Night and Day - Virginia Woolf (best novels for beginners txt) 📗

CHAPTER XXIII

When Ralph Denham entered the room and saw Katharine seated with her

back to him, he was conscious of a change in the grade of the

atmosphere such as a traveler meets with sometimes upon the roads,

particularly after sunset, when, without warning, he runs from clammy

chill to a hoard of unspent warmth in which the sweetness of hay and

beanfield is cherished, as if the sun still shone although the moon is

up. He hesitated; he shuddered; he walked elaborately to the window

and laid aside his coat. He balanced his stick most carefully against

the folds of the curtain. Thus occupied with his own sensations and

preparations, he had little time to observe what either of the other

two was feeling. Such symptoms of agitation as he might perceive (and

they had left their tokens in brightness of eye and pallor of cheeks)

seemed to him well befitting the actors in so great a drama as that of

Katharine Hilbery’s daily life. Beauty and passion were the breath of

her being, he thought.

 

She scarcely noticed his presence, or only as it forced her to adopt a

manner of composure, which she was certainly far from feeling.

William, however, was even more agitated than she was, and her first

instalment of promised help took the form of some commonplace upon the

age of the building or the architect’s name, which gave him an excuse

to fumble in a drawer for certain designs, which he laid upon the

table between the three of them.

 

Which of the three followed the designs most carefully it would be

difficult to tell, but it is certain that not one of the three found

for the moment anything to say. Years of training in a drawing-room

came at length to Katharine’s help, and she said something suitable,

at the same moment withdrawing her hand from the table because she

perceived that it trembled. William agreed effusively; Denham

corroborated him, speaking in rather high-pitched tones; they thrust

aside the plans, and drew nearer to the fireplace.

 

“I’d rather live here than anywhere in the whole of London,” said

Denham.

 

(“And I’ve got nowhere to live”) Katharine thought, as she agreed

aloud.

 

“You could get rooms here, no doubt, if you wanted to,” Rodney

replied.

 

“But I’m just leaving London for good—I’ve taken that cottage I was

telling you about.” The announcement seemed to convey very little to

either of his hearers.

 

“Indeed?—that’s sad… . You must give me your address. But you

won’t cut yourself off altogether, surely—”

 

“You’ll be moving, too, I suppose,” Denham remarked.

 

William showed such visible signs of floundering that Katharine

collected herself and asked:

 

“Where is the cottage you’ve taken?”

 

In answering her, Denham turned and looked at her. As their eyes met,

she realized for the first time that she was talking to Ralph Denham,

and she remembered, without recalling any details, that she had been

speaking of him quite lately, and that she had reason to think ill of

him. What Mary had said she could not remember, but she felt that

there was a mass of knowledge in her mind which she had not had time

to examine—knowledge now lying on the far side of a gulf. But her

agitation flashed the queerest lights upon her past. She must get

through the matter in hand, and then think it out in quiet. She bent

her mind to follow what Ralph was saying. He was telling her that he

had taken a cottage in Norfolk, and she was saying that she knew, or

did not know, that particular neighborhood. But after a moment’s

attention her mind flew to Rodney, and she had an unusual, indeed

unprecedented, sense that they were in touch and shared each other’s

thoughts. If only Ralph were not there, she would at once give way to

her desire to take William’s hand, then to bend his head upon her

shoulder, for this was what she wanted to do more than anything at the

moment, unless, indeed, she wished more than anything to be alone—

yes, that was what she wanted. She was sick to death of these

discussions; she shivered at the effort to reveal her feelings. She

had forgotten to answer. William was speaking now.

 

“But what will you find to do in the country?” she asked at random,

striking into a conversation which she had only half heard, in such a

way as to make both Rodney and Denham look at her with a little

surprise. But directly she took up the conversation, it was William’s

turn to fall silent. He at once forgot to listen to what they were

saying, although he interposed nervously at intervals, “Yes, yes,

yes.” As the minutes passed, Ralph’s presence became more and more

intolerable to him, since there was so much that he must say to

Katharine; the moment he could not talk to her, terrible doubts,

unanswerable questions accumulated, which he must lay before

Katharine, for she alone could help him now. Unless he could see her

alone, it would be impossible for him ever to sleep, or to know what

he had said in a moment of madness, which was not altogether mad, or

was it mad? He nodded his head, and said, nervously, “Yes, yes,” and

looked at Katharine, and thought how beautiful she looked; there was

no one in the world that he admired more. There was an emotion in her

face which lent it an expression he had never seen there. Then, as he

was turning over means by which he could speak to her alone, she rose,

and he was taken by surprise, for he had counted on the fact that she

would outstay Denham. His only chance, then, of saying something to

her in private, was to take her downstairs and walk with her to the

street. While he hesitated, however, overcome with the difficulty of

putting one simple thought into words when all his thoughts were

scattered about, and all were too strong for utterance, he was struck

silent by something that was still more unexpected. Denham got up from

his chair, looked at Katharine, and said:

 

“I’m going, too. Shall we go together?”

 

And before William could see any way of detaining him—or would it be

better to detain Katharine?—he had taken his hat, stick, and was

holding the door open for Katharine to pass out. The most that William

could do was to stand at the head of the stairs and say good-night. He

could not offer to go with them. He could not insist that she should

stay. He watched her descend, rather slowly, owing to the dusk of the

staircase, and he had a last sight of Denham’s head and of Katharine’s

head near together, against the panels, when suddenly a pang of acute

jealousy overcame him, and had he not remained conscious of the

slippers upon his feet, he would have run after them or cried out. As

it was he could not move from the spot. At the turn of the staircase

Katharine turned to look back, trusting to this last glance to seal

their compact of good friendship. Instead of returning her silent

greeting, William grinned back at her a cold stare of sarcasm or of

rage.

 

She stopped dead for a moment, and then descended slowly into the

court. She looked to the right and to the left, and once up into the

sky. She was only conscious of Denham as a block upon her thoughts.

She measured the distance that must be traversed before she would be

alone. But when they came to the Strand no cabs were to be seen, and

Denham broke the silence by saying:

 

“There seem to be no cabs. Shall we walk on a little?”

 

“Very well,” she agreed, paying no attention to him.

 

Aware of her preoccupation, or absorbed in his own thoughts, Ralph

said nothing further; and in silence they walked some distance along

the Strand. Ralph was doing his best to put his thoughts into such

order that one came before the rest, and the determination that when

he spoke he should speak worthily, made him put off the moment of

speaking till he had found the exact words and even the place that