Night and Day, Virginia Woolf [electronic book reader .txt] 📗

forgot his despair in wondering what thoughts now occupied her.

“You don’t believe me?” he said. His tone was humble, and made her smile at him.

“As far as I understand you⁠—but what should you advise me to do with this ring?” she asked, holding it out.

“I should advise you to let me keep it for you,” he replied, in the same tone of half-humorous gravity.

“After what you’ve said, I can hardly trust you⁠—unless you’ll unsay what you’ve said?”

“Very well. I’m not in love with you.”

“But I think you are in love with me.⁠ ⁠… As I am with you,” she added casually enough. “At least,” she said slipping her ring back to its old position, “what other word describes the state we’re in?”

She looked at him gravely and inquiringly, as if in search of help.

“It’s when I’m with you that I doubt it, not when I’m alone,” he stated.

“So I thought,” she replied.

In order to explain to her his state of mind, Ralph recounted his experience with the photograph, the letter, and the flower picked at Kew. She listened very seriously.

“And then you went raving about the streets,” she mused. “Well, it’s bad enough. But my state is worse than yours, because it hasn’t anything to do with facts. It’s an hallucination, pure and simple⁠—an intoxication.⁠ ⁠… One can be in love with pure reason?” she hazarded. “Because if you’re in love with a vision, I believe that that’s what I’m in love with.”

This conclusion seemed fantastic and profoundly unsatisfactory to Ralph, but after the astonishing variations of his own sentiments during the past half-hour he could not accuse her of fanciful exaggeration.

“Rodney seems to know his own mind well enough,” he said almost bitterly. The music, which had ceased, had now begun again, and the melody of Mozart seemed to express the easy and exquisite love of the two upstairs.

“Cassandra never doubted for a moment. But we⁠—” she glanced at him as if to ascertain his position, “we see each other only now and then⁠—”

“Like lights in a storm⁠—”

“In the midst of a hurricane,” she concluded, as the window shook beneath the pressure of the wind. They listened to the sound in silence.

Here the door opened with considerable hesitation, and Mrs. Hilbery’s head appeared, at first with an air of caution, but having made sure that she had admitted herself to the dining-room and not to some more unusual region, she came completely inside and seemed in no way taken aback by the sight she saw. She seemed, as usual, bound on some quest of her own which was interrupted pleasantly but strangely by running into one of those queer, unnecessary ceremonies that other people thought fit to indulge in.

“Please don’t let me interrupt you, Mr.⁠—” she was at a loss, as usual, for the name, and Katharine thought that she did not recognize him. “I hope you’ve found something nice to read,” she added, pointing to the book upon the table. “Byron⁠—ah, Byron. I’ve known people who knew Lord Byron,” she said.

Katharine, who had risen in some confusion, could not help smiling at the thought that her mother found it perfectly natural and desirable that her daughter should be reading Byron in the dining-room late at night alone with a strange young man. She blessed a disposition that was so convenient, and felt tenderly towards her mother and her mother’s eccentricities. But Ralph observed that although Mrs. Hilbery held the book so close to her eyes she was not reading a word.

“My dear mother, why aren’t you in bed?” Katharine exclaimed, changing astonishingly in the space of a minute to her usual condition of authoritative good sense. “Why are you wandering about?”

“I’m sure I should like your poetry better than I like Lord Byron’s,” said Mrs. Hilbery, addressing Ralph Denham.

“Mr. Denham doesn’t write poetry; he has written articles for father, for the Review,” Katharine said, as if prompting her memory.

“Oh dear! How dull!” Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed, with a sudden laugh that rather puzzled her daughter.

Ralph found that she had turned upon him a gaze that was at once very vague and very penetrating.

“But I’m sure you read poetry at night. I always judge by the expression of the eyes,” Mrs. Hilbery continued. (“The windows of the soul,” she added parenthetically.) “I don’t know much about the law,” she went on, “though many of my relations were lawyers. Some of them looked very handsome, too, in their wigs. But I think I do know a little about poetry,” she added. “And all the things that aren’t written down, but⁠—but⁠—” She waved her hand, as if to indicate the wealth of unwritten poetry all about them. “The night and the stars, the dawn coming up, the barges swimming past, the sun setting.⁠ ⁠… Ah dear,” she sighed, “well, the sunset is very lovely too. I sometimes think that poetry isn’t so much what we write as what we feel, Mr. Denham.”

During this speech of her mother’s Katharine had turned away, and Ralph felt that Mrs. Hilbery was talking to him apart, with a desire to ascertain something about him which she veiled purposely by the vagueness of her words. He felt curiously encouraged and heartened by the beam in her eye rather than by her actual words. From the distance of her age and sex she seemed to be waving to him, hailing him as a ship sinking beneath the horizon might wave its flag of greeting to another setting out upon the same voyage. He bent his head, saying nothing, but with a curious certainty that she had read an answer to her inquiry that satisfied her. At any rate, she rambled off into a description of the Law Courts which turned to a denunciation of English justice, which, according to her, imprisoned poor men who couldn’t pay their debts. “Tell me, shall we ever do without it all?” she asked, but at this point Katharine gently insisted that her mother should go to bed. Looking back from halfway up the staircase, Katharine seemed to see Denham’s eyes watching her