And for Philip it was as though, after all these weeks of waiting, not only the family but the whole place had at last broken into its definite challenge.
Beyond the room he could feel the garden, the lawn, the oak, the sea-road, the moor, even Rafiel itself, with its little square window-pane harbour, crowding up to the window, listening, crying to him: “You’ve got to be broken! You’ve got to go or be broken!...” The definite moment had come at last.
His eyes never left Katherine’s face as he answered:
“It’s perfectly true. I don’t know how it happened, but we had been having supper quite soberly together, and then Henry was suddenly drunk. I swear he’d had simply nothing to drink. He was quite suddenly drunk, all in a moment. I was never more surprised in my life. I suppose I should have prevented it, but I swear to you it would have surprised anyone—really, you would have been surprised, Mrs. Trenchard.”
Henry, whose face was first flaming, then white, said, sulkily: “It wasn’t Philip’s fault.... I wasn’t used to it. Anyway, I don’t see why there need be such a fuss about it. What Aunt Aggie wants to drag it in now for just when everyone’s tired after Sunday. It isn’t as though I were always drunk—just once—everyone’s drunk sometime.”
“I’ve never said anything,” Aunt Aggie began.
“No, that’s just it,” Philip broke in, suddenly flashing round upon her. “That’s just it. You’ve never said anything until now. Why haven’t you? Why, all this time, have you kept it, hugging it to yourself?... That’s what you’ve all been doing. You never tell me anything. You never treat me really frankly, but if you’ve got something you think will do damage you keep it carefully until the best moment for letting it go off. You’re all as secret with me as though I were a criminal. You ask me down here, and then keep me out of everything. I know you dislike me and think I oughtn’t to marry Katherine—but why can’t you say so instead of keeping so quiet! You think I shouldn’t have Katherine—but you can’t stop it, and you know you can’t.... I’m sorry.” He was conscious of the silence and many pairs of eyes and of much quivering cold food and the ticking of a large grandfather’s clock saying: ‘You are rude. You are rude—You shouldn’t—do it—You shouldn’t—do it.’
But he was also conscious of a quivering life that ran, like quicksilver, through the world outside, through all the streams, woods, paths, into the very heart of the sea. His eyes were on Mrs. Trenchard’s face.
“I apologise if I’ve been rude, but to-day—a day like this—awful—” He broke off abruptly, and moved as though he would get up. It was then that the Dreadful Thing occurred.
He pushed his chair, and it knocked against Aunt Aggie’s, jolting her. She, conscious that she was responsible for an abominable scene, conscious that she had lost all that fine dignity and self-command in which, through her lifetime, she had seen herself arrayed, conscious of her tooth, of a horrible Sunday, of many Sundays in front of her equally horrible (conscious, above all, of some doubt as to whether she were a fine figure, whether the world would be very different without her, conscious of the menace of her own cherished personal allusion), driven forward, moreover, by the individual experiences that Mrs. Trenchard, Millie, Henry, Katherine had had that day (because all their experiences were now in the room, crowding and pressing against their victims), seeing simply Philip, an abominable intrusion into what had formerly been a peaceful and honourable life, Philip, now and always her enemy ... at the impact of his chair against hers, her tooth said “Go!”