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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Had he known it; Katharine was far enough withdrawn;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
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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。
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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