crudity was gone. One need not now be afraid of what he would do next, and because he was himself aware of this development much of his awkwardness had left him.

His clothes were neat; his hair was brushed. He might still yield at any moment to his old impetuosities, his despairs and his unjustified triumphs, but there would now be some further purpose beyond them; he would know now that there were more important things in life than his moods.

He looked at the place where the Mirror had been and blushed; then he frowned. Yes, he had lost his temper badly that day, but Philip had had such an abominable way of showing him how young he was, how little of life he knew. All the same, Philip wasn’t a bad sort,—and he did love Katie—‘like anything!’

Henry himself thrilled with the consciousness of the things that he intended to do in life. He had attended a debate at the Cambridge Union, and himself, driven by what desperate impulse he did not know, had spoken a few words. From that moment he had realised what life held in store for him. He had discovered other eager spirits; they met at night and drank cocoa together. They intended nothing less than the redemption of the world; their Utopian City shone upon no distant hill. They called themselves the Crusaders, and some time before the end of the term the first number of a periodical written by them was to startle the world. Henry was the Editor. His first Editorial was entitled: “Freedom: What it is”.

And only a year ago he had sat in this very room reading that novel and wondering whether life would ever open before him. It had opened—it was opening before them all. He did not know that it had been opening thus for many thousands of years. He knew nothing of the past; he knew nothing of the future; but he saw his City rising, so pure and of marvellous promise, before his eyes....

As he looked back over the past year and surveyed the family, it was to him as though an earthquake had blown them all sky-high. A year ago they had been united, as though no power could ever divide them. Well, the division had come. There was now not one member of the family who had not his, or her, secret ambitions and desires. Aunt Aggie intended to live in a little flat by herself. She found “the younger ones impossible.” George Trenchard bought land at Garth. Mrs. Trenchard intended to pull down some of the Garth house and build a new wing.

She was immersed all day in plans and maps and figures; even her father-in-law’s illness had not interfered with her determination.

Millie had made friends with a number of independent London ladies, who thought Women’s Suffrage far beyond either cleanliness or Godliness. She talked to Henry about her companions, who hoped for a new City in no very distant future, very much as Henry’s friends at Cambridge did. Only, the two Cities were very different. Even Katherine and Philip were concerned in some Society for teaching poor women how to manage their children, and Philip was also interested in a new Art, in which young painters produced medical charts showing the internal arrangements of the stomach, and called them “Spring on the Heath” or “Rome—Midday.”

And through all the middle-class families in England these things were occurring. “Something is coming....” “Something is coming....” “Look out....” “Look out....”

This was in 1903. Henry, Millie, Katherine had still eleven years to wait for their revolution, but in at least one corner of happy England the work of preparation had been begun.

The door opened, and Henry’s reveries were interrupted by the entrance of Millie. He started, and then jumped up on seeing her; for a moment, under the power of his thoughts, he had forgotten his news; now he stammered with the importance of it.

“Millie!” he cried.

“Hullo, Henry,” she said, smiling. “We expected you hours ago.”

He dropped his voice. “I’ve been round to see Katie. Look here, Millie, it’s most important. She’s coming here to see Mother.”

Millie glanced behind. They carried on then the rest of their conversation in whispers.

“To see Mother?”

“Yes. She can’t bear waiting any longer. She felt that she must be here on Grandfather’s birthday.”

“But—but—”

“Yes, I know. But she thinks that if she sees Mother alone and she can show her that nothing’s changed—”

“But everything’s changed. She doesn’t know how different Mother is.”

“No, but she thinks if they both see one another—at any rate she’s going to try.”

“Now?”

“Yes. In a few minutes. I’ll go up and just tell Mother that there’s a caller in the drawing-room. Then leave them alone together—”

Millie sighed. “It would be too lovely for anything if it really happened. But it won’t—it can’t. Mother’s extraordinary. I don’t believe she ever loved Katie at all, at least only as an idea. She’ll never forgive her—never—and she’ll always hate Philip.”

“How’s Grandfather?”

“Very bad. He says he will come down to-night, although it’ll probably kill him. However, now they’ve arranged that his presents shall be in the little drawing-room upstairs. Then he won’t have so far to go. He’s awfully bad, really, and he’s as hard about Katie as Mother is. He won’t have her name mentioned. It’s simply, I believe, that it’s terrible to him to think that she could love Philip better than him!”

“And how’s everyone else?”

“Oh, well, it’s all right, I suppose. But it isn’t very nice. I’m going off to live with Miss Emberley as soon as they’ll let me. Aunt Aggie’s been awful. And then one day she went suddenly to see Katie, and Mother found out somehow. Mother never said anything, but Aunt Aggie’s going to take a flat by herself somewhere. And since that she’s been nicer than I’ve ever known her. Quite soft and good-tempered.”

“Does Mother know that we all go to see Katie?”

“Sometimes I think she does—sometimes that she doesn’t. She never says a word. She seems to think of nothing but improving the place now. She must be very lonely, but she doesn’t show anyone anything. All the same it’s impossible without Katie—I—”

At that moment the bell of the hall-door rang. They stood silently there listening.

For a moment they stared at one another, like conspirators caught in the act of their conspiracy. The colour flooded their cheeks; their hearts beat furiously. Here and now was Drama.

They heard Rocket’s footstep, the opening door, Katherine’s voice. They fled from the room before they could be seen.

Katherine, when she stood alone in the room in whose life and intimacy she had shared for so many years, stared about her as though she had been a stranger. There was a change; in the first place there was now her own room, made for her and for Philip, that absorbed her mind; in comparison with it this room, that had always appeared to her comfortable, consoling, protective, was now old-fashioned and a little shabby. There were too many things scattered about, old things, neither beautiful nor useful. Then the place itself did not seem to care for her as it had once done. She was a visitor now, and the house knew it. Their mutual intimacy had ceased.

But she could not waste many thoughts upon the room. This approaching interview with her mother seemed to her the supreme moment of her life. There had been other supreme moments during the past year, and she did not realise that she was now better able to deal with them than she had once been. Nevertheless her mother must forgive her. She would not leave the house until she had been forgiven. She was hopeful. The success of her marriage had given her much self-confidence. The way that the family had, one after another, come to see her (yes, even Aunt Aggie) had immensely reassured her. Her mother was proud; she needed that submission should be made to her.

Katherine was here to make it. Her heart beat thickly with love and the anticipated reconciliation.

She went, as she had done so many, many times, to the Mirror over the fireplace to tidy herself. Why! the Mirror was not there! Of course not—that was why the room seemed so changed. She looked around her, smiled a little. A fine girl, anyone seeing her there would have thought her. Marriage had given her an assurance, a self-reliance. She had shrunk back before because she had been afraid of what life would be. Now, when it seemed to her that she had penetrated into the very darkest fastnesses of its secrets, when she felt that nothing in the future could surprise her ever again, she shrank back no longer.

Her clothes were better than in the old days, but even now they did not fit her very perfectly. She was still, in her heart, exactly the same rather grave, rather slow, very loving Katherine. She would be stout in later years; there were already little dimples in her cheeks. Her eyes were soft and mild, as they had ever been.

The door opened, and Mrs. Trenchard entered.

She had expected some caller, and she came forward a few steps with the smile of the hostess upon her lips. Then she saw her daughter, and stopped.

Katherine had risen, and stood facing her mother. With a swift consternation, as though someone had shouted some terrifying news into her ear, she realised that her mother was a stranger to her. She had imagined many, many times what this interview would be. She had often considered the things that she would say and the very words in which she would arrange her sentences. But always in her thoughts she had had a certain picture of her mother before her. She had seen an old woman, old as she had been on that night when she had slept in Katherine’s arms, old as she had been at that moment when Katherine had first told her of her engagement to Philip. And now she thought this old woman would face her, maintaining her pride but nevertheless ready, after the separation of these weeks, to break down before the vision of Katherine’s own submission.

Katherine had always thought: “Dear Mother. We must have one another. She’ll feel that now. She’ll see that I’m exactly the same....”

How different from her dreams was this figure. Her mother seemed to-day younger than Katherine had ever known her. She stood there, tall, stern, straight, the solidity of her body impenetrable, inaccessible to all tenderness, scornful of all embraces. She was young, yes, and stronger.

At the first sight of Katherine she had moved back as though she would leave the room. Then she stayed by the door. She was perfectly composed.

“Why have you come?” she said.

At the cold indifference of that voice Katherine felt a little pulse of anger beat, far away, in the very heart of her tenderness.

She moved forward with a little gesture.

“Mother, I had to come. It’s Grandfather’s birthday. I couldn’t believe that after all these weeks you wouldn’t be willing to see me.”

She stopped. Her mother said nothing.

Katherine came nearer. “I’m sorry—terribly sorry—if I did what hurt you. I felt at the time that it was the only thing to do. Phil was so miserable, and I know that it was all for my sake. It wasn’t fair to let him go on like that when I could prevent it. You didn’t understand him. He didn’t understand you. But never, for a single instant, did my love for you change. It never has. It never will. Mother dear, you believe that—you must believe that.”

Did Mrs. Trenchard have then for a moment a vision of the things that she might still do with life? With her eyes, during these weeks, she had seen not Katherine but her own determination to vindicate her stability, the stability of all her standards, against every attack. They said that the world was changing. She at least could show them that she would not change. Even though, in her own house, that revolution had occurred about which she had been warned, she would show them that she remained, through it all, stable, unconquered.

Katherine had gone over to the enemy. Well, she would fasten her life to some other anchor then. It should be as though Katherine and Katherine’s love had never existed. There was offered her now her last chance. One word and she would be part of the new world. One word....

She may for an instant have had her vision. The moment passed. She saw only her own determined invincibility.

“You had your choice, Katherine,” she said. “You made it. You broke your word to us. You left us without justification. You have killed your Grandfather. You have shown that our love and care for you during all these years has gone for nothing at all.”

Katherine flushed. “I have not shown that—I....” She looked as though she would cry. Her lips trembled. She struggled to compose her voice—then at last went on firmly:

“Mother—perhaps I was wrong. I didn’t know what I did. It wasn’t for myself—it was for Philip. It isn’t true that I didn’t think of you all. Mother, let me see Grandfather—only for a moment. He will forgive me. I know—I know.”

“He has forbidden us to mention your name to him.”

“But if he sees me—”

“He is resolved never to see you again.”

“But what did I do? If I speak to him, if I kiss him—I must go to him. It’s his birthday. I’ve got a present—”

“He is too ill to see you.” This perhaps had moved her, because she went on swiftly: “Katherine, what is the use of this? It hurts both of us. It can do no good. You acted as you thought right. It seemed to show me that you had no care for me after all these years. It shook all my confidence. That can never be between us again, and I could not, I think, in any way follow your new life. I could never forget, and you have now friends and interests that must exclude me. If we meet what can we have now in common? If I had loved you less, perhaps it would be possible, but as it is—no.”

Katherine had dried her tears.

They looked at one another. Katherine bowed her head. She had still to bite her lips that she might not cry, but she looked very proud.

“Perhaps,” she said, very softly, “that one day you will want—you will feel—At least I shall not change. I will come whenever you want me. I will always care the same. One day I will come back, Mother dear.”

Her mother said only:

“It is better that we should not meet.”

Katherine walked to the door. As she passed her mother she looked at her. Her eyes made one last prayer—then they were veiled.

She left the house.

A quarter of an hour later Henry came into the room, and found his Mother seated at her desk, plans and papers in front of her. He could hear her saying to herself:

“Fifteen—by fourteen.... The rockery there—Five steps, then the door.... Fifteen pounds four shillings and sixpence....”

Katherine was not there. He knew that she had been rejected. His mother showed no signs of discomposure. Their interview must have been very short.

He went to the window and stood there, looking out. In a moment Rocket would come and draw the blinds. Rundle Square swam in the last golden light.

Tiny flakes of colour spun across the pale blue that was almost white. They seemed to whirl before Henry’s eyes.

He was sorry, terribly sorry, that Katherine had failed, but he was filled to-day with a triumphant sense of the glory and promise of life. He had been liberated, and Katherine had been liberated. Freedom, with its assurances for all the world, flamed across the darkening skies. Life seemed endless: its beckoning drama called to him. The anticipation of the glory of life caught him by the throat so that he could scarcely breathe....

At that moment in the upstairs room old Mr. Trenchard, suddenly struggling for breath, tried to call out, failed, fell back, on to his pillow, dead.

THE END

Books by HUGH WALPOLE