《夜与日》第144章

“Has　Mr。　Denham　called？”　
“Yes；　miss。”　
“Did　he　ask　for　me？”　
“Yes。　We　said　you　were　out；　miss。”　
“Did　he　leave　any　message？”　
“No。　He　went　away。　About　twenty　minutes　ago；　miss。”　
Katharine　hung　up　the　receiver。　She　walked　the　length　
of　the　room　in　such　acute　disappointment　that　she　did　
not　at　first　perceive　Mary’s　absence。　Then　she　called　in　a　
harsh　and　peremptory　tone：　
“Mary。”　
Mary　was　taking　off　her　outdoor　things　in　the　bedroom。　
She　heard　Katharine　call　her。　“Yes；”　she　said；　“I　shan’t　be　
a　moment。”　But　the　moment　prolonged　itself；　as　if　for　
some　reason　Mary　found　satisfaction　in　making　herself　
not　only　tidy；　but　seemly　and　ornamented。　A　stage　in　her　
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Virginia　Woolf　
life　had　been　acplished　in　the　last　months　which　left　
its　traces　for　ever　upon　her　bearing。　Youth；　and　the　bloom　
of　youth；　had　receded；　leaving　the　purpose　of　her　face　to　
show　itself　in　the　hollower　cheeks；　the　firmer　lips；　the　
eyes　no　longer　spontaneously　observing　at　random；　but　
narrowed　upon　an　end　which　was　not　near　at　hand。　This　
woman　was　now　a　serviceable　human　being；　mistress　of　
her　own　destiny；　and　thus；　by　some　bination　of　ideas；　
fit　to　be　adorned　with　the　dignity　of　silver　chains　and　
glowing　brooches。　She　came　in　at　her　leisure　and　asked：　
“Well；　did　you　get　an　answer？”　
“He　has　left　Chelsea　already；”　Katharine　replied。　
“Still；　he　won’t　be　home　yet；”　said　Mary。　
Katharine　was　once　more　irresistibly　drawn　to　gaze　upon　
an　imaginary　map　of　London；　to　follow　the　twists　and　
turns　of　unnamed　streets。　
“I’ll　ring　up　his　home　and　ask　whether　he’s　back。”　Mary　
crossed　to　the　telephone　and；　after　a　series　of　brief　remarks；　
announced：　
“No。　His　sister　says　he　hasn’t　e　back　yet。”　
“Ah！”　She　applied　her　ear　to　the　telephone　once　more。　
“They’ve　had　a　message。　He　won’t　be　back　to　dinner。”　
“Then　what　is　he　going　to　do？”　
Very　pale；　and　with　her　large　eyes　fixed　not　so　much　
upon　Mary　as　upon　vistas　of　unresponding　blankness；　
Katharine　addressed　herself　also　not　so　much　to　Mary　as　
to　the　unrelenting　spirit　which　now　appeared　to　mock　
her　from　every　quarter　of　her　survey。　
After　waiting　a　little　time　Mary　remarked　indifferently：　
“I　really　don’t　know。”　Slackly　lying　back　in　her　armchair；　
she　watched　the　little　flames　beginning　to　creep　
among　the　coals　indifferently；　as　if　they；　too；　were　very　
distant　and　indifferent。　
Katharine　looked　at　her　indignantly　and　rose。　
“Possibly　he　may　e　here；”　Mary　continued；　without　
altering　the　abstract　tone　of　her　voice。　“It　would　be　worth　
your　while　to　wait　if　you　want　to　see　him　tonight。”　She　
bent　forward　and　touched　the　wood；　so　that　the　flames　
slipped　in　between　the　interstices　of　the　coal。　
Katharine　reflected。　“I’ll　wait　half　an　hour；”　she　said。　
Mary　rose；　went　to　the　table；　spread　out　her　papers　
under　the　greenshaded　lamp　and；　with　an　action　that　
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Night　and　Day　
was　being　a　habit；　twisted　a　lock　of　hair　round　and　
round　in　her　fingers。　Once　she　looked　unperceived　at　her　
visitor；　who　never　moved；　who　sat　so　still；　with　eyes　so　
intent；　that　you　could　almost　fancy　that　she　was　watching　
something；　some　face　that　never　looked　up　at　her。　
Mary　found　herself　unable　to　go　on　writing。　She　turned　
her　eyes　away；　but　only　to　be　aware　of　the　presence　of　
what　Katharine　looked　at。　There　were　ghosts　in　the　room；　
and　one；　strangely　and　sadly；　was　the　ghost　of　herself。　
The　minutes　went　by。　
“What　would　be　the　time　now？”　said　Katharine　at　last。　
The　halfhour　was　not　quite　spent。　
“I’m　going　to　get　dinner　ready；”　said　Mary；　rising　from　
her　table。　
“Then　I’ll　go；”　said　Katharine。　
“Why　don’t　you　stay？　Where　are　you　going？”　
Katharine　looked　round　the　room；　conveying　her　uncertainty　
in　her　glance。　
“Perhaps　I　might　find　him；”　she　mused。　
“But　why　should　it　matter？　You’ll　see　him　another　day。”　
Mary　spoke；　and　intended　to　speak；　cruelly　enough。　
“I　was　wrong　to　e　here；”　Katharine　replied。　
Their　eyes　met　with　antagonism；　and　neither　flinched。　
“You　had　a　perfect　right　to　e　here；”　Mary　answered。　
A　loud　knocking　at　the　door　interrupted　them。　Mary　
went　to　open　it；　and　returning　with　some　note　or　parcel；　
Katharine　looked　away　so　that　Mary　might　not　read　her　
disappointment。　
“Of　course　you　had　a　right　to　e；”　Mary　repeated；　
laying　the　note　upon　the　table。　
“No；”　said　Katharine。　“Except　that　when　one’s　desperate　
one　has　a　sort　of　right。　I　am　desperate。　How　do　I　
know　what’s　happening　to　him　now？　He　may　do　anything。　
He　may　wander　about　the　streets　all　night。　Anything　may　
happen　to　him。”　
She　spoke　with　a　selfabandonment　that　Mary　had　never　
seen　in　her。　
“You　know　you　exaggerate；　you’re　talking　nonsense；”　
she　said　roughly。　
“Mary；　I　must　talk—I　must　tell　you—”　
“You　needn’t　tell　me　anything；”　Mary　interrupted　her。　
“Can’t　I　see　for　myself？”　
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Virginia　Woolf　
“No；　no；”　Katharine　exclaimed。　“It’s　not　that—”　
Her　look；　passing　beyond　Mary；　beyond　the　verge　of　the　
room　and　out　beyond　any　words　that　came　her　way；　wildly　
and　passionately；　convinced　Mary　that　she；　at　any　rate；　
could　not　follow　such　a　glance　to　its　end。　She　was　baffled；　
she　tried　to　think　herself　back　again　into　the　height　of　
her　love　for　Ralph。　Pressing　her　fingers　upon　her　eyelids；　
she　murmured：　
“You　forget　that　I　loved　him　too。　I　thought　I　knew　him。　
I　did　know　him。”　
And　yet；　what　had　she　known？　She　could　not　remember　
it　any　more。　She　pressed　her　eyeballs　until　they　struck　
stars　and　suns　into　her　darkness。　She　convinced　herself　
that　she　was　stirring　among　ashes。　She　desisted。　She　was　
astonished　at　her　discovery。　She　did　not　love　Ralph　any　
more。　She　looked　back　dazed　into　the　room；　and　her　eyes　
rested　upon　the　table　with　its　lamplit　papers。　The　steady　
radiance　seemed　for　a　second　to　have　its　counterpart　
within　her；　she　shut　her　eyes；　she　opened　them　and　looked　
at　the　lamp　again；　another　love　burnt　in　the　place　of　the　
old　one；　or　so；　in　a　momentary　glance　of　amazement；　she