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 was in strange contrast to her father’s pomposity and to William’s military rigidity. He had not once raised his eyes. Katharine’s glance, on the other hand, ranged past the two gentlemen, along the books, over the tables, towards the door. She was paying the least possible attention, it seemed, to what was happening. Her father looked at her with a sudden clouding and troubling of his expression. Somehow his faith in her stability and sense was queerly shaken. He no longer felt that he could ultimately entrust her with the whole conduct of her own affairs after a superficial show of directing them. He felt, for the first time in many years, responsible for her.
“Look here, we must get to the bottom of this,” he said, dropping his formal manner and addressing Rodney as if Katharine were not present. “You’ve had some difference of opinion, eh? Take my word for it, most people go through this sort of thing when they’re engaged. I’ve seen more trouble come from long engagements than from any other form of human folly. Take my advice and put the whole matter out of your minds — both of you. I prescribe a complete abstinence from emotion. Visit some cheerful seaside resort, Rodney.”
He was struck by William’s appearance, which seemed to him to indicate profound feeling resolutely held in check. No doubt, he reflected, Katharine had been very trying, unconsciously trying, and had driven him to take up a position which was none of his willing. Mr. Hilbery certainly did not overrate William’s sufferings. No minutes in his life had hitherto extorted from him such intensity of anguish. He was now facing the consequences of his insanity. He must confess himself entirely and fundamentally other than Mr. Hilbery thought him. Everything was against him. Even the Sunday evening and the fire and the tranquil library scene were against him. Mr. Hilbery’s appeal to him as a man of the world was terribly against him. He was no longer a man of any world that Mr. Hilbery cared to recognize. But some power compelled him, as it had compelled him to come downstairs, to make his stand here and now, alone and unhelped by any one, without prospect of reward. He fumbled with various phrases; and then jerked out:
“I love Cassandra.”
Mr. Hilbery’s face turned a curious dull purple. He looked at his daughter. He nodded his head, as if to convey his silent command to her to leave the room; but either she did not notice it or preferred not to obey.
“You have the impudence—” Mr. Hilbery began, in a dull, low voice that he himself had never heard before, when there was a scuffling and exclaiming in the hall, and Cassandra, who appeared to be insisting against some dissuasion on the part of another, burst into the room.
“Uncle Trevor,” she exclaimed, “I insist upon telling you the truth!” She flung herself between Rodney and her uncle, as if she sought to intercept their blows. As her uncle stood perfectly still, looking very large and imposing, and as nobody spoke, she shrank back a little, and looked first at Katharine and then at Rodney. “You must know the truth,” she said, a little lamely.
“You have the impudence to tell me this in Katharine’s presence?” Mr. Hilbery continued, speaking with complete disregard of Cassandra’s interruption.
“I am aware, quite aware—” Rodney’s words, which were broken in sense, spoken after a pause, and with his eyes upon the ground, nevertheless expressed an astonishing amount of resolution. “I am quite aware what you must think of me,” he brought out, looking Mr. Hilbery directly in the eyes for the first time.
“I could express my views on the subject more fully if we were alone,” Mr. Hilbery returned.
“But you forget me,” said Katharine. She moved a little towards Rodney, and her movement seemed to testify mutely to her respect for him, and her alliance with him. “I think William has behaved perfectly rightly, and, after all, it is I who am concerned — I and Cassandra.”
Cassandra, too, gave an indescribably slight movement which seemed to draw the three of them into alliance together. Katharine’s tone and glance made Mr. Hilbery once more feel completely at a loss, and in addition, painfully and angrily obsolete; but in spite of an awful inner hollowness he was outwardly composed.
“Cassandra and Rodney have a perfect right to settle their own affairs according to their own wishes; but I see no reason why they should do so either in my room or in my house.... I wish to be quite clear on this point, however; you are no longer engaged to Rodney.”
He paused, and his pause seemed to signify that he was extremely thankful for his daughter’s deliverance.
Cassandra turned to Katharine, who drew her breath as if to speak and checked herself; Rodney, too, seemed to await some movement on her part; her father glanced at her as if he half anticipated some further revelation. She remained perfectly silent. In the silence they heard distinctly steps descending the staircase, and Katharine went straight to the door.
“Wait,” Mr. Hilbery commanded. “I wish to speak to you — alone,” he added.
She paused, holding the door ajar.
“I’ll come back,” she said, and as she spoke she opened the door and went out. They could hear her immediately speak to some one outside, though the words were inaudible.
Mr. Hilbery was left confronting the guilty couple, who remained standing as if they did not accept their dismissal, and the disappearance of Katharine had brought some change into the situation. So, in his secret heart, Mr. Hilbery felt that it had, for he could not explain his daughter’s behavior to his own satisfaction.
“Uncle Trevor,” Cassandra exclaimed impulsively, “don’t be angry, please. I couldn’t help it; I do beg you to forgive me.”
Her uncle still refused to acknowledge her identity, and still talked over her head as if she did not exist.
“I suppose you have communicated with the Otways,” he said to Rodney grimly.
“Uncle Trevor, we wanted to tell you,” Cassandra replied for him. “We waited—” she looked appealingly at Rodney, who shook his head ever so slightly.
“Yes? What were you waiting for?” her uncle asked sharply, looking at her at last.
The words died on her lips. It was apparent that she was straining her ears as if to catch some sound outside the room that would come to her help. He received no answer. He listened, too.
“This is a most unpleasant business for all parties,” he concluded, sinking into his chair again, hunching his shoulders and regarding the flames. He seemed to speak to himself, and Rodney and Cassandra looked at him in silence.
“Why don’t you sit down?” he said suddenly. He spoke gruffly, but the force of his anger was evidently spent, or some preoccupation had turned his mood to other regions. While Cassandra accepted his invitation, Rodney remained standing.
“I think Cassandra can explain matters better in my absence,” he said, and left the room, Mr. Hilbery giving his assent by a slight nod of the head.
Meanwhile, in the dining-room next door, Denham and Katharine were once more seated at the mahogany table. They seemed to be continuing a conversation broken off in the middle, as if each remembered the precise point at which they had been interrupted, and was eager to go on as quickly as possible. Katharine, having interposed a short account of the interview with her father, Denham made no comment, but said:
“Anyhow, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t see each other.”
“Or stay together. It’s only marriage that’s out of the question,” Katharine replied.
“But if I find myself coming to want you more and more?”
“If our lapses come more and more often?”
He sighed impatiently, and said nothing for a moment.
“But at least,” he renewed, “we’ve established the fact that my lapses are still in some odd way connected with you; yours have nothing to do with me. Katharine,” he added, his assumption of reason broken up by his agitation, “I assure you that we are in love — what other people call love. Remember that night. We had no doubts whatever then. We were absolutely happy for half an hour. You had no lapse until the day after; I had no lapse until yesterday morning. We’ve been happy at intervals all day until I — went off my head, and you, quite naturally, were bored.”
“Ah,” she exclaimed, as if the subject chafed her, “I can’t make you understand. It’s not boredom — I’m never bored. Reality — reality,” she ejaculated, tapping her finger upon the table as if to emphasize and perhaps explain her isolated utterance of this word. “I cease to be real to you. It’s the faces in a storm again — the vision in a hurricane. We come together for a moment and we part. It’s my fault, too. I’m as bad as you are — worse, perhaps.”
They were trying to explain, not for the first time, as their weary gestures and frequent interruptions showed, what in their common language they had christened their “lapses”; a constant source of distress to them, in the past few days, and the immediate reason why Ralph was on his way to leave the house when Katharine, listening anxiously, heard him and prevented him. What was the cause of these lapses? Either because Katharine looked more beautiful, or more strange, because she wore something different, or said something unexpected, Ralph’s sense of her romance welled up and overcame him either into silence or into inarticulate expressions, which Katharine, with unintentional but invariable perversity, interrupted or contradicted with some severity or assertion of prosaic fact. Then the vision disappeared, and Ralph expressed vehemently in his turn the conviction that he only loved her shadow and cared nothing for her reality. If the lapse was on her side it took the form of gradual detachment until she became completely absorbed in her own thoughts, which carried her away with such intensity that she sharply resented any recall to her companion’s side. It was useless to assert that these trances were always originated by Ralph himself, however little in their later stages they had to do with him. The fact remained that she had no need of him and was very loath to be reminded of him. How, then, could they be in love? The fragmentary nature of their relationship was but too apparent.
Thus they sat depressed to silence at the dining-room table, oblivious of everything, while Rodney paced the drawing-room overhead in such agitation and exaltation of mind as he had never conceived possible, and Cassandra remained alone with her uncle. Ralph, at length, rose and walked gloomily to the window. He pressed close to the pane. Outside were truth and freedom and the immensity only to be apprehended by the mind in loneliness, and never communicated to another. What worse sacrilege was there than to attempt to violate what he perceived by seeking to impart it? Some movement behind him made him reflect that Katharine had the power, if she chose, to be in person what he dreamed of her spirit. He turned sharply to implore her help, when again he was struck cold by her look of distance, her expression of intentness upon some far object. As if conscious of his look upon her she rose and came to him, standing close by his side, and looking with him out into the dusky atmosphere. Their physical closeness was to him a bitter enough comment upon the distance between their minds. Yet distant as she was, her presence by his side transformed the world. He saw himself performing wonderful deeds of courage; saving the drowning, rescuing the forlorn. Impatient with this form of egotism, he could not shake off the conviction that somehow life was wonderful, romantic, a master worth serving so long as she stood there. He had no wish that she should speak; he did not look at her or touch her; she was apparently deep in her own thoughts and oblivious of his presence.
The door opened without their hearing the sound. Mr. Hilbery looked round the room, and for a moment failed to discover the two figures in the window. He started with displeasure when he saw them, and observed them keenly before he appeared able to make up his mind to say anything. He made a movement finally that warned them of his presence; they turned instantly. Without speaking, he beckoned to Katharine to come to him, and, keeping his eyes from the region of the room where Denham stood, he shepherded her in front of him back to the study. When Katharine was inside the room he shut the study door carefully behind him as if to secure himself from something that he disliked.
“Now, Katharine,” he said, taking up his stand in front of the fire, “you will, perhaps, have the kindness to explain—” She remained silent. “What inferences do you expect me to draw?” he said sharply.... “You tell me that you are not engaged to Rodney; I see you on what appear to be extremely intimate terms with another — with Ralph Denham. What am I to conclude? Are you,” he added, as she still said nothing, “engaged to Ralph Denham?”
“No,” she replied.
His sense of relief was great; he had been certain that her answer would have confirmed his suspicions, but that anxiety being set at rest, he was the more conscious of annoyance with her for her behavior.
“Then all I can say is that you’ve very strange ideas of the proper way to behave.... People have drawn certain conclusions, nor am I surprised.... The more I think of it the more inexplicable I find it,” he went on, his anger rising as he spoke. “Why am I left in ignorance of what is going on in my own house? Why am I left to hear of these events for the first time from my sister? Most disagreeable — most upsetting. How I’m to explain to your Uncle Francis — but I wash my hands of it. Cassandra goes tomorrow. I forbid Rodney the house. As for the other young man, the sooner he makes himself scarce the better. After placing the most implicit trust in you, Katharine—” He broke off, disquieted by the ominous silence with which his words were received, and looked at his daughter with the curious doubt as to her state of mind which he had felt before, for the first time, this evening. He perceived once more that she was not attending to what he said, but was listening, and for a moment he, too, listened for sounds outside the room. His certainty that there was some understanding between Denham and Katharine returned, but with a most unpleasant suspicion that there was something illicit about it, as the whole position between the young people seemed to him gravely illicit.
“I’ll speak to Denham,” he said, on the impulse of his suspicion, moving as if to go.
“I shall come with you,” Katharine said instantly, starting forward.
“You will stay here,” said her father.
“What are you going to say to him?” she asked.
“I suppose I may say what I like in my own house?” he returned.
“Then I go, too,” she replied.
At these words, which seemed to imply a determination to go — to go for ever, Mr. Hilbery returned to his position in front of the fire, and began swaying slightly from side to side without for the moment making any remark.
“I understood you to say that you were not engaged to him,” he said at length, fixing his eyes upon his daughter.
“We are not engaged,” she said.
“It should be a matter of indifference to you, then, whether he comes here or not — I will not have you listening to other things when I am speaking to you!” he broke off angrily, perceiving a slight movement on her part to one side. “Answer me frankly, what is your relationship with this young man?”
“Nothing that I can explain to a third person,” she said obstinately.
“I will have no more of these equivocations,” he replied.
“I refuse to explain,” she returned, and as she said it the front door banged to. “There!” she exclaimed. “He is gone!” She flashed such a look of fiery indignation at her father that he lost his self-control for a moment.
“For God’s sake, Katharine, control yourself!” he cried.
She looked for a moment like a wild animal caged in a c
ivilized dwelling-place. She glanced over the walls covered with books, as if for a second she had forgotten the position of the door. Then she made as if to go, but her father laid his hand upon her shoulder. He compelled her to sit down.
“These emotions have been very upsetting, naturally,” he said. His manner had regained all its suavity, and he spoke with a soothing assumption of paternal authority. “You’ve been placed in a very difficult position, as I understand from Cassandra. Now let us come to terms; we will leave these agitating questions in peace for the present. Meanwhile, let us try to behave like civilized beings. Let us read Sir Walter Scott. What d’you say to ‘The Antiquary,’ eh? Or ‘The Bride of Lammermoor’?”
He made his own choice, and before his daughter could protest or make her escape, she found herself being turned by the agency of Sir Walter Scott into a civilized human being.
Yet Mr. Hilbery had grave doubts, as he read, whether the process was more than skin-deep. Civilization had been very profoundly and unpleasantly overthrown that evening; the extent of the ruin was still undetermined; he had lost his temper, a physical disaster not to be matched for the space of ten years or so; and his own condition urgently required soothing and renovating at the hands of the classics. His house was in a state of revolution; he had a vision of unpleasant encounters on the staircase; his meals would be poisoned for days to come; was literature itself a specific against such disagreeables? A note of hollowness was in his voice as he read.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Considering that Mr. Hilbery lived in a house which was accurately numbered in order with its fellows, and that he filled up forms, paid rent, and had seven more years of tenancy to run, he had an excuse for laying down laws for the conduct of those who lived in his house, and this excuse, though profoundly inadequate, he found useful during the interregnum of civilization with which he now found himself faced. In obedience to those laws, Rodney disappeared; Cassandra was dispatched to catch the eleven-thirty on Monday morning; Denham was seen no more; so that only Katharine, the lawful occupant of the upper rooms, remained, and Mr. Hilbery thought himself competent to see that she did nothing further to compromise herself. As he bade her good morning next day he was aware that he knew nothing of what she was thinking, but, as he reflected with some bitterness, even this was an advance upon the ignorance of the previous mornings. He went to his study, wrote, tore up, and wrote again a letter to his wife, asking her to come back on account of domestic difficulties which he specified at first, but in a later draft more discreetly left unspecified. Even if she started the very moment that she got it, he reflected, she would not be home till Tuesday night, and he counted lugubriously the number of hours that he would have to spend in a position of detestable authority alone with his daughter.
Complete Works of Virginia Woolf Page 89
