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

might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into some foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations. His wife was an erratic judge of the conventions; he himself was lazy; and with Katharine absorbed, very naturally⁠—Here he recalled, as well as he could, the exact nature of the charge. “She has condoned Cassandra’s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham.” From which it appeared that Katharine was not absorbed, or which of them was it that had entangled herself with Ralph Denham? From this maze of absurdity Mr. Hilbery saw no way out until Katharine herself came to his help, so that he applied himself, very philosophically on the whole, to a book.

No sooner had he heard the young people come in and go upstairs than he sent a maid to tell Miss Katharine that he wished to speak to her in the study. She was slipping furs loosely onto the floor in the drawing-room in front of the fire. They were all gathered round, reluctant to part. The message from her father surprised Katharine, and the others caught from her look, as she turned to go, a vague sense of apprehension.

Mr. Hilbery was reassured by the sight of her. He congratulated himself, he prided himself, upon possessing a daughter who had a sense of responsibility and an understanding of life profound beyond her years. Moreover, she was looking today unusual; he had come to take her beauty for granted; now he remembered it and was surprised by it. He thought instinctively that he had interrupted some happy hour of hers with Rodney, and apologized.

“I’m sorry to bother you, my dear. I heard you come in, and thought I’d better make myself disagreeable at once⁠—as it seems, unfortunately, that fathers are expected to make themselves disagreeable. Now, your Aunt Celia has been to see me; your Aunt Celia has taken it into her head apparently that you and Cassandra have been⁠—let us say a little foolish. This going about together⁠—these pleasant little parties⁠—there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I told her I saw no harm in it, but I should just like to hear from yourself. Has Cassandra been left a little too much in the company of Mr. Denham?”

Katharine did not reply at once, and Mr. Hilbery tapped the coal encouragingly with the poker. Then she said, without embarrassment or apology:

“I don’t see why I should answer Aunt Celia’s questions. I’ve told her already that I won’t.”

Mr. Hilbery was relieved and secretly amused at the thought of the interview, although he could not license such irreverence outwardly.

“Very good. Then you authorize me to tell her that she’s been mistaken, and there was nothing but a little fun in it? You’ve no doubt, Katharine, in your own mind? Cassandra is in our charge, and I don’t intend that people should gossip about her. I suggest that you should be a little more careful in future. Invite me to your next entertainment.”

She did not respond, as he had hoped, with any affectionate or humorous reply. She meditated, pondering something or other, and he reflected that even his Katharine did not differ from other women in the capacity to let things be. Or had she something to say?

“Have you a guilty conscience?” he inquired lightly. “Tell me, Katharine,” he said more seriously, struck by something in the expression of her eyes.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you for some time,” she said, “I’m not going to marry William.”

“You’re not going⁠—!” he exclaimed, dropping the poker in his immense surprise. “Why? When? Explain yourself, Katharine.”

“Oh, some time ago⁠—a week, perhaps more.” Katharine spoke hurriedly and indifferently, as if the matter could no longer concern anyone.

“But may I ask⁠—why have I not been told of this⁠—what do you mean by it?”

“We don’t wish to be married⁠—that’s all.”

“This is William’s wish as well as yours?”

“Oh, yes. We agree perfectly.”

Mr. Hilbery had seldom felt more completely at a loss. He thought that Katharine was treating the matter with curious unconcern; she scarcely seemed aware of the gravity of what she was saying; he did not understand the position at all. But his desire to smooth everything over comfortably came to his relief. No doubt there was some quarrel, some whimsey on the part of William, who, though a good fellow, was a little exacting sometimes⁠—something that a woman could put right. But though he inclined to take the easiest view of his responsibilities, he cared too much for this daughter to let things be.

“I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I should like to hear William’s side of the story,” he said irritably. “I think he ought to have spoken to me in the first instance.”

“I wouldn’t let him,” said Katharine. “I know it must seem to you very strange,” she added. “But I assure you, if you’d wait a little⁠—until mother comes back.”

This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery’s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter’s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home⁠—for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction, too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.

“Here’s William,” Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. “I’ve told father we’re not engaged,” she said to him. “I’ve explained that I prevented you from telling him.”

William’s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr. Hilbery, and stood erect, holding one lapel of his coat, and gazing into the center of the fire. He waited for Mr. Hilbery to speak.

Mr. Hilbery also assumed an appearance of formidable dignity. He had