《夜与日》第137章

You　have　yours　too？”　
“You’re　with　me　in　mine。　You’re　the　thing　I　make　up；　
you　see。”　
“Oh；　I　see；”　she　sighed。　“That’s　why　it’s　so　impossible。”　
She　turned　upon　him　almost　fiercely。　“You　must　try　to　
stop　it；”　she　said。　
“I　won’t；”　he　replied　roughly；　“because　I—”　He　stopped。　
He　realized　that　the　moment　had　e　to　impart　that　
news　of　the　utmost　importance　which　he　had　tried　to　
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Night　and　Day　
impart　to　Mary　Datchet；　to　Rodney　upon　the　Embankment；　
to　the　drunken　tramp　upon　the　seat。　How　should　
he　offer　it　to　Katharine？　He　looked　quickly　at　her。　He　saw　
that　she　was　only　half　attentive　to　him；　only　a　section　of　
her　was　exposed　to　him。　The　sight　roused　in　him　such　
desperation　that　he　had　much　ado　to　control　his　impulse　
to　rise　and　leave　the　house。　Her　hand　lay　loosely　curled　
upon　the　table。　He　seized　it　and　grasped　it　firmly　as　if　to　
make　sure　of　her　existence　and　of　his　own。　“Because　I　
love　you；　Katharine；”　he　said。　
Some　roundness　or　warmth　essential　to　that　statement　
was　absent　from　his　voice；　and　she　had　merely　to　shake　
her　head　very　slightly　for　him　to　drop　her　hand　and　turn　
away　in　shame　at　his　own　impotence。　He　thought　that　
she　had　detected　his　wish　to　leave　her。　She　had　discerned　
the　break　in　his　resolution；　the　blankness　in　the　heart　of　
his　vision。　It　was　true　that　he　had　been　happier　out　in　
the　street；　thinking　of　her；　than　now　that　he　was　in　the　
same　room　with　her。　He　looked　at　her　with　a　guilty　expression　
on　his　face。　But　her　look　expressed　neither　disappointment　
nor　reproach。　Her　pose　was　easy；　and　she　
seemed　to　give　effect　to　a　mood　of　quiet　speculation　by　
the　spinning　of　her　ruby　ring　upon　the　polished　table。　
Denham　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　halfhumorous　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。　
368　
Virginia　Woolf　
“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　halfhour　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　diningroom　and　not　to　some　more　unusual　region；　
she　came　pletely　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。　
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Night　and　Day　
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　diningroom　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　perating。　
“But　I’m　sure　you　read　poetry　at　night。　I　always　judge　
by　the　expression　of　the　eyes；”　Mrs。