Night and Day by Virginia Woolf
CHAPTER XXIX
Between twelve and one that Sunday night Katharine lay in bed, notasleep, but in that twilight region where a detached and humorous viewof our own lot is possible; or if we must be serious, our seriousness istempered by the swift oncome of slumber and oblivion. She saw the formsof Ralph, William, Cassandra, and herself, as if they were all equallyunsubstantial, and, in putting off reality, had gained a kind of dignitywhich rested upon each impartially. Thus rid of any uncomfortable warmthof partisanship or load of obligation, she was dropping off to sleepwhen a light tap sounded upon her door. A moment later Cassandra stoodbeside her, holding a candle and speaking in the low tones proper to thetime of night.
"Are you awake, Katharine?"
"Yes, I'm awake. What is it?"
She roused herself, sat up, and asked what in Heaven's name Cassandrawas doing?
"I couldn't sleep, and I thought I'd come and speak to you--only for amoment, though. I'm going home to-morrow."
"Home? Why, what has happened?"
"Something happened to-day which makes it impossible for me to stayhere."
Cassandra spoke formally, almost solemnly; the announcement was clearlyprepared and marked a crisis of the utmost gravity. She continued whatseemed to be part of a set speech.
"I have decided to tell you the whole truth, Katharine. William allowedhimself to behave in a way which made me extremely uncomfortableto-day."
Katharine seemed to waken completely, and at once to be in control ofherself.
"At the Zoo?" she asked.
"No, on the way home. When we had tea."
As if foreseeing that the interview might be long, and the night chilly,Katharine advised Cassandra to wrap herself in a quilt. Cassandra did sowith unbroken solemnity.
"There's a train at eleven," she said. "I shall tell Aunt Maggie thatI have to go suddenly.... I shall make Violet's visit an excuse. But,after thinking it over, I don't see how I can go without telling you thetruth."
She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine's direction. Therewas a slight pause.
"But I don't see the least reason why you should go," said Katharineeventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandraglanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was eitherindignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed,with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, tobe thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.
"Because I can't allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandrareplied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged tosome one else."
"But you like him, don't you?" Katharine inquired.
"That's got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "Iconsider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful."
This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; andhaving spoken it she was left unprovided with any more to say in thatparticular style. When Katharine remarked:
"I should say it had everything to do with it," Cassandra'sself-possession deserted her.
"I don't understand you in the least, Katharine. How can you behave asyou behave? Ever since I came here I've been amazed by you!"
"You've enjoyed yourself, haven't you?" Katharine asked.
"Yes, I have," Cassandra admitted.
"Anyhow, my behavior hasn't spoiled your visit."
"No," Cassandra allowed once more. She was completely at a loss. In herforecast of the interview she had taken it for granted that Katharine,after an outburst of incredulity, would agree that Cassandra must returnhome as soon as possible. But Katharine, on the contrary, accepted herstatement at once, seemed neither shocked nor surprised, and merelylooked rather more thoughtful than usual. From being a mature womancharged with an important mission, Cassandra shrunk to the stature of aninexperienced child.
"Do you think I've been very foolish about it?" she asked.
Katharine made no answer, but still sat deliberating silently, and acertain feeling of alarm took possession of Cassandra. Perhaps herwords had struck far deeper than she had thought, into depths beyondher reach, as so much of Katharine was beyond her reach. She thoughtsuddenly that she had been playing with very dangerous tools.
Looking at her at length, Katharine asked slowly, as if she found thequestion very difficult to ask.
"But do you care for William?"
She marked the agitation and bewilderment of the girl's expression, andhow she looked away from her.
"Do you mean, am I in love with him?" Cassandra asked, breathingquickly, and nervously moving her hands.
"Yes, in love with him," Katharine repeated.
"How can I love the man you're engaged to marry?" Cassandra burst out.
"He may be in love with you."
"I don't think you've any right to say such things, Katharine,"Cassandra exclaimed. "Why do you say them? Don't you mind in the leasthow William behaves to other women? If I were engaged, I couldn't bearit!"
"We're not engaged," said Katharine, after a pause.
"Katharine!" Cassandra cried.
"No, we're not engaged," Katharine repeated. "But no one knows it butourselves."
"But why--I don't understand--you're not engaged!" Cassandra said again."Oh, that explains it! You're not in love with him! You don't want tomarry him!"
"We aren't in love with each other any longer," said Katharine, as ifdisposing of something for ever and ever.
"How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you are, Katharine,"Cassandra said, her whole body and voice seeming to fall and collapsetogether, and no trace of anger or excitement remaining, but only adreamy quietude.
"You're not in love with him?"
"But I love him," said Katharine.
Cassandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the revelation, forsome little while longer. Nor did Katharine speak. Her attitude wasthat of some one who wishes to be concealed as much as possible fromobservation. She sighed profoundly; she was absolutely silent, andapparently overcome by her thoughts.
"D'you know what time it is?" she said at length, and shook her pillow,as if making ready for sleep.
Cassandra rose obediently, and once more took up her candle. Perhaps thewhite dressing-gown, and the loosened hair, and something unseeing inthe expression of the eyes gave her a likeness to a woman walking in hersleep. Katharine, at least, thought so.
"There's no reason why I should go home, then?" Cassandra said, pausing."Unless you want me to go, Katharine? What DO you want me to do?"
For the first time their eyes met.
"You wanted us to fall in love," Cassandra exclaimed, as if she read thecertainty there. But as she looked she saw a sight that surprised her.The tears rose slowly in Katharine's eyes and stood there, brimmingbut contained--the tears of some profound emotion, happiness, grief,renunciation an emotion so complex in its nature that to express it wasimpossible, and Cassandra, bending her head and receiving the tears uponher cheek, accepted them in silence as the consecration of her love.
"Please, miss," said the maid, about eleven o'clock on the followingmorning, "Mrs. Milvain is in the kitchen."
A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from thecountry, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room,was sorting them while Cassandra watched her from an arm-chair, andabsent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted.The maid's message had a curious effect upon Katharine.
She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, saidemphatically and even tragically:
"You know what that means."
Cassandra had understood nothing.
"Aunt Celia is in the kitchen," Katharine repeated.
"Why in the kitchen?" Cassandra asked, not unnaturally.
"Probably because she's discovered something," Katharine replied.Cassandra's thoughts flew to the subject of her preoccupation.
"About us?" she inquired.
"Heaven knows," Katharine replied. "I s
The sternness with which this was said suggested that to bring AuntCelia upstairs was, for some reason, a disciplinary measure.
"For goodness' sake, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed, jumping from herchair and showing signs of agitation, "don't be rash. Don't let hersuspect. Remember, nothing's certain--"
Katharine assured her by nodding her head several times, but the mannerin which she left the room was not calculated to inspire completeconfidence in her diplomacy.
Mrs. Milvain was sitting, or rather perching, upon the edge of a chairin the servants' room. Whether there was any sound reason for her choiceof a subterranean chamber, or whether it corresponded with the spirit ofher quest, Mrs. Milvain invariably came in by the back door and satin the servants' room when she was engaged in confidential familytransactions. The ostensible reason she gave was that neither Mr. norMrs. Hilbery should be disturbed. But, in truth, Mrs. Milvain dependedeven more than most elderly women of her generation upon the deliciousemotions of intimacy, agony, and secrecy, and the additional thrillprovided by the basement was one not lightly to be forfeited. Sheprotested almost plaintively when Katharine proposed to go upstairs.
"I've something that I want to say to you in PRIVATE," she said,hesitating reluctantly upon the threshold of her ambush.
"The drawing-room is empty--"
"But we might meet your mother upon the stairs. We might disturb yourfather," Mrs. Milvain objected, taking the precaution to speak in awhisper already.
But as Katharine's presence was absolutely necessary to the successof the interview, and as Katharine obstinately receded up the kitchenstairs, Mrs. Milvain had no course but to follow her. She glancedfurtively about her as she proceeded upstairs, drew her skirts together,and stepped with circumspection past all doors, whether they were openor shut.
"Nobody will overhear us?" she murmured, when the comparative sanctuaryof the drawing-room had been reached. "I see that I have interruptedyou," she added, glancing at the flowers strewn upon the floor. Amoment later she inquired, "Was some one sitting with you?" noticing ahandkerchief that Cassandra had dropped in her flight.
"Cassandra was helping me to put the flowers in water," said Katharine,and she spoke so firmly and clearly that Mrs. Milvain glanced nervouslyat the main door and then at the curtain which divided the little roomwith the relics from the drawing-room.
"Ah, Cassandra is still with you," she remarked. "And did William sendyou those lovely flowers?"
Katharine sat down opposite her aunt and said neither yes nor no. Shelooked past her, and it might have been thought that she was consideringvery critically the pattern of the curtains. Another advantage ofthe basement, from Mrs. Milvain's point of view, was that it made itnecessary to sit very close together, and the light was dim comparedwith that which now poured through three windows upon Katharine andthe basket of flowers, and gave even the slight angular figure of Mrs.Milvain herself a halo of gold.
"They're from Stogdon House," said Katharine abruptly, with a littlejerk of her head.
Mrs. Milvain felt that it would be easier to tell her niece whatshe wished to say if they were actually in physical contact, for thespiritual distance between them was formidable. Katharine, however, madeno overtures, and Mrs. Milvain, who was possessed of rash but heroiccourage, plunged without preface:
"People are talking about you, Katharine. That is why I have come thismorning. You forgive me for saying what I'd much rather not say? What Isay is only for your own sake, my child."
"There's nothing to forgive yet, Aunt Celia," said Katharine, withapparent good humor.
"People are saying that William goes everywhere with you and Cassandra,and that he is always paying her attentions. At the Markhams' dance hesat out five dances with her. At the Zoo they were seen alone together.They left together. They never came back here till seven in the evening.But that is not all. They say his manner is very marked--he is quitedifferent when she is there."
Mrs. Milvain, whose words had run themselves together, and whose voicehad raised its tone almost to one of protest, here ceased, and lookedintently at Katharine, as if to judge the effect of her communication. Aslight rigidity had passed over Katharine's face. Her lips were pressedtogether; her eyes were contracted, and they were still fixed upon thecurtain. These superficial changes covered an extreme inner loathingsuch as might follow the display of some hideous or indecent spectacle.The indecent spectacle was her own action beheld for the first time fromthe outside; her aunt's words made her realize how infinitely repulsivethe body of life is without its soul.
"Well?" she said at length.
Mrs. Milvain made a gesture as if to bring her closer, but it was notreturned.
"We all know how good you are--how unselfish--how you sacrifice yourselfto others. But you've been too unselfish, Katharine. You have madeCassandra happy, and she has taken advantage of your goodness."
"I don't understand, Aunt Celia," said Katharine. "What has Cassandradone?"
"Cassandra has behaved in a way that I could not have thought possible,"said Mrs. Milvain warmly. "She has been utterly selfish--utterlyheartless. I must speak to her before I go."
"I don't understand," Katharine persisted.
Mrs. Milvain looked at her. Was it possible that Katharine reallydoubted? That there was something that Mrs. Milvain herself did notunderstand? She braced herself, and pronounced the tremendous words:
"Cassandra has stolen William's love."
Still the words seemed to have curiously little effect.
"Do you mean," said Katharine, "that he has fallen in love with her?"
"There are ways of MAKING men fall in love with one, Katharine."
Katharine remained silent. The silence alarmed Mrs. Milvain, and shebegan hurriedly:
"Nothing would have made me say these things but your own good. I havenot wished to interfere; I have not wished to give you pain. I am auseless old woman. I have no children of my own. I only want to see youhappy, Katharine."
Again she stretched forth her arms, but they remained empty.
"You are not going to say these things to Cassandra," said Katharinesuddenly. "You've said them to me; that's enough."
Katharine spoke so low and with such restraint that Mrs. Milvain hadto strain to catch her words, and when she heard them she was dazed bythem.
"I've made you angry! I knew I should!" she exclaimed. She quivered, anda kind of sob shook her; but even to have made Katharine angry was somerelief, and allowed her to feel some of the agreeable sensations ofmartyrdom.
"Yes," said Katharine, standing up, "I'm so angry that I don't wantto say anything more. I think you'd better go, Aunt Celia. We don'tunderstand each other."
At these words Mrs. Milvain looked for a moment terribly apprehensive;she glanced at her niece's face, but read no pity there, whereuponshe folded her hands upon a black velvet bag which she carried in anattitude that was almost one of prayer. Whatever divinity she prayed to,if pray she did, at any rate she recovered her dignity in a singular wayand faced her niece.
"Married love," she said slowly and with emphasis upon every word, "isthe most sacred of all loves. The love of husband and wife is the mostholy we know. That is the lesson Mamma's children learnt from her; thatis what they can never forget. I have tried to speak as she would havewished her daughter to speak. You are her grandchild."
Katharine seemed to judge this defence upon its merits, and then toconvict it of falsity.
"I don't see that there is any excuse for your behavior," she said.
At these words Mrs. Milvain rose and stood for a moment beside herniece. She had never met with such treatment before, and she did notknow with what weapons to break down the terrible wall of resistanceoffered her by one who, by virtue of youth and beauty and sex, shouldhave been all tears and supplications. But Mrs. Milvain herself wasobstinate; upon a matter of this kind she could not admit that she waseither beaten or mistaken. She beheld h
"These are for you, Katharine."
Katharine took them with a glance that Mrs. Milvain did not fail tointercept. But with all her experience, she did not know what to make ofit. She watched anxiously for further illumination. William greeted herwithout obvious sign of guilt, and, explaining that he had a holiday,both he and Katharine seemed to take it for granted that his holidayshould be celebrated with flowers and spent in Cheyne Walk. A pausefollowed; that, too, was natural; and Mrs. Milvain began to feel thatshe laid herself open to a charge of selfishness if she stayed. Themere presence of a young man had altered her disposition curiously, andfilled her with a desire for a scene which should end in an emotionalforgiveness. She would have given much to clasp both nephew and niecein her arms. But she could not flatter herself that any hope of thecustomary exaltation remained.
"I must go," she said, and she was conscious of an extreme flatness ofspirit.
Neither of them said anything to stop her. William politely escorted herdownstairs, and somehow, amongst her protests and embarrassments, Mrs.Milvain forgot to say good-bye to Katharine. She departed, murmuringwords about masses of flowers and a drawing-room always beautiful evenin the depths of winter.
William came back to Katharine; he found her standing where he had lefther.
"I've come to be forgiven," he said. "Our quarrel was perfectly hatefulto me. I've not slept all night. You're not angry with me, are you,Katharine?"
She could not bring herself to answer him until she had rid her mind ofthe impression that her aunt had made on her. It seemed to her that thevery flowers were contaminated, and Cassandra's pocket-handkerchief, forMrs. Milvain had used them for evidence in her investigations.
"She's been spying upon us," she said, "following us about London,overhearing what people are saying--"
"Mrs. Milvain?" Rodney exclaimed. "What has she told you?"
His air of open confidence entirely vanished.
"Oh, people are saying that you're in love with Cassandra, and that youdon't care for me."
"They have seen us?" he asked.
"Everything we've done for a fortnight has been seen."
"I told you that would happen!" he exclaimed.
He walked to the window in evident perturbation. Katharine was tooindignant to attend to him. She was swept away by the force of her ownanger. Clasping Rodney's flowers, she stood upright and motionless.
Rodney turned away from the window.
"It's all been a mistake," he said. "I blame myself for it. I shouldhave known better. I let you persuade me in a moment of madness. I begyou to forget my insanity, Katharine."
"She wished even to persecute Cassandra!" Katharine burst out, notlistening to him. "She threatened to speak to her. She's capable ofit--she's capable of anything!"
"Mrs. Milvain is not tactful, I know, but you exaggerate, Katharine.People are talking about us. She was right to tell us. It only confirmsmy own feeling--the position is monstrous."
At length Katharine realized some part of what he meant.
"You don't mean that this influences you, William?" she asked inamazement.
"It does," he said, flushing. "It's intensely disagreeable to me. Ican't endure that people should gossip about us. And then there's yourcousin--Cassandra--" He paused in embarrassment.
"I came here this morning, Katharine," he resumed, with a change ofvoice, "to ask you to forget my folly, my bad temper, my inconceivablebehavior. I came, Katharine, to ask whether we can't return to theposition we were in before this--this season of lunacy. Will you take meback, Katharine, once more and for ever?"
No doubt her beauty, intensified by emotion and enhanced by the flowersof bright color and strange shape which she carried wrought upon Rodney,and had its share in bestowing upon her the old romance. But a lessnoble passion worked in him, too; he was inflamed by jealousy. Histentative offer of affection had been rudely and, as he thought,completely repulsed by Cassandra on the preceding day. Denham'sconfession was in his mind. And ultimately, Katharine's dominion overhim was of the sort that the fevers of the night cannot exorcise.
"I was as much to blame as you were yesterday," she said gently,disregarding his question. "I confess, William, the sight of you andCassandra together made me jealous, and I couldn't control myself. Ilaughed at you, I know."
"You jealous!" William exclaimed. "I assure you, Katharine, you've notthe slightest reason to be jealous. Cassandra dislikes me, so far as shefeels about me at all. I was foolish enough to try to explain the natureof our relationship. I couldn't resist telling her what I supposedmyself to feel for her. She refused to listen, very rightly. But sheleft me in no doubt of her scorn."
Katharine hesitated. She was confused, agitated, physically tired, andhad already to reckon with the violent feeling of dislike aroused by heraunt which still vibrated through all the rest of her feelings. She sankinto a chair and dropped her flowers upon her lap.
"She charmed me," Rodney continued. "I thought I loved her. But that'sa thing of the past. It's all over, Katharine. It was a dream--anhallucination. We were both equally to blame, but no harm's done if youbelieve how truly I care for you. Say you believe me!"
He stood over her, as if in readiness to seize the first sign of herassent. Precisely at that moment, owing, perhaps, to her vicissitudesof feeling, all sense of love left her, as in a moment a mist lifts fromthe earth. And when the mist departed a skeleton world and blanknessalone remained--a terrible prospect for the eyes of the living tobehold. He saw the look of terror in her face, and without understandingits origin, took her hand in his. With the sense of companionshipreturned a desire, like that of a child for shelter, to accept what hehad to offer her--and at that moment it seemed that he offered her theonly thing that could make it tolerable to live. She let him press hislips to her cheek, and leant her head upon his arm. It was the moment ofhis triumph. It was the only moment in which she belonged to him and wasdependent upon his protection.
"Yes, yes, yes," he murmured, "you accept me, Katharine. You love me."
For a moment she remained silent. He then heard her murmur:
"Cassandra loves you more than I do."
"Cassandra?" he whispered.
"She loves you," Katharine repeated. She raised herself and repeated thesentence yet a third time. "She loves you."
William slowly raised himself. He believed instinctively what Katharinesaid, but what it meant to him he was unable to understand. CouldCassandra love him? Could she have told Katharine that she loved him?The desire to know the truth of this was urgent, unknown though theconsequences might be. The thrill of excitement associated with thethought of Cassandra once more took possession of him. No longer was itthe excitement of anticipation and ignorance; it was the excitementof something greater than a possibility, for now he knew her and hadmeasure of the sympathy between them. But who could give him certainty?Could Katharine, Katharine who had lately lain in his arms, Katharineherself the most admired of women? He looked at her, with doubt, andwith anxiety, but said nothing.
"Yes, yes," she said, interpreting his wish for assurance, "it's true. Iknow what she feels for you."
"She loves me?"
Katharine nodded.
"Ah, but who knows what I feel? How can I be sure of my feeling myself?Ten minutes ago I asked
He clenched his hands and turned away. He suddenly faced her anddemanded: "Tell me what you feel for Denham."
"For Ralph Denham?" she asked. "Yes!" she exclaimed, as if she had foundthe answer to some momentarily perplexing question. "You're jealousof me, William; but you're not in love with me. I'm jealous of you.Therefore, for both our sakes, I say, speak to Cassandra at once."
He tried to compose himself. He walked up and down the room; he pausedat the window and surveyed the flowers strewn upon the floor. Meanwhilehis desire to have Katharine's assurance confirmed became so insistentthat he could no longer deny the overmastering strength of his feelingfor Cassandra.
"You're right," he exclaimed, coming to a standstill and rapping hisknuckles sharply upon a small table carrying one slender vase. "I loveCassandra."
As he said this, the curtains hanging at the door of the little roomparted, and Cassandra herself stepped forth.
"I have overheard every word!" she exclaimed.
A pause succeeded this announcement. Rodney made a step forward andsaid:
"Then you know what I wish to ask you. Give me your answer--"
She put her hands before her face; she turned away and seemed to shrinkfrom both of them.
"What Katharine said," she murmured. "But," she added, raising her headwith a look of fear from the kiss with which he greeted her admission,"how frightfully difficult it all is! Our feelings, I mean--yours andmine and Katharine's. Katharine, tell me, are we doing right?"
"Right--of course we're doing right," William answered her, "if,after what you've heard, you can marry a man of such incomprehensibleconfusion, such deplorable--"
"Don't, William," Katharine interposed; "Cassandra has heard us; she canjudge what we are; she knows better than we could tell her."
But, still holding William's hand, questions and desires welled up inCassandra's heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celiablame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William reallylove her, for ever and ever, better than any one?
"I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can't share himeven with you."
"I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away fromwhere they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers.
"But you've shared with me," Cassandra said. "Why can't I share withyou? Why am I so mean? I know why it is," she added. "We understand eachother, William and I. You've never understood each other. You're toodifferent."
"I've never admired anybody more," William interposed.
"It's not that"--Cassandra tried to enlighten him--"it's understanding."
"Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?"
"Yes," Cassandra interposed. "You've asked her for sympathy, and she'snot sympathetic; you've wanted her to be practical, and she's notpractical. You've been selfish; you've been exacting--and so hasKatharine--but it wasn't anybody's fault."
Katharine had listened to this attempt at analysis with keen attention.Cassandra's words seemed to rub the old blurred image of life andfreshen it so marvelously that it looked new again. She turned toWilliam.
"It's quite true," she said. "It was nobody's fault."
"There are many things that he'll always come to you for," Cassandracontinued, still reading from her invisible book. "I accept that,Katharine. I shall never dispute it. I want to be generous as you'vebeen generous. But being in love makes it more difficult for me."
They were silent. At length William broke the silence.
"One thing I beg of you both," he said, and the old nervousness ofmanner returned as he glanced at Katharine. "We will never discuss thesematters again. It's not that I'm timid and conventional, as you think,Katharine. It's that it spoils things to discuss them; it unsettlespeople's minds; and now we're all so happy--"
Cassandra ratified this conclusion so far as she was concerned, andWilliam, after receiving the exquisite pleasure of her glance, with itsabsolute affection and trust, looked anxiously at Katharine.
"Yes, I'm happy," she assured him. "And I agree. We will never talkabout it again."
"Oh, Katharine, Katharine!" Cassandra cried, holding out her arms whilethe tears ran down her cheeks.