Night and Day by Virginia Woolf (websites to read books for free .TXT) đź“–
- Author: Virginia Woolf
- Performer: -
Book online «Night and Day by Virginia Woolf (websites to read books for free .TXT) 📖». Author Virginia Woolf
knuckles sharply upon a small table carrying one slender vase. “I love
Cassandra.”
As he said this, the curtains hanging at the door of the little room
parted, and Cassandra herself stepped forth.
“I have overheard every word!” she exclaimed.
A pause succeeded this announcement. Rodney made a step forward and
said:
“Then you know what I wish to ask you. Give me your answer—”
She put her hands before her face; she turned away and seemed to
shrink from both of them.
“What Katharine said,” she murmured. “But,” she added, raising her
head with a look of fear from the kiss with which he greeted her
admission, “how frightfully difficult it all is! Our feelings, I mean
—yours and mine and Katharine’s. Katharine, tell me, are we doing
right?”
“Right—of course we’re doing right,” William answered her, “if, after
what you’ve heard, you can marry a man of such incomprehensible
confusion, such deplorable—”
“Don’t, William,” Katharine interposed; “Cassandra has heard us; she
can judge what we are; she knows better than we could tell her.”
But, still holding William’s hand, questions and desires welled up in
Cassandra’s heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celia
blame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William
really love her, for ever and ever, better than any one?
“I must be first with him, Katharine!” she exclaimed. “I can’t share
him even with you.”
“I shall never ask that,” said Katharine. She moved a little away from
where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers.
“But you’ve shared with me,” Cassandra said. “Why can’t I share with
you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is,” she added. “We understand
each other, William and I. You’ve never understood each other. You’re
too different.”
“I’ve never admired anybody more,” William interposed.
“It’s not that”—Cassandra tried to enlighten him—“it’s
understanding.”
“Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?”
“Yes,” Cassandra interposed. “You’ve asked her for sympathy, and she’s
not sympathetic; you’ve wanted her to be practical, and she’s not
practical. You’ve been selfish; you’ve been exacting—and so has
Katharine—but it wasn’t anybody’s fault.”
Katharine had listened to this attempt at analysis with keen
attention. Cassandra’s words seemed to rub the old blurred image of
life and freshen it so marvelously that it looked new again. She
turned to William.
“It’s quite true,” she said. “It was nobody’s fault.”
“There are many things that he’ll always come to you for,” Cassandra
continued, still reading from her invisible book. “I accept that,
Katharine. I shall never dispute it. I want to be generous as you’ve
been generous. But being in love makes it more difficult for me.”
They were silent. At length William broke the silence.
“One thing I beg of you both, he said, and the old nervousness of
manner returned as he glanced at Katharine. “We will never discuss
these matters again. It’s not that I’m timid and conventional, as you
think, Katharine. It’s that it spoils things to discuss them; it
unsettles people’s minds; and now we’re all so happy—”
Cassandra ratified this conclusion so far as she was concerned, and
William, after receiving the exquisite pleasure of her glance, with
its absolute affection and trust, looked anxiously at Katharine.
“Yes, I’m happy,” she assured him. “And I agree. We will never talk
about it again.”
“Oh, Katharine, Katharine!” Cassandra cried, holding out her arms
while the tears ran down her cheeks.
The day was so different from other days to three people in the house
that the common routine of household life—the maid waiting at table,
Mrs. Hilbery writing a letter, the clock striking, and the door
opening, and all the other signs of long-established civilization
appeared suddenly to have no meaning save as they lulled Mr. and Mrs.
Hilbery into the belief that nothing unusual had taken place. It
chanced that Mrs. Hilbery was depressed without visible cause, unless
a certain crudeness verging upon coarseness in the temper of her
favorite Elizabethans could be held responsible for the mood. At any
rate, she had shut up “The Duchess of Malfi” with a sigh, and wished
to know, so she told Rodney at dinner, whether there wasn’t some young
writer with a touch of the great spirit—somebody who made you believe
that life was BEAUTIFUL? She got little help from Rodney, and after
singing her plaintive requiem for the death of poetry by herself, she
charmed herself into good spirits again by remembering the existence
of Mozart. She begged Cassandra to play to her, and when they went
upstairs Cassandra opened the piano directly, and did her best to
create an atmosphere of unmixed beauty. At the sound of the first
notes Katharine and Rodney both felt an enormous sense of relief at
the license which the music gave them to loosen their hold upon the
mechanism of behavior. They lapsed into the depths of thought. Mrs.
Hilbery was soon spirited away into a perfectly congenial mood, that
was half reverie and half slumber, half delicious melancholy and half
pure bliss. Mr. Hilbery alone attended. He was extremely musical, and
made Cassandra aware that he listened to every note. She played her
best, and won his approval. Leaning slightly forward in his chair, and
turning his little green stone, he weighed the intention of her
phrases approvingly, but stopped her suddenly to complain of a noise
behind him. The window was unhasped. He signed to Rodney, who crossed
the room immediately to put the matter right. He stayed a moment
longer by the window than was, perhaps, necessary, and having done
what was needed, drew his chair a little closer than before to
Katharine’s side. The music went on. Under cover of some exquisite run
of melody, he leant towards her and whispered something. She glanced
at her father and mother, and a moment later left the room, almost
unobserved, with Rodney.
“What is it?” she asked, as soon as the door was shut.
Rodney made no answer, but led her downstairs into the dining-room on
the ground floor. Even when he had shut the door he said nothing, but
went straight to the window and parted the curtains. He beckoned to
Katharine.
“There he is again,” he said. “Look, there—under the lamp-post.”
Katharine looked. She had no idea what Rodney was talking about. A
vague feeling of alarm and mystery possessed her. She saw a man
standing on the opposite side of the road facing the house beneath a
lamp-post. As they looked the figure turned, walked a few steps, and
came back again to his old position. It seemed to her that he was
looking fixedly at her, and was conscious of her gaze on him. She
knew, in a flash, who the man was who was watching them. She drew the
curtain abruptly.
“Denham,” said Rodney. “He was there last night too.” He spoke
sternly. His whole manner had become full of authority. Katharine felt
almost as if he accused her of some crime. She was pale and
uncomfortably agitated, as much by the strangeness of Rodney’s
behavior as by the sight of Ralph Denham.
“If he chooses to come—” she said defiantly.
“You can’t let him wait out there. I shall tell him to come in.”
Rodney spoke with such decision that when he raised his arm Katharine
expected him to draw the curtain instantly. She caught his hand with a
little exclamation.
“Wait!” she cried. “I don’t allow you.”
“You can’t wait,” he replied. “You’ve gone too far.” His hand remained
upon the curtain. “Why don’t you admit, Katharine,” he broke out,
looking at her with an expression of contempt as well as of anger,
“that you love him? Are you going to treat him as you treated me?”
She looked at him, wondering, in spite of all her perplexity, at the
spirit that possessed him.
“I forbid you to draw the curtain,” she said.
He reflected, and then took his hand away.
“I’ve no right to interfere,” he concluded. “I’ll leave you. Or, if
you like, we’ll go back to the drawing-room.”
“No. I can’t go back,” she said, shaking her head. She bent her head
in thought.
“You love him, Katharine,” Rodney said suddenly. His tone had lost
something of its sternness, and might have been used to urge a child
to confess its fault. She raised her eyes and fixed them upon him.
“I love him?” she repeated. He nodded. She searched his face, as if
for further confirmation of his words, and, as he remained silent and
expectant, turned away once more and continued her thoughts. He
observed her closely, but without stirring, as if he gave her time to
make up her mind to fulfil her obvious duty. The strains of Mozart
reached them from the room above.
“Now,” she said suddenly, with a sort of desperation, rising from her
chair and seeming to command Rodney to fulfil his part. He drew the
curtain instantly, and she made no attempt to stop him. Their eyes at
once sought the same spot beneath the lamp-post.
“He’s not there!” she exclaimed.
No one was there. William threw the window up and looked out. The wind
rushed into the room, together with the sound of distant wheels,
footsteps hurrying along the pavement, and the cries of sirens hooting
down the river.
“Denham!” William cried.
“Ralph!” said Katharine, but she spoke scarcely louder than she might
have spoken to some one in the same room. With their eyes fixed upon
the opposite side of the road, they did not notice a figure close to
the railing which divided the garden from the street. But Denham had
crossed the road and was standing there. They were startled by his
voice close at hand.
“Rodney!”
“There you are! Come in, Denham.” Rodney went to the front door and
opened it. “Here he is,” he said, bringing Ralph with him into the
dining-room where Katharine stood, with her back to the open window.
Their eyes met for a second. Denham looked half dazed by the strong
light, and, buttoned in his overcoat, with his hair ruffled across his
forehead by the wind, he seemed like somebody rescued from an open
boat out at sea. William promptly shut the window and drew the
curtains. He acted with a cheerful decision as if he were master of
the situation, and knew exactly what he meant to do.
“You’re the first to hear the news, Denham,” he said. “Katharine isn’t
going to marry me, after all.”
“Where shall I put—” Ralph began vaguely, holding out his hat and
glancing about him; he balanced it carefully against a silver bowl
that stood upon the sideboard. He then sat himself down rather heavily
at the head of the oval dinner-table. Rodney stood on one side of him
and Katharine on the other. He appeared to be presiding over some
meeting from which most of the members were absent. Meanwhile, he
waited, and his eyes rested upon the glow of the beautifully polished
mahogany table.
“William is engaged to Cassandra,” said Katharine briefly.
At that Denham looked up quickly at Rodney. Rodney’s expression
changed. He lost his self-possession. He smiled a little nervously,
and then his attention seemed to be caught by a fragment of melody
from the floor above. He seemed for a moment to forget the presence of
the others. He glanced towards the door.
“I congratulate you,” said Denham.
“Yes, yes. We’re all mad—quite out of our minds, Denham,” he said.
“It’s partly Katharine’s doing—partly mine.”
Comments (0)