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

the Maze, there’s a nice place for having tea—I forget what

they call it—and then, if the young man knows his business he

contrives to take his lady upon the river. Full of

possibilities—full. Cake, Celia?” Mr. Hilbery continued. “I respect

my dinner too much, but that can’t possibly apply to you. You’ve never

observed that feast, so far as I can remember.”

 

Her brother’s affability did not deceive Mrs. Milvain; it slightly

saddened her; she well knew the cause of it. Blind and infatuated as

usual!

 

“Who is this Mr. Denham?” she asked.

 

“Ralph Denham?” said Mr. Hilbery, in relief that her mind had taken

this turn. “A very interesting young man. I’ve a great belief in him.

He’s an authority upon our mediaeval institutions, and if he weren’t

forced to earn his living he would write a book that very much wants

writing—”

 

“He is not well off, then?” Mrs. Milvain interposed.

 

“Hasn’t a penny, I’m afraid, and a family more or less dependent on

him.”

 

“A mother and sisters?— His father is dead?”

 

“Yes, his father died some years ago,” said Mr. Hilbery, who was

prepared to draw upon his imagination, if necessary, to keep Mrs.

Milvain supplied with facts about the private history of Ralph Denham

since, for some inscrutable reason, the subject took her fancy.

 

“His father has been dead some time, and this young man had to take

his place—”

 

“A legal family?” Mrs. Milvain inquired. “I fancy I’ve seen the name

somewhere.”

 

Mr. Hilbery shook his head. “I should be inclined to doubt whether

they were altogether in that walk of life,” he observed. “I fancy that

Denham once told me that his father was a corn merchant. Perhaps he

said a stockbroker. He came to grief, anyhow, as stockbrokers have a

way of doing. I’ve a great respect for Denham,” he added. The remark

sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive, and he was afraid that

there was nothing more to be said about Denham. He examined the tips

of his fingers carefully. “Cassandra’s grown into a very charming

young woman,” he started afresh. “Charming to look at, and charming to

talk to, though her historical knowledge is not altogether profound.

Another cup of tea?”

 

Mrs. Milvain had given her cup a little push, which seemed to indicate

some momentary displeasure. But she did not want any more tea.

 

“It is Cassandra that I have come about,” she began. “I am very sorry

to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She

has imposed upon your and Maggie’s goodness. She has behaved in a way

that would have seemed incredible—in this house of all houses—were

it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible.”

 

Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second.

 

“It all sounds very black,” he remarked urbanely, continuing his

examination of his finger-nails. “But I own I am completely in the

dark.”

 

Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short

sentences of extreme intensity.

 

“Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine

gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other

round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late

at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question

her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with

this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra’s conduct.”

 

There was another slight pause.

 

“Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me,”

Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably. “It’s a little too complicated for

me to take in all at once, I confess—and, if you won’t think me rude,

Celia, I think I’ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge.”

 

Mrs. Milvain rose at once.

 

“She has condoned Cassandra’s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph

Denham,” she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of

one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from

past discussions that the only way to counter her brother’s indolence

and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed

form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she

restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with

the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal.

 

She had certainly framed her remarks in such a way as to prevent her

brother from paying his call in the region of Knightsbridge. He had no

fears for Katharine, but there was a suspicion at the back of his mind

that Cassandra might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into

some foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations. His

wife was an erratic judge of the conventions; he himself was lazy; and

with Katharine absorbed, very naturally—Here he recalled, as well as

he could, the exact nature of the charge. “She has condoned

Cassandra’s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham.” From

which it appeared that Katharine was NOT absorbed, or which of them

was it that had entangled herself with Ralph Denham? From this maze of

absurdity Mr. Hilbery saw no way out until Katharine herself came to

his help, so that he applied himself, very philosophically on the

whole, to a book.

 

No sooner had he heard the young people come in and go upstairs than

he sent a maid to tell Miss Katharine that he wished to speak to her

in the study. She was slipping furs loosely onto the floor in the

drawing-room in front of the fire. They were all gathered round,

reluctant to part. The message from her father surprised Katharine,

and the others caught from her look, as she turned to go, a vague

sense of apprehension.

 

Mr. Hilbery was reassured by the sight of her. He congratulated

himself, he prided himself, upon possessing a daughter who had a sense

of responsibility and an understanding of life profound beyond her

years. Moreover, she was looking to-day unusual; he had come to take

her beauty for granted; now he remembered it and was surprised by it.

He thought instinctively that he had interrupted some happy hour of

hers with Rodney, and apologized.

 

“I’m sorry to bother you, my dear. I heard you come in, and thought

I’d better make myself disagreeable at once—as it seems,

unfortunately, that fathers are expected to make themselves

disagreeable. Now, your Aunt Celia has been to see me; your Aunt Celia

has taken it into her head apparently that you and Cassandra have

been—let us say a little foolish. This going about together—these

pleasant little parties—there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I

told her I saw no harm in it, but I should just like to hear from

yourself. Has Cassandra been left a little too much in the company of

Mr. Denham?”

 

Katharine did not reply at once, and Mr. Hilbery tapped the coal

encouragingly with the poker. Then she said, without embarrassment or

apology:

 

“I don’t see why I should answer Aunt Celia’s questions. I’ve told her

already that I won’t.”

 

Mr. Hilbery was relieved and secretly amused at the thought of the

interview, although he could not license such irreverence outwardly.

 

“Very good. Then you authorize me to tell her that she’s been

mistaken, and there was nothing but a little fun in it? You’ve no

doubt, Katharine, in your own mind? Cassandra is in our charge, and I

don’t intend that people should gossip about her. I suggest that you

should be a little more careful in future. Invite me to your next

entertainment.”

 

She did not respond, as he had hoped, with any affectionate or

humorous reply. She meditated, pondering something or other, and he

reflected that even his Katharine did not differ from other women in

the capacity to let things be. Or had she something to say?

 

“Have you a guilty conscience?” he inquired lightly. “Tell me,

Katharine,” he said more seriously, struck by something in the

expression of her eyes.

 

“I’ve been meaning to tell you for some time,” she said, “I’m not

going to marry William.”

 

“You’re not going—!” he exclaimed, dropping the poker in his immense

surprise. “Why? When? Explain yourself, Katharine.”

 

“Oh, some time ago—a week, perhaps more.” Katharine spoke hurriedly

and indifferently, as if the matter could no longer concern any one.

 

“But may I ask—why have I not been told of this—what do you mean by

it?”

 

“We don’t wish to be married—that’s all.”

 

“This is William’s wish as well as yours?”

 

“Oh, yes. We agree perfectly.”

 

Mr. Hilbery had seldom felt more completely at a loss. He thought that

Katharine was treating the matter with curious unconcern; she scarcely

seemed aware of the gravity of what she was saying; he did not

understand the position at all. But his desire to smooth everything

over comfortably came to his relief. No doubt there was some quarrel,

some whimsey on the part of William, who, though a good fellow, was a

little exacting sometimes—something that a woman could put right. But

though he inclined to take the easiest view of his responsibilities,

he cared too much for this daughter to let things be.

 

“I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I should like to

hear William’s side of the story,” he said irritably. “I think he

ought to have spoken to me in the first instance.”

 

“I wouldn’t let him,” said Katharine. “I know it must seem to you very

strange,” she added. “But I assure you, if you’d wait a little—until

mother comes back.”

 

This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery’s liking. But his

conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not

endure that his daughter’s conduct should be in any way considered

irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be

better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid

William the house, to pack Cassandra off home—for he was vaguely

conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was

becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties,

which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when

the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a

complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.

 

“Here’s William,” Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. “I’ve told

father we’re not engaged,” she said to him. “I’ve explained that I

prevented you from telling him.”

 

William’s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very

slightly in the direction of Mr. Hilbery, and stood erect, holding one

lapel of his coat, and gazing into the center of the fire. He waited

for Mr. Hilbery to speak.

 

Mr. Hilbery also assumed an appearance of formidable dignity. He had

risen to his feet, and now bent the top part of his body slightly

forward.

 

“I should like your account of this affair, Rodney—if Katharine no

longer prevents you from speaking.”

 

William waited two seconds at least.

 

“Our engagement is at an end,” he said, with the utmost stiffness.

 

“Has this been arrived at by your joint desire?”

 

After a perceptible pause William bent his head, and Katharine said,

as if by an afterthought:

 

“Oh, yes.”

 

Mr. Hilbery swayed to and fro, and moved his lips as if to utter

remarks which remained unspoken.

 

“I can only suggest that you should postpone any decision until the

effect of this misunderstanding has had time to wear off. You have now

known each other—” he began.

 

“There’s been no misunderstanding,” Katharine interposed. “Nothing at

all.” She moved a few paces across the room, as if she intended to

leave them. Her preoccupied naturalness