Chapter XXXI

by Virginia Woolf

　　The tray which brought Katharine's cup of tea the next morningbrought, also, a note from her mother, announcing that it was herintention to catch an early train to Stratford-on-Avon that very day."Please find out the best way of getting there," the note ran, "andwire to dear Sir John Burdett to expect me, with my love. I've beendreaming all night of you and Shakespeare, dearest Katharine."This was no momentary impulse. Mrs. Hilbery had been dreaming ofShakespeare any time these six months, toying with the idea of anexcursion to what she considered the heart of the civilized world. Tostand six feet above Shakespeare's bones, to see the very stones wornby his feet, to reflect that the oldest man's oldest mother had verylikely seen Shakespeare's daughter--such thoughts roused an emotion inher, which she expressed at unsuitable moments, and with a passionthat would not have been unseemly in a pilgrim to a sacred shrine. Theonly strange thing was that she wished to go by herself. But,naturally enough, she was well provided with friends who lived in theneighborhood of Shakespeare's tomb, and were delighted to welcome her;and she left later to catch her train in the best of spirits. Therewas a man selling violets in the street. It was a fine day. She wouldremember to send Mr. Hilbery the first daffodil she saw. And, as sheran back into the hall to tell Katharine, she felt, she had alwaysfelt, that Shakespeare's command to leave his bones undisturbedapplied only to odious curiosity-mongers--not to dear Sir John andherself. Leaving her daughter to cogitate the theory of AnneHathaway's sonnets, and the buried manuscripts here referred to, withthe implied menace to the safety of the heart of civilization itself,she briskly shut the door of her taxi-cab, and was whirled off uponthe first stage of her pilgrimage.The house was oddly different without her. Katharine found the maidsalready in possession of her room, which they meant to cleanthoroughly during her absence. To Katharine it seemed as if they hadbrushed away sixty years or so with the first flick of their dampdusters. It seemed to her that the work she had tried to do in thatroom was being swept into a very insignificant heap of dust. The chinashepherdesses were already shining from a bath of hot water. Thewriting-table might have belonged to a professional man of methodicalhabits.Gathering together a few papers upon which she was at work, Katharineproceeded to her own room with the intention of looking through them,perhaps, in the course of the morning. But she was met on the stairsby Cassandra, who followed her up, but with such intervals betweeneach step that Katharine began to feel her purpose dwindling beforethey had reached the door. Cassandra leant over the banisters, andlooked down upon the Persian rug that lay on the floor of the hall."Doesn't everything look odd this morning?" she inquired. "Are youreally going to spend the morning with those dull old letters, becauseif so--"The dull old letters, which would have turned the heads of the mostsober of collectors, were laid upon a table, and, after a moment'spause, Cassandra, looking grave all of a sudden, asked Katharine whereshe should find the "History of England" by Lord Macaulay. It wasdownstairs in Mr. Hilbery's study. The cousins descended together insearch of it. They diverged into the drawing-room for the good reasonthat the door was open. The portrait of Richard Alardyce attractedtheir attention."I wonder what he was like?" It was a question that Katharine hadoften asked herself lately."Oh, a fraud like the rest of them--at least Henry says so," Cassandrareplied. "Though I don't believe everything Henry says," she added alittle defensively.Down they went into Mr. Hilbery's study, where they began to lookamong his books. So desultory was this examination that some fifteenminutes failed to discover the work they were in search of."Must you read Macaulay's History, Cassandra?" Katharine asked, with astretch of her arms."I must," Cassandra replied briefly."Well, I'm going to leave you to look for it by yourself.""Oh, no, Katharine. Please stay and help me. You see--you see--I toldWilliam I'd read a little every day. And I want to tell him that I'vebegun when he comes.""When does William come?" Katharine asked, turning to the shelvesagain."To tea, if that suits you?""If it suits me to be out, I suppose you mean.""Oh, you're horrid. . . . Why shouldn't you--?""Yes ?""Why shouldn't you be happy too?""I am quite happy," Katharine replied."I mean as I am. Katharine," she said impulsively, "do let's bemarried on the same day.""To the same man?""Oh, no, no. But why shouldn't you marry--some one else?""Here's your Macaulay," said Katharine, turning round with the book inher hand. "I should say you'd better begin to read at once if you meanto be educated by tea-time.""Damn Lord Macaulay!" cried Cassandra, slapping the book upon thetable. "Would you rather not talk?""We've talked enough already," Katharine replied evasively."I know I shan't be able to settle to Macaulay," said Cassandra,looking ruefully at the dull red cover of the prescribed volume,which, however, possessed a talismanic property, since William admiredit. He had advised a little serious reading for the morning hours."Have you read Macaulay?" she asked."No. William never tried to educate me." As she spoke she saw thelight fade from Cassandra's face, as if she had implied some other,more mysterious, relationship. She was stung with compunction. Shemarveled at her own rashness in having influenced the life of another,as she had influenced Cassandra's life."We weren't serious," she said quickly."But I'm fearfully serious," said Cassandra, with a little shudder,and her look showed that she spoke the truth. She turned and glancedat Katharine as she had never glanced at her before. There was fear inher glance, which darted on her and then dropped guiltily. Oh,Katharine had everything--beauty, mind, character. She could nevercompete with Katharine; she could never be safe so long as Katharinebrooded over her, dominating her, disposing of her. She called hercold, unseeing, unscrupulous, but the only sign she gave outwardly wasa curious one--she reached out her hand and grasped the volume ofhistory. At that moment the bell of the telephone rang and Katharinewent to answer it. Cassandra, released from observation, dropped herbook and clenched her hands. She suffered more fiery torture in thosefew minutes than she had suffered in the whole of her life; she learntmore of her capacities for feeling. But when Katharine reappeared shewas calm, and had gained a look of dignity that was new to her."Was that him?" she asked."It was Ralph Denham," Katharine replied."I meant Ralph Denham.""Why did you mean Ralph Denham? What has William told you about RalphDenham?" The accusation that Katharine was calm, callous, andindifferent was not possible in face of her present air of animation.She gave Cassandra no time to frame an answer. "Now, when are you andWilliam going to be married?" she asked.Cassandra made no reply for some moments. It was, indeed, a verydifficult question to answer. In conversation the night before,William had indicated to Cassandra that, in his belief, Katharine wasbecoming engaged to Ralph Denham in the dining-room. Cassandra, in therosy light of her own circumstances, had been disposed to think thatthe matter must be settled already. But a letter which she hadreceived that morning from William, while ardent in its expression ofaffection, had conveyed to her obliquely that he would prefer theannouncement of their engagement to coincide with that of Katharine's.This document Cassandra now produced, and read aloud, withconsiderable excisions and much hesitation.". . . a thousand pities--ahem--I fear we shall cause a great deal ofnatural annoyance. If, on the other hand, what I have reason to thinkwill happen, should happen--within reasonable time, and the presentposition is not in any way offensive to you, delay would, in myopinion, serve all our interests better than a premature explanation,which is bound to cause more surprise than is desirable--""Very like William," Katharine exclaimed, having gathered the drift ofthese remarks with a speed that, by itself, disconcerted Cassandra."I quite understand his feelings," Cassandra replied. "I quite agreewith them. I think it would be much better, if you intend to marry Mr.Denham, that we should wait as William says.""But, then, if I don't marry him for months--or, perhaps, not at all?"Cassandra was silent. The prospect appalled her. Katharine had beentelephoning to Ralph Denham; she looked queer, too; she must be, orabout to become, engaged to him. But if Cassandra could have overheardthe conversation upon the telephone, she would not have felt socertain that it tended in that direction. It was to this effect:"I'm Ralph Denham speaking. I'm in my right senses now.""How long did you wait outside the house?""I went home and wrote you a letter. I tore it up.""I shall tear up everything too.""I shall come.""Yes. Come to-day.""I must explain to you--""Yes. We must explain--"A long pause followed. Ralph began a sentence, which he canceled withthe word, "Nothing." Suddenly, together, at the same moment, they saidgood-bye. And yet, if the telephone had been miraculously connectedwith some higher atmosphere pungent with the scent of thyme and thesavor of salt, Katharine could hardly have breathed in a keener senseof exhilaration. She ran downstairs on the crest of it. She was amazedto find herself already committed by William and Cassandra to marrythe owner of the halting voice she had just heard on the telephone.The tendency of her spirit seemed to be in an altogether differentdirection; and of a different nature. She had only to look atCassandra to see what the love that results in an engagement andmarriage means. She considered for a moment, and then said: "If youdon't want to tell people yourselves, I'll do it for you. I knowWilliam has feelings about these matters that make it very difficultfor him to do anything.""Because he's fearfully sensitive about other people's feelings," saidCassandra. "The idea that he could upset Aunt Maggie or Uncle Trevorwould make him ill for weeks."This interpretation of what she was used to call William'sconventionality was new to Katharine. And yet she felt it now to bethe true one."Yes, you're right," she said."And then he worships beauty. He wants life to be beautiful in everypart of it. Have you ever noticed how exquisitely he finisheseverything? Look at the address on that envelope. Every letter isperfect."Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter,Katharine was not so sure; but when William's solicitude was spentupon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done whenshe was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruitof his love of beauty."Yes," she said, "he loves beauty.""I hope we shall have a great many children," said Cassandra. "Heloves children."This remark made Katharine realize the depths of their intimacy betterthan any other words could have done; she was jealous for one moment;but the next she was humiliated. She had known William for years, andshe had never once guessed that he loved children. She looked at thequeer glow of exaltation in Cassandra's eyes, through which she wasbeholding the true spirit of a human being, and wished that she wouldgo on talking about William for ever. Cassandra was not unwilling togratify her. She talked on. The morning slipped away. Katharinescarcely changed her position on the edge of her father'swriting-table, and Cassandra never opened the "History of England."And yet it must be confessed that there were vast lapses in theattention which Katharine bestowed upon her cousin. The atmosphere waswonderfully congenial for thoughts of her own. She lost herselfsometimes in such deep reverie that Cassandra, pausing, could look ather for moments unperceived. What could Katharine be thinking about,unless it were Ralph Denham? She was satisfied, by certain randomreplies, that Katharine had wandered a little from the subject ofWilliam's perfections. But Katharine made no sign. She always endedthese pauses by saying something so natural that Cassandra was deludedinto giving fresh examples of her absorbing theme. Then they lunched,and the only sign that Katharine gave of abstraction was to forget tohelp the pudding. She looked so like her mother, as she sat thereoblivious of the tapioca, that Cassandra was startled into exclaiming:"How like Aunt Maggie you look!""Nonsense," said Katharine, with more irritation than the remarkseemed to call for.In truth, now that her mother was away, Katharine did feel lesssensible than usual, but as she argued it to herself, there was muchless need for sense. Secretly, she was a little shaken by the evidencewhich the morning had supplied of her immense capacity for--what couldone call it?--rambling over an infinite variety of thoughts that weretoo foolish to be named. She was, for example, walking down a road inNorthumberland in the August sunset; at the inn she left hercompanion, who was Ralph Denham, and was transported, not so much byher own feet as by some invisible means, to the top of a high hill.Here the scents, the sounds among the dry heather-roots, thegrass-blades pressed upon the palm of her hand, were all soperceptible that she could experience each one separately. After thisher mind made excursions into the dark of the air, or settled upon thesurface of the sea, which could be discovered over there, or withequal unreason it returned to its couch of bracken beneath the starsof midnight, and visited the snow valleys of the moon. These fancieswould have been in no way strange, since the walls of every mind aredecorated with some such tracery, but she found herself suddenlypursuing such thoughts with an extreme ardor, which became a desire tochange her actual condition for something matching the conditions ofher dream. Then she started; then she awoke to the fact that Cassandrawas looking at her in amazement.Cassandra would have liked to feel certain that, when Katharine madeno reply at all or one wide of the mark, she was making up her mind toget married at once, but it was difficult, if this were so, to accountfor some remarks that Katharine let fall about the future. Sherecurred several times to the summer, as if she meant to spend thatseason in solitary wandering. She seemed to have a plan in her mindwhich required Bradshaws and the names of inns.Cassandra was driven finally, by her own unrest, to put on her clothesand wander out along the streets of Chelsea, on the pretence that shemust buy something. But, in her ignorance of the way, she becamepanic-stricken at the thought of being late, and no sooner had shefound the shop she wanted, than she fled back again in order to be athome when William came. He came, indeed, five minutes after she hadsat down by the tea-table, and she had the happiness of receiving himalone. His greeting put her doubts of his affection at rest, but thefirst question he asked was:"Has Katharine spoken to you?""Yes. But she says she's not engaged. She doesn't seem to think she'sever going to be engaged."William frowned, and looked annoyed."They telephoned this morning, and she behaves very oddly. She forgetsto help the pudding," Cassandra added by way of cheering him."My dear child, after what I saw and heard last night, it's not aquestion of guessing or suspecting. Either she's engaged to him--or--"He left his sentence unfinished, for at this point Katharine herselfappeared. With his recollections of the scene the night before, he wastoo self-conscious even to look at her, and it was not until she toldhim of her mother's visit to Stratford-on-Avon that he raised hiseyes. It was clear that he was greatly relieved. He looked round himnow, as if he felt at his ease, and Cassandra exclaimed:"Don't you think everything looks quite different?""You've moved the sofa?" he asked."No. Nothing's been touched," said Katharine. "Everything's exactlythe same." But as she said this, with a decision which seemed to makeit imply that more than the sofa was unchanged, she held out a cupinto which she had forgotten to pour any tea. Being told of herforgetfulness, she frowned with annoyance, and said that Cassandra wasdemoralizing her. The glance she cast upon them, and the resolute wayin which she plunged them into speech, made William and Cassandra feellike children who had been caught prying. They followed herobediently, making conversation. Any one coming in might have judgedthem acquaintances met, perhaps, for the third time. If that were so,one must have concluded that the hostess suddenly bethought her of anengagement pressing for fulfilment. First Katharine looked at herwatch, and then she asked William to tell her the right time. Whentold that it was ten minutes to five she rose at once, and said:"Then I'm afraid I must go."She left the room, holding her unfinished bread and butter in herhand. William glanced at Cassandra."Well, she is queer!" Cassandra exclaimed.William looked perturbed. He knew more of Katharine than Cassandradid, but even he could not tell--. In a second Katharine was backagain dressed in outdoor things, still holding her bread and butter inher bare hand."If I'm late, don't wait for me," she said. "I shall have dined," andso saying, she left them."But she can't--" William exclaimed, as the door shut, "not withoutany gloves and bread and butter in her hand!" They ran to the window,and saw her walking rapidly along the street towards the City. Thenshe vanished."She must have gone to meet Mr. Denham," Cassandra exclaimed."Goodness knows!" William interjected.The incident impressed them both as having something queer and ominousabout it out of all proportion to its surface strangeness."It's the sort of way Aunt Maggie behaves," said Cassandra, as if inexplanation.William shook his head, and paced up and down the room lookingextremely perturbed."This is what I've been foretelling," he burst out. "Once set theordinary conventions aside--Thank Heaven Mrs. Hilbery is away. Butthere's Mr. Hilbery. How are we to explain it to him? I shall have toleave you.""But Uncle Trevor won't be back for hours, William!" Cassandraimplored."You never can tell. He may be on his way already. Or suppose Mrs.Milvain--your Aunt Celia--or Mrs. Cosham, or any other of your auntsor uncles should be shown in and find us alone together. You know whatthey're saying about us already."Cassandra was equally stricken by the sight of William's agitation,and appalled by the prospect of his desertion."We might hide," she exclaimed wildly, glancing at the curtain whichseparated the room with the relics."I refuse entirely to get under the table," said Williamsarcastically.She saw that he was losing his temper with the difficulties of thesituation. Her instinct told her that an appeal to his affection, atthis moment, would be extremely ill-judged. She controlled herself,sat down, poured out a fresh cup of tea, and sipped it quietly. Thisnatural action, arguing complete self-mastery, and showing her in oneof those feminine attitudes which William found adorable, did morethan any argument to compose his agitation. It appealed to hischivalry. He accepted a cup. Next she asked for a slice of cake. Bythe time the cake was eaten and the tea drunk the personal questionhad lapsed, and they were discussing poetry. Insensibly they turnedfrom the question of dramatic poetry in general, to the particularexample which reposed in William's pocket, and when the maid came into clear away the tea-things, William had asked permission to read ashort passage aloud, "unless it bored her?"Cassandra bent her head in silence, but she showed a little of whatshe felt in her eyes, and thus fortified, William felt confident thatit would take more than Mrs. Milvain herself to rout him from hisposition. He read aloud.Meanwhile Katharine walked rapidly along the street. If called upon toexplain her impulsive action in leaving the tea-table, she could havetraced it to no better cause than that William had glanced atCassandra; Cassandra at William. Yet, because they had glanced, herposition was impossible. If one forgot to pour out a cup of tea theyrushed to the conclusion that she was engaged to Ralph Denham. Sheknew that in half an hour or so the door would open, and Ralph Denhamwould appear. She could not sit there and contemplate seeing him withWilliam's and Cassandra's eyes upon them, judging their exact degreeof intimacy, so that they might fix the wedding-day. She promptlydecided that she would meet Ralph out of doors; she still had time toreach Lincoln's Inn Fields before he left his office. She hailed acab, and bade it take her to a shop for selling maps which sheremembered in Great Queen Street, since she hardly liked to be setdown at his door. Arrived at the shop, she bought a large scale map ofNorfolk, and thus provided, hurried into Lincoln's Inn Fields, andassured herself of the position of Messrs. Hoper and Grateley'soffice. The great gas chandeliers were alight in the office windows.She conceived that he sat at an enormous table laden with papersbeneath one of them in the front room with the three tall windows.Having settled his position there, she began walking to and fro uponthe pavement. Nobody of his build appeared. She scrutinized each malefigure as it approached and passed her. Each male figure had,nevertheless, a look of him, due, perhaps, to the professional dress,the quick step, the keen glance which they cast upon her as theyhastened home after the day's work. The square itself, with itsimmense houses all so fully occupied and stern of aspect, itsatmosphere of industry and power, as if even the sparrows and thechildren were earning their daily bread, as if the sky itself, withits gray and scarlet clouds, reflected the serious intention of thecity beneath it, spoke of him. Here was the fit place for theirmeeting, she thought; here was the fit place for her to walk thinkingof him. She could not help comparing it with the domestic streets ofChelsea. With this comparison in her mind, she extended her range alittle, and turned into the main road. The great torrent of vans andcarts was sweeping down Kingsway; pedestrians were streaming in twocurrents along the pavements. She stood fascinated at the corner. Thedeep roar filled her ears; the changing tumult had the inexpressiblefascination of varied life pouring ceaselessly with a purpose which,as she looked, seemed to her, somehow, the normal purpose for whichlife was framed; its complete indifference to the individuals, whom itswallowed up and rolled onwards, filled her with at least a temporaryexaltation. The blend of daylight and of lamplight made her aninvisible spectator, just as it gave the people who passed her asemi-transparent quality, and left the faces pale ivory ovals in whichthe eyes alone were dark. They tended the enormous rush of thecurrent--the great flow, the deep stream, the unquenchable tide. Shestood unobserved and absorbed, glorying openly in the rapture that hadrun subterraneously all day. Suddenly she was clutched, unwilling,from the outside, by the recollection of her purpose in coming there.She had come to find Ralph Denham. She hastily turned back intoLincoln's Inn Fields, and looked for her landmark--the light in thethree tall windows. She sought in vain. The faces of the houses hadnow merged in the general darkness, and she had difficulty indetermining which she sought. Ralph's three windows gave back on theirghostly glass panels only a reflection of the gray and greenish sky.She rang the bell, peremptorily, under the painted name of the firm.After some delay she was answered by a caretaker, whose pail and brushof themselves told her that the working day was over and the workersgone. Nobody, save perhaps Mr. Grateley himself, was left, she assuredKatharine; every one else had been gone these ten minutes.The news woke Katharine completely. Anxiety gained upon her. Shehastened back into Kingsway, looking at people who had miraculouslyregained their solidity. She ran as far as the Tube station,overhauling clerk after clerk, solicitor after solicitor. Not one ofthem even faintly resembled Ralph Denham. More and more plainly didshe see him; and more and more did he seem to her unlike any one else.At the door of the station she paused, and tried to collect herthoughts. He had gone to her house. By taking a cab she could be thereprobably in advance of him. But she pictured herself opening thedrawing-room door, and William and Cassandra looking up, and Ralph'sentrance a moment later, and the glances--the insinuations. No; shecould not face it. She would write him a letter and take it at once tohis house. She bought paper and pencil at the bookstall, and enteredan A.B.C. shop, where, by ordering a cup of coffee, she secured anempty table, and began at vice to write:"I came to meet you and I have missed you. I could not face Williamand Cassandra. They want us--" here she paused. "They insist that weare engaged," she substituted, "and we couldn't talk at all, orexplain anything. I want--" Her wants were so vast, now that she wasin communication with Ralph, that the pencil was utterly inadequate toconduct them on to the paper; it seemed as if the whole torrent ofKingsway had to run down her pencil. She gazed intently at a noticehanging on the gold-encrusted wall opposite. ". . . to say all kindsof things," she added, writing each word with the painstaking of achild. But, when she raised her eyes again to meditate the nextsentence, she was aware of a waitress, whose expression intimated thatit was closing time, and, looking round, Katharine saw herself almostthe last person left in the shop. She took up her letter, paid herbill, and found herself once more in the street. She would now take acab to Highgate. But at that moment it flashed upon her that she couldnot remember the address. This check seemed to let fall a barrieracross a very powerful current of desire. She ransacked her memory indesperation, hunting for the name, first by remembering the look ofthe house, and then by trying, in memory, to retrace the words she hadwritten once, at least, upon an envelope. The more she pressed thefarther the words receded. Was the house an Orchard Something, on thestreet a Hill? She gave it up. Never, since she was a child, had shefelt anything like this blankness and desolation. There rushed in uponher, as if she were waking from some dream, all the consequences ofher inexplicable indolence. She figured Ralph's face as he turned fromher door without a word of explanation, receiving his dismissal as ablow from herself, a callous intimation that she did not wish to seehim. She followed his departure from her door; but it was far moreeasy to see him marching far and fast in any direction for any lengthof time than to conceive that he would turn back to Highgate. Perhapshe would try once more to see her in Cheyne Walk? It was proof of theclearness with which she saw him, that she started forward as thispossibility occurred to her, and almost raised her hand to beckon to acab. No; he was too proud to come again; he rejected the desire andwalked on and on, on and on--If only she could read the names of thosevisionary streets down which he passed! But her imagination betrayedher at this point, or mocked her with a sense of their strangeness,darkness, and distance. Indeed, instead of helping herself to anydecision, she only filled her mind with the vast extent of London andthe impossibility of finding any single figure that wandered off thisway and that way, turned to the right and to the left, chose thatdingy little back street where the children were playing in the road,and so--She roused herself impatiently. She walked rapidly alongHolborn. Soon she turned and walked as rapidly in the other direction.This indecision was not merely odious, but had something that alarmedher about it, as she had been alarmed slightly once or twice alreadythat day; she felt unable to cope with the strength of her owndesires. To a person controlled by habit, there was humiliation aswell as alarm in this sudden release of what appeared to be a verypowerful as well as an unreasonable force. An aching in the muscles ofher right hand now showed her that she was crushing her gloves and themap of Norfolk in a grip sufficient to crack a more solid object. Sherelaxed her grasp; she looked anxiously at the faces of the passers-byto see whether their eyes rested on her for a moment longer than wasnatural, or with any curiosity. But having smoothed out her gloves,and done what she could to look as usual, she forgot spectators, andwas once more given up to her desperate desire to find Ralph Denham.It was a desire now--wild, irrational, unexplained, resemblingsomething felt in childhood. Once more she blamed herself bitterly forher carelessness. But finding herself opposite the Tube station, shepulled herself up and took counsel swiftly, as of old. It flashed uponher that she would go at once to Mary Datchet, and ask her to give herRalph's address. The decision was a relief, not only in giving her agoal, but in providing her with a rational excuse for her own actions.It gave her a goal certainly, but the fact of having a goal led her todwell exclusively upon her obsession; so that when she rang the bellof Mary's flat, she did not for a moment consider how this demandwould strike Mary. To her extreme annoyance Mary was not at home; acharwoman opened the door. All Katharine could do was to accept theinvitation to wait. She waited for, perhaps, fifteen minutes, andspent them in pacing from one end of the room to the other withoutintermission. When she heard Mary's key in the door she paused infront of the fireplace, and Mary found her standing upright, lookingat once expectant and determined, like a person who has come on anerrand of such importance that it must be broached without preface.Mary exclaimed in surprise."Yes, yes," Katharine said, brushing these remarks aside, as if theywere in the way."Have you had tea?""Oh yes," she said, thinking that she had had tea hundreds of yearsago, somewhere or other.Mary paused, took off her gloves, and, finding matches, proceeded tolight the fire.Katharine checked her with an impatient movement, and said:"Don't light the fire for me. . . . I want to know Ralph Denham'saddress."She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. Shewaited with an imperious expression."The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate," Mary said, speakingslowly and rather strangely."Oh, I remember now!" Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her ownstupidity. "I suppose it wouldn't take twenty minutes to drive there?"She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go."But you won't find him," said Mary, pausing with a match in her hand.Katharine, who had already turned towards the door, stopped and lookedat her."Why? Where is he?" she asked."He won't have left his office.""But he has left the office," she replied. "The only question is willhe have reached home yet? He went to see me at Chelsea; I tried tomeet him and missed him. He will have found no message to explain. SoI must find him--as soon as possible."Mary took in the situation at her leisure."But why not telephone?" she said.Katharine immediately dropped all that she was holding; her strainedexpression relaxed, and exclaiming, "Of course! Why didn't I think ofthat!" she seized the telephone receiver and gave her number. Marylooked at her steadily, and then left the room. At length Katharineheard, through all the superimposed weight of London, the mysterioussound of feet in her own house mounting to the little room, where shecould almost see the pictures and the books; she listened with extremeintentness to the preparatory vibrations, and then established heridentity."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 insuch acute disappointment that she did not at first perceive Mary'sabsence. Then she called in a harsh and peremptory tone:"Mary."Mary was taking off her outdoor things in the bedroom. She heardKatharine call her. "Yes," she said, "I shan't be a moment." But themoment prolonged itself, as if for some reason Mary found satisfactionin making herself not only tidy, but seemly and ornamented. A stage inher life had been accomplished in the last months which left itstraces for ever upon her bearing. Youth, and the bloom of youth, hadreceded, leaving the purpose of her face to show itself in thehollower cheeks, the firmer lips, the eyes no longer spontaneouslyobserving at random, but narrowed upon an end which was not near athand. This woman was now a serviceable human being, mistress of herown destiny, and thus, by some combination of ideas, fit to be adornedwith the dignity of silver chains and glowing brooches. She came in ather 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 imaginarymap 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 thetelephone and, after a series of brief remarks, announced:"No. His sister says he hasn't come back yet.""Ah!" She applied her ear to the telephone once more. "They've had amessage. 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 uponvistas of unresponding blankness, Katharine addressed herself also notso much to Mary as to the unrelenting spirit which now appeared tomock 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 watchedthe little flames beginning to creep among the coals indifferently, asif they, too, were very distant and indifferent.Katharine looked at her indignantly and rose."Possibly he may come here," Mary continued, without altering theabstract tone of her voice. "It would be worth your while to wait ifyou want to see him to-night." 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 thegreen-shaded lamp and, with an action that was becoming a habit,twisted a lock of hair round and round in her fingers. Once she lookedunperceived at her visitor, who never moved, who sat so still, witheyes so intent, that you could almost fancy that she was watchingsomething, some face that never looked up at her. Mary found herselfunable to go on writing. She turned her eyes away, but only to beaware of the presence of what Katharine looked at. There were ghostsin 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 half-hourwas 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 herglance."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 come here," Katharine replied.Their eyes met with antagonism, and neither flinched."You had a perfect right to come 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 thatMary might not read her disappointment."Of course you had a right to come," Mary repeated, laying the noteupon the table."No," said Katharine. "Except that when one's desperate one has a sortof 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 self-abandonment 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 formyself?""No, no," Katharine exclaimed. "It's not that--"Her look, passing beyond Mary, beyond the verge of the room and outbeyond any words that came her way, wildly and passionately, convincedMary 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 heightof her love for Ralph. Pressing her fingers upon her eyelids, shemurmured:"You forget that I loved him too. I thought I knew him. I did knowhim."And yet, what had she known? She could not remember it any more. Shepressed her eyeballs until they struck stars and suns into herdarkness. She convinced herself that she was stirring among ashes. Shedesisted. She was astonished at her discovery. She did not love Ralphany more. She looked back dazed into the room, and her eyes restedupon the table with its lamp-lit papers. The steady radiance seemedfor a second to have its counterpart within her; she shut her eyes;she opened them and looked at the lamp again; another love burnt inthe place of the old one, or so, in a momentary glance of amazement,she guessed before the revelation was over and the old surroundingsasserted themselves. She leant in silence against the mantelpiece."There are different ways of loving," she murmured, half to herself,at length.Katharine made no reply and seemed unaware of her words. She seemedabsorbed in her own thoughts."Perhaps he's waiting in the street again to-night," she exclaimed."I'll go now. I might find him.""It's far more likely that he'll come here," said Mary, and Katharine,after considering for a moment, said:"I'll wait another half-hour."She sank down into her chair again, and took up the same positionwhich Mary had compared to the position of one watching an unseeingface. She watched, indeed, not a face, but a procession, not ofpeople, but of life itself: the good and bad; the meaning; the past,the present, and the future. All this seemed apparent to her, and shewas not ashamed of her extravagance so much as exalted to one of thepinnacles of existence, where it behoved the world to do her homage.No one but she herself knew what it meant to miss Ralph Denham on thatparticular night; into this inadequate event crowded feelings that thegreat crises of life might have failed to call forth. She had missedhim, and knew the bitterness of all failure; she desired him, and knewthe torment of all passion. It did not matter what trivial accidentsled to this culmination. Nor did she care how extravagant sheappeared, nor how openly she showed her feelings.When the dinner was ready Mary told her to come, and she camesubmissively, as if she let Mary direct her movements for her. Theyate and drank together almost in silence, and when Mary told her toeat more, she ate more; when she was told to drink wine, she drank it.Nevertheless, beneath this superficial obedience, Mary knew that shewas following her own thoughts unhindered. She was not inattentive somuch as remote; she looked at once so unseeing and so intent upon somevision of her own that Mary gradually felt more than protective--shebecame actually alarmed at the prospect of some collision betweenKatharine and the forces of the outside world. Directly they had done,Katharine announced her intention of going."But where are you going to?" Mary asked, desiring vaguely to hinderher."Oh, I'm going home--no, to Highgate perhaps."Mary saw that it would be useless to try to stop her. All she could dowas to insist upon coming too, but she met with no opposition;Katharine seemed indifferent to her presence. In a few minutes theywere walking along the Strand. They walked so rapidly that Mary wasdeluded into the belief that Katharine knew where she was going. Sheherself was not attentive. She was glad of the movement along lamp-litstreets in the open air. She was fingering, painfully and with fear,yet with strange hope, too, the discovery which she had stumbled uponunexpectedly that night. She was free once more at the cost of a gift,the best, perhaps, that she could offer, but she was, thank Heaven, inlove no longer. She was tempted to spend the first instalment of herfreedom in some dissipation; in the pit of the Coliseum, for example,since they were now passing the door. Why not go in and celebrate herindependence of the tyranny of love? Or, perhaps, the top of anomnibus bound for some remote place such as Camberwell, or Sidcup, orthe Welsh Harp would suit her better. She noticed these names paintedon little boards for the first time for weeks. Or should she return toher room, and spend the night working out the details of a veryenlightened and ingenious scheme? Of all possibilities this appealedto her most, and brought to mind the fire, the lamplight, the steadyglow which had seemed lit in the place where a more passionate flamehad once burnt.Now Katharine stopped, and Mary woke to the fact that instead ofhaving a goal she had evidently none. She paused at the edge of thecrossing, and looked this way and that, and finally made as if in thedirection of Haverstock Hill."Look here--where are you going?" Mary cried, catching her by thehand. "We must take that cab and go home." She hailed a cab andinsisted that Katharine should get in, while she directed the driverto take them to Cheyne Walk.Katharine submitted. "Very well," she said. "We may as well go thereas anywhere else."A gloom seemed to have fallen on her. She lay back in her corner,silent and apparently exhausted. Mary, in spite of her ownpreoccupation, was struck by her pallor and her attitude of dejection."I'm sure we shall find him," she said more gently than she had yetspoken."It may be too late," Katharine replied. Without understanding her,Mary began to pity her for what she was suffering."Nonsense," she said, taking her hand and rubbing it. "If we don'tfind him there we shall find him somewhere else.""But suppose he's walking about the streets--for hours and hours?"She leant forward and looked out of the window."He may refuse ever to speak to me again," she said in a low voice,almost to herself.The exaggeration was so immense that Mary did not attempt to cope withit, save by keeping hold of Katharine's wrist. She half expected thatKatharine might open the door suddenly and jump out. Perhaps Katharineperceived the purpose with which her hand was held."Don't be frightened," she said, with a little laugh. "I'm not goingto jump out of the cab. It wouldn't do much good after all."Upon this, Mary ostentatiously withdrew her hand."I ought to have apologized," Katharine continued, with an effort,"for bringing you into all this business; I haven't told you half,either. I'm no longer engaged to William Rodney. He is to marryCassandra Otway. It's all arranged--all perfectly right. . . . Andafter he'd waited in the streets for hours and hours, William made mebring him in. He was standing under the lamp-post watching ourwindows. He was perfectly white when he came into the room. Williamleft us alone, and we sat and talked. It seems ages and ages ago, now.Was it last night? Have I been out long? What's the time?" She sprangforward to catch sight of a clock, as if the exact time had someimportant bearing on her case."Only half-past eight!" she exclaimed. "Then he may be there still."She leant out of the window and told the cabman to drive faster."But if he's not there, what shall I do? Where could I find him? Thestreets are so crowded.""We shall find him," Mary repeated.Mary had no doubt but that somehow or other they would find him. Butsuppose they did find him? She began to think of Ralph with a sort ofstrangeness, in her effort to understand how he could be capable ofsatisfying this extraordinary desire. Once more she thought herselfback to her old view of him and could, with an effort, recall the hazewhich surrounded his figure, and the sense of confused, heightenedexhilaration which lay all about his neighborhood, so that for monthsat a time she had never exactly heard his voice or seen his face--orso it now seemed to her. The pain of her loss shot through her.Nothing would ever make up--not success, or happiness, or oblivion.But this pang was immediately followed by the assurance that now, atany rate, she knew the truth; and Katharine, she thought, stealing alook at her, did not know the truth; yes, Katharine was immensely tobe pitied.The cab, which had been caught in the traffic, was now liberated andsped on down Sloane Street. Mary was conscious of the tension withwhich Katharine marked its progress, as if her mind were fixed upon apoint in front of them, and marked, second by second, their approachto it. She said nothing, and in silence Mary began to fix her mind, insympathy at first, and later in forgetfulness of her companion, upon apoint in front of them. She imagined a point distant as a low starupon the horizon of the dark. There for her too, for them both, wasthe goal for which they were striving, and the end for the ardors oftheir spirits was the same: but where it was, or what it was, or whyshe felt convinced that they were united in search of it, as theydrove swiftly down the streets of London side by side, she could nothave said."At last," Katharine breathed, as the cab drew up at the door. Shejumped out and scanned the pavement on either side. Mary, meanwhile,rang the bell. The door opened as Katharine assured herself that noone of the people within view had any likeness to Ralph. On seeingher, the maid said at once:"Mr. Denham called again, miss. He has been waiting for you for sometime."Katharine vanished from Mary's sight. The door shut between them, andMary walked slowly and thoughtfully up the street alone.Katharine turned at once to the dining-room. But with her fingers uponthe handle, she held back. Perhaps she realized that this was a momentwhich would never come again. Perhaps, for a second, it seemed to herthat no reality could equal the imagination she had formed. Perhapsshe was restrained by some vague fear or anticipation, which made herdread any exchange or interruption. But if these doubts and fears orthis supreme bliss restrained her, it was only for a moment. Inanother second she had turned the handle and, biting her lip tocontrol herself, she opened the door upon Ralph Denham. Anextraordinary clearness of sight seemed to possess her on beholdinghim. So little, so single, so separate from all else he appeared, whohad been the cause of these extreme agitations and aspirations. Shecould have laughed in his face. But, gaining upon this clearness ofsight against her will, and to her dislike, was a flood of confusion,of relief, of certainty, of humility, of desire no longer to striveand to discriminate, yielding to which, she let herself sink withinhis arms and confessed her love.