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.