Night and Day by Virginia Woolf (good books for 8th graders .txt) 📕

CHAPTER XXX

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.”