Night and Day by Virginia Woolf (love story novels in english .txt) 📕

her shoulder and sob, while she parted his hair with her fingers and soothed him and said:

“There, there. Don’t cry! Tell me why you’re crying⁠—”; and they would clasp each other tight, and her arms would hold him like his mother’s. He felt that he was very lonely, and that he was afraid of the other people in the room.

“How damnable this all is!” he exclaimed abruptly.

“What are you talking about?” she replied, rather vaguely, still looking out of the window.

He resented this divided attention more than, perhaps, he knew, and he thought how Mary would soon be on her way to America.

“Mary,” he said, “I want to talk to you. Haven’t we nearly done? Why don’t they take away these plates?”

Mary felt his agitation without looking at him; she felt convinced that she knew what it was that he wished to say to her.

“They’ll come all in good time,” she said; and felt it necessary to display her extreme calmness by lifting a saltcellar and sweeping up a little heap of breadcrumbs.

“I want to apologize,” Ralph continued, not quite knowing what he was about to say, but feeling some curious instinct which urged him to commit himself irrevocably, and to prevent the moment of intimacy from passing.

“I think I’ve treated you very badly. That is, I’ve told you lies. Did you guess that I was lying to you? Once in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and again today on our walk. I am a liar, Mary. Did you know that? Do you think you do know me?”

“I think I do,” she said.

At this point the waiter changed their plates.

“It’s true I don’t want you to go to America,” he said, looking fixedly at the tablecloth. “In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly and damnably bad,” he said energetically, although forced to keep his voice low.

“If I weren’t a selfish beast I should tell you to have nothing more to do with me. And yet, Mary, in spite of the fact that I believe what I’m saying, I also believe that it’s good we should know each other⁠—the world being what it is, you see⁠—” and by a nod of his head he indicated the other occupants of the room, “for, of course, in an ideal state of things, in a decent community even, there’s no doubt you shouldn’t have anything to do with me⁠—seriously, that is.”

“You forget that I’m not an ideal character, either,” said Mary, in the same low and very earnest tones, which, in spite of being almost inaudible, surrounded their table with an atmosphere of concentration which was quite perceptible to the other diners, who glanced at them now and then with a queer mixture of kindness, amusement, and curiosity.

“I’m much more selfish than I let on, and I’m worldly a little⁠—more than you think, anyhow. I like bossing things⁠—perhaps that’s my greatest fault. I’ve none of your passion for⁠—” here she hesitated, and glanced at him, as if to ascertain what his passion was for⁠—“for the truth,” she added, as if she had found what she sought indisputably.

“I’ve told you I’m a liar,” Ralph repeated obstinately.

“Oh, in little things, I dare say,” she said impatiently. “But not in real ones, and that’s what matters. I dare say I’m more truthful than you are in small ways. But I could never care”⁠—she was surprised to find herself speaking the word, and had to force herself to speak it out⁠—“for anyone who was a liar in that way. I love the truth a certain amount⁠—a considerable amount⁠—but not in the way you love it.” Her voice sank, became inaudible, and wavered as if she could scarcely keep herself from tears.

“Good heavens!” Ralph exclaimed to himself. “She loves me! Why did I never see it before? She’s going to cry; no, but she can’t speak.”

The certainty overwhelmed him so that he scarcely knew what he was doing; the blood rushed to his cheeks, and although he had quite made up his mind to ask her to marry him, the certainty that she loved him seemed to change the situation so completely that he could not do it. He did not dare to look at her. If she cried, he did not know what he should do. It seemed to him that something of a terrible and devastating nature had happened. The waiter changed their plates once more.

In his agitation Ralph rose, turned his back upon Mary, and looked out of the window. The people in the street seemed to him only a dissolving and combining pattern of black particles; which, for the moment, represented very well the involuntary procession of feelings and thoughts which formed and dissolved in rapid succession in his own mind. At one moment he exulted in the thought that Mary loved him; at the next, it seemed that he was without feeling for her; her love was repulsive to him. Now he felt urged to marry her at once; now to disappear and never see her again. In order to control this disorderly race of thought he forced himself to read the name on the chemist’s shop directly opposite him; then to examine the objects in the shop windows, and then to focus his eyes exactly upon a little group of women looking in at the great windows of a large draper’s shop. This discipline having given him at least a superficial control of himself, he was about to turn and ask the waiter to bring the bill, when his eye was caught by a tall figure walking quickly along the opposite pavement⁠—a tall figure, upright, dark, and commanding, much detached from her surroundings. She held her gloves in her left hand, and the left hand was bare. All this Ralph noticed and enumerated and recognized before he put a name to the whole⁠—Katharine Hilbery. She seemed to be looking for somebody. Her eyes, in fact, scanned both sides of the street, and for one second were raised directly to the bow window