Night and Day by Virginia Woolf (websites to read books for free .TXT) 📖

it was done so naturally that it

bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting

her hand on Katharine’s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was

there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking

of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs

filled Mary’s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine

seemed very much older and more experienced than she was.

 

Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against

him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a

surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures.

He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his

authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little,

Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them,

upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed.

 

“Your tea, William,” said Katharine gently.

 

He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued.

 

And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her

broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity

of her character, was, perhaps, smiling to herself, not altogether in

the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words,

even “Your tea, William,” were set down as gently and cautiously and

exactly as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments.

For the second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something

inscrutable in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much

attracted. She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she,

too, would find herself very soon using those fretful questions with

which William evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine’s voice

was humble.

 

“I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as

books?” she asked.

 

“How do I find the time?” William answered, delighted, Mary guessed,

at this little compliment. “Why, I always travel with a notebook. And

I ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the

morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There’s a man in my

office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss

Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him—

it’s a way men have—Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We’ll

ask him to lunch. And this not caring about art,” he explained,

turning to Mary, “it’s one of Katharine’s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you

know she posed? She pretends that she’s never read Shakespeare. And

why should she read Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare—Rosalind,

you know,” and he gave his queer little chuckle. Somehow this

compliment appeared very old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary

actually felt herself blush, as if he had said “the sex” or “the

ladies.” Constrained, perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the

same vein.

 

“She knows enough—enough for all decent purposes. What do you women

want with learning, when you have so much else—everything, I should

say—everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?”

 

“Leave you something?” said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown

study. “I was thinking we must be going—”

 

“Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn’t be

late,” said Rodney, rising. “D’you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet?

They own Trantem Abbey,” he added, for her information, as she looked

doubtful. “And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night,

perhaps’ll lend it to us for the honeymoon.”

 

“I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she’s a dull woman,” said

Katharine. “At least,” she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, “I

find it difficult to talk to her.”

 

“Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I’ve seen

her sit silent a whole evening,” he said, turning to Mary, as he had

frequently done already. “Don’t you find that, too? Sometimes when

we’re alone, I’ve counted the time on my watch”—here he took out a

large gold watch, and tapped the glass—“the time between one remark

and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and

then, if you’ll believe me, she only said ‘Um!’”

 

“I’m sure I’m sorry,” Katharine apologized. “I know it’s a bad habit,

but then, you see, at home—”

 

The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by

the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding

fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again,

and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon

found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking

differently as they were alone:

 

“I think being engaged is very bad for the character.” She shook her

purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to

this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it

seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so

strangely, now that William was out of hearing, that she could not

help looking at her for an explanation. She looked almost stern, so

that Mary, trying to smile at her, only succeeded in producing a

silent stare of interrogation.

 

As the door shut for the second time, she sank on to the floor in

front of the fire, trying, now that their bodies were not there to

distract her, to piece together her impressions of them as a whole.

And, though priding herself, with all other men and women, upon an

infallible eye for character, she could not feel at all certain that

she knew what motives inspired Katharine Hilbery in life. There was

something that carried her on smoothly, out of reach—something, yes,

but what?—something that reminded Mary of Ralph. Oddly enough, he

gave her the same feeling, too, and with him, too, she felt baffled.

Oddly enough, for no two people, she hastily concluded, were more

unlike. And yet both had this hidden impulse, this incalculable force

—this thing they cared for and didn’t talk about—oh, what was it?