《夜与日》第155章

He　went　to　his　study；　wrote；　tore　up；　and　wrote　
again　a　letter　to　his　wife；　asking　her　to　e　back　on　
account　of　domestic　difficulties　which　he　specified　at　
first；　but　in　a　later　draft　more　discreetly　left　unspecified。　
Even　if　she　started　the　very　moment　that　she　got　it；　he　
reflected；　she　would　not　be　home　till　Tuesday　night；　and　
he　counted　lugubriously　the　number　of　hours　that　he　would　
have　to　spend　in　a　position　of　detestable　authority　alone　
with　his　daughter。　
What　was　she　doing　now；　he　wondered；　as　he　addressed　
the　envelope　to　his　wife。　He　could　not　control　the　telephone。　
He　could　not　play　the　spy。　She　might　be　making　
any　arrangements　she　chose。　Yet　the　thought　did　not　disturb　
him　so　much　as　the　strange；　unpleasant；　illicit　atmosphere　
of　the　whole　scene　with　the　young　people　the　night　
before。　His　sense　of　disfort　was　almost　physical。　
Had　he　known　it；　Katharine　was　far　enough　withdrawn；　
both　physically　and　spiritually；　from　the　telephone。　She　
sat　in　her　room　with　the　dictionaries　spreading　their　wide　
leaves　on　the　table　before　her；　and　all　the　pages　which　
they　had　concealed　for　so　many　years　arranged　in　a　pile。　
She　worked　with　the　steady　concentration　that　is　produced　
by　the　successful　effort　to　think　down　some　un
416　
Virginia　Woolf　
wele　thought　by　means　of　another　thought。　Having　
absorbed　the　unwele　thought；　her　mind　went　on　with　
additional　vigor；　derived　from　the　victory；　on　a　sheet　of　
paper　lines　of　figures　and　symbols　frequently　and　firmly　
written　down　marked　the　different　stages　of　its　progress。　
And　yet　it　was　broad　daylight；　there　were　sounds　of　knocking　
and　sweeping；　which　proved　that　living　people　were　
at　work　on　the　other　side　of　the　door；　and　the　door；　which　
could　be　thrown　open　in　a　second；　was　her　only　protection　
against　the　world。　But　she　had　somehow　risen　to　be　
mistress　in　her　own　kingdom；　assuming　her　sovereignty　
unconsciously。　
Steps　approached　her　unheard。　It　is　true　that　they　were　
steps　that　lingered；　divagated；　and　mounted　with　the　
deliberation　natural　to　one　past　sixty　whose　arms；　moreover；　
are　full　of　leaves　and　blossoms；　but　they　came　on　
steadily；　and　soon　a　tap　of　laurel　boughs　against　the　
door　arrested　Katharine’s　pencil　as　it　touched　the　page。　
She　did　not　move；　however；　and　sat　blankeyed　as　if　waiting　
for　the　interruption　to　cease。　Instead；　the　door　opened。　
At　first；　she　attached　no　meaning　to　the　moving　mass　of　
green　which　seemed　to　enter　the　room　independently　of　
any　human　agency。　Then　she　recognized　parts　of　her　
mother’s　face　and　person　behind　the　yellow　flowers　and　
soft　velvet　of　the　palmbuds。　
“From　Shakespeare’s　tomb！”　exclaimed　Mrs。　Hilbery；　
dropping　the　entire　mass　upon　the　floor；　with　a　gesture　
that　seemed　to　indicate　an　act　of　dedication。　Then　she　
flung　her　arms　wide　and　embraced　her　daughter。　
“Thank　God；　Katharine！”　she　exclaimed。　“Thank　God！”　
she　repeated。　
“You’ve　e　back？”　said　Katharine；　very　vaguely；　standing　
up　to　receive　the　embrace。　
Although　she　recognized　her　mother’s　presence；　she　was　
very　far　from　taking　part　in　the　scene；　and　yet　felt　it　to　
be　amazingly　appropriate　that　her　mother　should　be　there；　
thanking　God　emphatically　for　unknown　blessings；　and　
strewing　the　floor　with　flowers　and　leaves　from　
Shakespeare’s　tomb。　
“Nothing　else　matters　in　the　world！”　Mrs。　Hilbery　continued。　
“Names　aren’t　everything；　it’s　what　we　feel　that’s　
everything。　I　didn’t　want　silly；　kind；　interfering　letters。　I　
417　
Night　and　Day　
didn’t　want　your　father　to　tell　me。　I　knew　it　from　the　
first。　I　prayed　that　it　might　be　so。”　
“You　knew　it？”　Katharine　repeated　her　mother’s　words　
softly　and　vaguely；　looking　past　her。　“How　did　you　know　
it？”　She　began；　like　a　child；　to　finger　a　tassel　hanging　
from　her　mother’s　cloak。　
“The　first　evening　you　told　me；　Katharine。　Oh；　and　thousands　
of　times　—dinnerparties—talking　about　books—　
the　way　he　came　into　the　room—your　voice　when　you　
spoke　of　him。”　
Katharine　seemed　to　consider　each　of　these　proofs　separately。　
Then　she　said　gravely：　
“I’m　not　going　to　marry　William。　And　then　there’s　
Cassandra—”　
“Yes；　there’s　Cassandra；”　said　Mrs。　Hilbery。　“I　own　I　was　
a　little　grudging　at　first；　but；　after　all；　she　plays　the　
piano　so　beautifully。　Do　tell　me；　Katharine；”　she　asked　
impulsively；　“where　did　you　go　that　evening　she　played　
Mozart；　and　you　thought　I　was　asleep？”　
Katharine　recollected　with　difficulty。　
“To　Mary　Datchet’s；”　she　remembered。　
“Ah！”　said　Mrs。　Hilbery；　with　a　slight　note　of　disappointment　
in　her　voice。　“I　had　my　little　romance—my　
little　speculation。”　She　looked　at　her　daughter。　Katharine　
faltered　beneath　that　innocent　and　perating　gaze；　she　
flushed；　turned　away；　and　then　looked　up　with　very　bright　
eyes。　
“I’m　not　in　love　with　Ralph　Denham；”　she　said。　
“Don’t　marry　unless　you’re　in　love！”　said　Mrs。　Hilbery　
very　quickly。　“But；”　she　added；　glancing　momentarily　at　
her　daughter；　“aren’t　there　different　ways；　Katharine—　
different—？”　
“We　want　to　meet　as　often　as　we　like；　but　to　be　free；”　
Katharine　continued。　
“To　meet　here；　to　meet　in　his　house；　to　meet　in　the　
street。”　Mrs。　Hilbery　ran　over　these　phrases　as　if　she　were　
trying　chords　that　did　not　quite　satisfy　her　ear。　It　was　
plain　that　she　had　her　sources　of　information；　and；　indeed；　
her　bag　was　stuffed　with　what　she　called　“kind　
letters”　from　the　pen　of　her　sisterinlaw。　
“Yes。　Or　to　stay　away　in　the　country；”　Katharine　concluded。　
418　
Virginia　Woolf　
Mrs。　Hilbery　paused；　looked　unhappy；　and　sought　inspiration　
from　the　window。　
“What　a　fort　he　was　in　that　shop—how　he　took　me　
and　found　the　ruins　at　once—how　safe　I　felt　with　him—”　
“Safe？　Oh；　no；　he’s　fearfully　rash—he’s　always　taking　
risks。　He　wants　to　throw　up　his　profession　and　live　in　a　
little　cottage　and　write　books；　though　he　hasn’t　a　penny　
of　his　own；　and　there　are　any　number　of　sisters　and　brothers　
dependent　on　him。”　
“Ah；　he　has　a　mother？”　Mrs。　Hilbery　inquired。　
“Yes。　Rathe