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diff --git a/old/144-0.txt b/old/144-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f38281c --- /dev/null +++ b/old/144-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15328 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Voyage Out, by Virginia Woolf + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Voyage Out + +Author: Virginia Woolf + +Release Date: July, 1994 [eBook #144] +[Most recently updated: June 7, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Judith Boss and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VOYAGE OUT *** + + + + +The Voyage Out + +by Virginia Woolf + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + CHAPTER XV. + CHAPTER XVI. + CHAPTER XVII. + CHAPTER XVIII. + CHAPTER XIX. + CHAPTER XX. + CHAPTER XXI. + CHAPTER XXII. + CHAPTER XXIII. + CHAPTER XXIV. + CHAPTER XXV. + CHAPTER XXVI. + CHAPTER XXVII. + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +As the streets that lead from the Strand to the Embankment are very +narrow, it is better not to walk down them arm-in-arm. If you persist, +lawyers’ clerks will have to make flying leaps into the mud; young lady +typists will have to fidget behind you. In the streets of London where +beauty goes unregarded, eccentricity must pay the penalty, and it is +better not to be very tall, to wear a long blue cloak, or to beat the +air with your left hand. + +One afternoon in the beginning of October when the traffic was becoming +brisk a tall man strode along the edge of the pavement with a lady on +his arm. Angry glances struck upon their backs. The small, agitated +figures—for in comparison with this couple most people looked +small—decorated with fountain pens, and burdened with despatch-boxes, +had appointments to keep, and drew a weekly salary, so that there was +some reason for the unfriendly stare which was bestowed upon Mr. +Ambrose’s height and upon Mrs. Ambrose’s cloak. But some enchantment +had put both man and woman beyond the reach of malice and unpopularity. +In his case one might guess from the moving lips that it was thought; +and in hers from the eyes fixed stonily straight in front of her at a +level above the eyes of most that it was sorrow. It was only by +scorning all she met that she kept herself from tears, and the friction +of people brushing past her was evidently painful. After watching the +traffic on the Embankment for a minute or two with a stoical gaze she +twitched her husband’s sleeve, and they crossed between the swift +discharge of motor cars. When they were safe on the further side, she +gently withdrew her arm from his, allowing her mouth at the same time +to relax, to tremble; then tears rolled down, and leaning her elbows on +the balustrade, she shielded her face from the curious. Mr. Ambrose +attempted consolation; he patted her shoulder; but she showed no signs +of admitting him, and feeling it awkward to stand beside a grief that +was greater than his, he crossed his arms behind him, and took a turn +along the pavement. + +The embankment juts out in angles here and there, like pulpits; instead +of preachers, however, small boys occupy them, dangling string, +dropping pebbles, or launching wads of paper for a cruise. With their +sharp eye for eccentricity, they were inclined to think Mr. Ambrose +awful; but the quickest witted cried “Bluebeard!” as he passed. In case +they should proceed to tease his wife, Mr. Ambrose flourished his stick +at them, upon which they decided that he was grotesque merely, and four +instead of one cried “Bluebeard!” in chorus. + +Although Mrs. Ambrose stood quite still, much longer than is natural, +the little boys let her be. Some one is always looking into the river +near Waterloo Bridge; a couple will stand there talking for half an +hour on a fine afternoon; most people, walking for pleasure, +contemplate for three minutes; when, having compared the occasion with +other occasions, or made some sentence, they pass on. Sometimes the +flats and churches and hotels of Westminster are like the outlines of +Constantinople in a mist; sometimes the river is an opulent purple, +sometimes mud-coloured, sometimes sparkling blue like the sea. It is +always worth while to look down and see what is happening. But this +lady looked neither up nor down; the only thing she had seen, since she +stood there, was a circular iridescent patch slowly floating past with +a straw in the middle of it. The straw and the patch swam again and +again behind the tremulous medium of a great welling tear, and the tear +rose and fell and dropped into the river. Then there struck close upon +her ears— + +Lars Porsena of Clusium +By the nine Gods he swore— + + +and then more faintly, as if the speaker had passed her on his walk— + +That the Great House of Tarquin +Should suffer wrong no more. + + +Yes, she knew she must go back to all that, but at present she must +weep. Screening her face she sobbed more steadily than she had yet +done, her shoulders rising and falling with great regularity. It was +this figure that her husband saw when, having reached the polished +Sphinx, having entangled himself with a man selling picture postcards, +he turned; the stanza instantly stopped. He came up to her, laid his +hand on her shoulder, and said, “Dearest.” His voice was supplicating. +But she shut her face away from him, as much as to say, “You can’t +possibly understand.” + +As he did not leave her, however, she had to wipe her eyes, and to +raise them to the level of the factory chimneys on the other bank. She +saw also the arches of Waterloo Bridge and the carts moving across +them, like the line of animals in a shooting gallery. They were seen +blankly, but to see anything was of course to end her weeping and begin +to walk. + +“I would rather walk,” she said, her husband having hailed a cab +already occupied by two city men. + +The fixity of her mood was broken by the action of walking. The +shooting motor cars, more like spiders in the moon than terrestrial +objects, the thundering drays, the jingling hansoms, and little black +broughams, made her think of the world she lived in. Somewhere up there +above the pinnacles where the smoke rose in a pointed hill, her +children were now asking for her, and getting a soothing reply. As for +the mass of streets, squares, and public buildings which parted them, +she only felt at this moment how little London had done to make her +love it, although thirty of her forty years had been spent in a street. +She knew how to read the people who were passing her; there were the +rich who were running to and from each others’ houses at this hour; +there were the bigoted workers driving in a straight line to their +offices; there were the poor who were unhappy and rightly malignant. +Already, though there was sunlight in the haze, tattered old men and +women were nodding off to sleep upon the seats. When one gave up seeing +the beauty that clothed things, this was the skeleton beneath. + +A fine rain now made her still more dismal; vans with the odd names of +those engaged in odd industries—Sprules, Manufacturer of Saw-dust; +Grabb, to whom no piece of waste paper comes amiss—fell flat as a bad +joke; bold lovers, sheltered behind one cloak, seemed to her sordid, +past their passion; the flower women, a contented company, whose talk +is always worth hearing, were sodden hags; the red, yellow, and blue +flowers, whose heads were pressed together, would not blaze. Moreover, +her husband walking with a quick rhythmic stride, jerking his free hand +occasionally, was either a Viking or a stricken Nelson; the sea-gulls +had changed his note. + +“Ridley, shall we drive? Shall we drive, Ridley?” + +Mrs. Ambrose had to speak sharply; by this time he was far away. + +The cab, by trotting steadily along the same road, soon withdrew them +from the West End, and plunged them into London. It appeared that this +was a great manufacturing place, where the people were engaged in +making things, as though the West End, with its electric lamps, its +vast plate-glass windows all shining yellow, its carefully-finished +houses, and tiny live figures trotting on the pavement, or bowled along +on wheels in the road, was the finished work. It appeared to her a very +small bit of work for such an enormous factory to have made. For some +reason it appeared to her as a small golden tassel on the edge of a +vast black cloak. + +Observing that they passed no other hansom cab, but only vans and +waggons, and that not one of the thousand men and women she saw was +either a gentleman or a lady, Mrs. Ambrose understood that after all it +is the ordinary thing to be poor, and that London is the city of +innumerable poor people. Startled by this discovery and seeing herself +pacing a circle all the days of her life round Picadilly Circus she was +greatly relieved to pass a building put up by the London County Council +for Night Schools. + +“Lord, how gloomy it is!” her husband groaned. “Poor creatures!” + +What with the misery for her children, the poor, and the rain, her mind +was like a wound exposed to dry in the air. + +At this point the cab stopped, for it was in danger of being crushed +like an egg-shell. The wide Embankment which had had room for +cannonballs and squadrons, had now shrunk to a cobbled lane steaming +with smells of malt and oil and blocked by waggons. While her husband +read the placards pasted on the brick announcing the hours at which +certain ships would sail for Scotland, Mrs. Ambrose did her best to +find information. From a world exclusively occupied in feeding waggons +with sacks, half obliterated too in a fine yellow fog, they got neither +help nor attention. It seemed a miracle when an old man approached, +guessed their condition, and proposed to row them out to their ship in +the little boat which he kept moored at the bottom of a flight of +steps. With some hesitation they trusted themselves to him, took their +places, and were soon waving up and down upon the water, London having +shrunk to two lines of buildings on either side of them, square +buildings and oblong buildings placed in rows like a child’s avenue of +bricks. + +The river, which had a certain amount of troubled yellow light in it, +ran with great force; bulky barges floated down swiftly escorted by +tugs; police boats shot past everything; the wind went with the +current. The open rowing-boat in which they sat bobbed and curtseyed +across the line of traffic. In mid-stream the old man stayed his hands +upon the oars, and as the water rushed past them, remarked that once he +had taken many passengers across, where now he took scarcely any. He +seemed to recall an age when his boat, moored among rushes, carried +delicate feet across to lawns at Rotherhithe. + +“They want bridges now,” he said, indicating the monstrous outline of +the Tower Bridge. Mournfully Helen regarded him, who was putting water +between her and her children. Mournfully she gazed at the ship they +were approaching; anchored in the middle of the stream they could dimly +read her name—_Euphrosyne_. + +Very dimly in the falling dusk they could see the lines of the rigging, +the masts and the dark flag which the breeze blew out squarely behind. + +As the little boat sidled up to the steamer, and the old man shipped +his oars, he remarked once more pointing above, that ships all the +world over flew that flag the day they sailed. In the minds of both the +passengers the blue flag appeared a sinister token, and this the moment +for presentiments, but nevertheless they rose, gathered their things +together, and climbed on deck. + +Down in the saloon of her father’s ship, Miss Rachel Vinrace, aged +twenty-four, stood waiting her uncle and aunt nervously. To begin with, +though nearly related, she scarcely remembered them; to go on with, +they were elderly people, and finally, as her father’s daughter she +must be in some sort prepared to entertain them. She looked forward to +seeing them as civilised people generally look forward to the first +sight of civilised people, as though they were of the nature of an +approaching physical discomfort—a tight shoe or a draughty window. She +was already unnaturally braced to receive them. As she occupied herself +in laying forks severely straight by the side of knives, she heard a +man’s voice saying gloomily: + +“On a dark night one would fall down these stairs head foremost,” to +which a woman’s voice added, “And be killed.” + +As she spoke the last words the woman stood in the doorway. Tall, +large-eyed, draped in purple shawls, Mrs. Ambrose was romantic and +beautiful; not perhaps sympathetic, for her eyes looked straight and +considered what they saw. Her face was much warmer than a Greek face; +on the other hand it was much bolder than the face of the usual pretty +Englishwoman. + +“Oh, Rachel, how d’you do,” she said, shaking hands. + +“How are you, dear,” said Mr. Ambrose, inclining his forehead to be +kissed. His niece instinctively liked his thin angular body, and the +big head with its sweeping features, and the acute, innocent eyes. + +“Tell Mr. Pepper,” Rachel bade the servant. Husband and wife then sat +down on one side of the table, with their niece opposite to them. + +“My father told me to begin,” she explained. “He is very busy with the +men. . . . You know Mr. Pepper?” + +A little man who was bent as some trees are by a gale on one side of +them had slipped in. Nodding to Mr. Ambrose, he shook hands with Helen. + +“Draughts,” he said, erecting the collar of his coat. + +“You are still rheumatic?” asked Helen. Her voice was low and +seductive, though she spoke absently enough, the sight of town and +river being still present to her mind. + +“Once rheumatic, always rheumatic, I fear,” he replied. “To some extent +it depends on the weather, though not so much as people are apt to +think.” + +“One does not die of it, at any rate,” said Helen. + +“As a general rule—no,” said Mr. Pepper. + +“Soup, Uncle Ridley?” asked Rachel. + +“Thank you, dear,” he said, and, as he held his plate out, sighed +audibly, “Ah! she’s not like her mother.” Helen was just too late in +thumping her tumbler on the table to prevent Rachel from hearing, and +from blushing scarlet with embarrassment. + +“The way servants treat flowers!” she said hastily. She drew a green +vase with a crinkled lip towards her, and began pulling out the tight +little chrysanthemums, which she laid on the table-cloth, arranging +them fastidiously side by side. + +There was a pause. + +“You knew Jenkinson, didn’t you, Ambrose?” asked Mr. Pepper across the +table. + +“Jenkinson of Peterhouse?” + +“He’s dead,” said Mr. Pepper. + +“Ah, dear!—I knew him—ages ago,” said Ridley. “He was the hero of the +punt accident, you remember? A queer card. Married a young woman out of +a tobacconist’s, and lived in the Fens—never heard what became of him.” + +“Drink—drugs,” said Mr. Pepper with sinister conciseness. “He left a +commentary. Hopeless muddle, I’m told.” + +“The man had really great abilities,” said Ridley. + +“His introduction to Jellaby holds its own still,” went on Mr. Pepper, +“which is surprising, seeing how text-books change.” + +“There was a theory about the planets, wasn’t there?” asked Ridley. + +“A screw loose somewhere, no doubt of it,” said Mr. Pepper, shaking his +head. + +Now a tremor ran through the table, and a light outside swerved. At the +same time an electric bell rang sharply again and again. + +“We’re off,” said Ridley. + +A slight but perceptible wave seemed to roll beneath the floor; then it +sank; then another came, more perceptible. Lights slid right across the +uncurtained window. The ship gave a loud melancholy moan. + +“We’re off!” said Mr. Pepper. Other ships, as sad as she, answered her +outside on the river. The chuckling and hissing of water could be +plainly heard, and the ship heaved so that the steward bringing plates +had to balance himself as he drew the curtain. There was a pause. + +“Jenkinson of Cats—d’you still keep up with him?” asked Ambrose. + +“As much as one ever does,” said Mr. Pepper. “We meet annually. This +year he has had the misfortune to lose his wife, which made it painful, +of course.” + +“Very painful,” Ridley agreed. + +“There’s an unmarried daughter who keeps house for him, I believe, but +it’s never the same, not at his age.” + +Both gentlemen nodded sagely as they carved their apples. + +“There was a book, wasn’t there?” Ridley enquired. + +“There _was_ a book, but there never _will_ be a book,” said Mr. Pepper +with such fierceness that both ladies looked up at him. + +“There never will be a book, because some one else has written it for +him,” said Mr. Pepper with considerable acidity. “That’s what comes of +putting things off, and collecting fossils, and sticking Norman arches +on one’s pigsties.” + +“I confess I sympathise,” said Ridley with a melancholy sigh. “I have a +weakness for people who can’t begin.” + +“. . . The accumulations of a lifetime wasted,” continued Mr. pepper. +“He had accumulations enough to fill a barn.” + +“It’s a vice that some of us escape,” said Ridley. “Our friend Miles +has another work out to-day.” + +Mr. Pepper gave an acid little laugh. “According to my calculations,” +he said, “he has produced two volumes and a half annually, which, +allowing for time spent in the cradle and so forth, shows a commendable +industry.” + +“Yes, the old Master’s saying of him has been pretty well realised,” +said Ridley. + +“A way they had,” said Mr. Pepper. “You know the Bruce collection?—not +for publication, of course.” + +“I should suppose not,” said Ridley significantly. “For a Divine he +was—remarkably free.” + +“The Pump in Neville’s Row, for example?” enquired Mr. Pepper. + +“Precisely,” said Ambrose. + +Each of the ladies, being after the fashion of their sex, highly +trained in promoting men’s talk without listening to it, could +think—about the education of children, about the use of fog sirens in +an opera—without betraying herself. Only it struck Helen that Rachel +was perhaps too still for a hostess, and that she might have done +something with her hands. + +“Perhaps—?” she said at length, upon which they rose and left, vaguely +to the surprise of the gentlemen, who had either thought them attentive +or had forgotten their presence. + +“Ah, one could tell strange stories of the old days,” they heard Ridley +say, as he sank into his chair again. Glancing back, at the doorway, +they saw Mr. Pepper as though he had suddenly loosened his clothes, and +had become a vivacious and malicious old ape. + +Winding veils round their heads, the women walked on deck. They were +now moving steadily down the river, passing the dark shapes of ships at +anchor, and London was a swarm of lights with a pale yellow canopy +drooping above it. There were the lights of the great theatres, the +lights of the long streets, lights that indicated huge squares of +domestic comfort, lights that hung high in air. No darkness would ever +settle upon those lamps, as no darkness had settled upon them for +hundreds of years. It seemed dreadful that the town should blaze for +ever in the same spot; dreadful at least to people going away to +adventure upon the sea, and beholding it as a circumscribed mound, +eternally burnt, eternally scarred. From the deck of the ship the great +city appeared a crouched and cowardly figure, a sedentary miser. + +Leaning over the rail, side by side, Helen said, “Won’t you be cold?” +Rachel replied, “No. . . . How beautiful!” she added a moment later. +Very little was visible—a few masts, a shadow of land here, a line of +brilliant windows there. They tried to make head against the wind. + +“It blows—it blows!” gasped Rachel, the words rammed down her throat. +Struggling by her side, Helen was suddenly overcome by the spirit of +movement, and pushed along with her skirts wrapping themselves round +her knees, and both arms to her hair. But slowly the intoxication of +movement died down, and the wind became rough and chilly. They looked +through a chink in the blind and saw that long cigars were being smoked +in the dining-room; they saw Mr. Ambrose throw himself violently +against the back of his chair, while Mr. Pepper crinkled his cheeks as +though they had been cut in wood. The ghost of a roar of laughter came +out to them, and was drowned at once in the wind. In the dry +yellow-lighted room Mr. Pepper and Mr. Ambrose were oblivious of all +tumult; they were in Cambridge, and it was probably about the year +1875. + +“They’re old friends,” said Helen, smiling at the sight. “Now, is there +a room for us to sit in?” + +Rachel opened a door. + +“It’s more like a landing than a room,” she said. Indeed it had nothing +of the shut stationary character of a room on shore. A table was rooted +in the middle, and seats were stuck to the sides. Happily the tropical +suns had bleached the tapestries to a faded blue-green colour, and the +mirror with its frame of shells, the work of the steward’s love, when +the time hung heavy in the southern seas, was quaint rather than ugly. +Twisted shells with red lips like unicorn’s horns ornamented the +mantelpiece, which was draped by a pall of purple plush from which +depended a certain number of balls. Two windows opened on to the deck, +and the light beating through them when the ship was roasted on the +Amazons had turned the prints on the opposite wall to a faint yellow +colour, so that “The Coliseum” was scarcely to be distinguished from +Queen Alexandra playing with her Spaniels. A pair of wicker arm-chairs +by the fireside invited one to warm one’s hands at a grate full of gilt +shavings; a great lamp swung above the table—the kind of lamp which +makes the light of civilisation across dark fields to one walking in +the country. + +“It’s odd that every one should be an old friend of Mr. Pepper’s,” +Rachel started nervously, for the situation was difficult, the room +cold, and Helen curiously silent. + +“I suppose you take him for granted?” said her aunt. + +“He’s like this,” said Rachel, lighting on a fossilised fish in a +basin, and displaying it. + +“I expect you’re too severe,” Helen remarked. + +Rachel immediately tried to qualify what she had said against her +belief. + +“I don’t really know him,” she said, and took refuge in facts, +believing that elderly people really like them better than feelings. +She produced what she knew of William Pepper. She told Helen that he +always called on Sundays when they were at home; he knew about a great +many things—about mathematics, history, Greek, zoology, economics, and +the Icelandic Sagas. He had turned Persian poetry into English prose, +and English prose into Greek iambics; he was an authority upon coins; +and—one other thing—oh yes, she thought it was vehicular traffic. + +He was here either to get things out of the sea, or to write upon the +probable course of Odysseus, for Greek after all was his hobby. + +“I’ve got all his pamphlets,” she said. “Little pamphlets. Little +yellow books.” It did not appear that she had read them. + +“Has he ever been in love?” asked Helen, who had chosen a seat. + +This was unexpectedly to the point. + +“His heart’s a piece of old shoe leather,” Rachel declared, dropping +the fish. But when questioned she had to own that she had never asked +him. + +“I shall ask him,” said Helen. + +“The last time I saw you, you were buying a piano,” she continued. “Do +you remember—the piano, the room in the attic, and the great plants +with the prickles?” + +“Yes, and my aunts said the piano would come through the floor, but at +their age one wouldn’t mind being killed in the night?” she enquired. + +“I heard from Aunt Bessie not long ago,” Helen stated. “She is afraid +that you will spoil your arms if you insist upon so much practising.” + +“The muscles of the forearm—and then one won’t marry?” + +“She didn’t put it quite like that,” replied Mrs. Ambrose. + +“Oh, no—of course she wouldn’t,” said Rachel with a sigh. + +Helen looked at her. Her face was weak rather than decided, saved from +insipidity by the large enquiring eyes; denied beauty, now that she was +sheltered indoors, by the lack of colour and definite outline. +Moreover, a hesitation in speaking, or rather a tendency to use the +wrong words, made her seem more than normally incompetent for her +years. Mrs. Ambrose, who had been speaking much at random, now +reflected that she certainly did not look forward to the intimacy of +three or four weeks on board ship which was threatened. Women of her +own age usually boring her, she supposed that girls would be worse. She +glanced at Rachel again. Yes! how clear it was that she would be +vacillating, emotional, and when you said something to her it would +make no more lasting impression than the stroke of a stick upon water. +There was nothing to take hold of in girls—nothing hard, permanent, +satisfactory. Did Willoughby say three weeks, or did he say four? She +tried to remember. + +At this point, however, the door opened and a tall burly man entered +the room, came forward and shook Helen’s hand with an emotional kind of +heartiness, Willoughby himself, Rachel’s father, Helen’s +brother-in-law. As a great deal of flesh would have been needed to make +a fat man of him, his frame being so large, he was not fat; his face +was a large framework too, looking, by the smallness of the features +and the glow in the hollow of the cheek, more fitted to withstand +assaults of the weather than to express sentiments and emotions, or to +respond to them in others. + +“It is a great pleasure that you have come,” he said, “for both of us.” + +Rachel murmured in obedience to her father’s glance. + +“We’ll do our best to make you comfortable. And Ridley. We think it an +honour to have charge of him. Pepper’ll have some one to contradict +him—which I daren’t do. You find this child grown, don’t you? A young +woman, eh?” + +Still holding Helen’s hand he drew his arm round Rachel’s shoulder, +thus making them come uncomfortably close, but Helen forbore to look. + +“You think she does us credit?” he asked. + +“Oh yes,” said Helen. + +“Because we expect great things of her,” he continued, squeezing his +daughter’s arm and releasing her. “But about you now.” They sat down +side by side on the little sofa. “Did you leave the children well? +They’ll be ready for school, I suppose. Do they take after you or +Ambrose? They’ve got good heads on their shoulders, I’ll be bound?” + +At this Helen immediately brightened more than she had yet done, and +explained that her son was six and her daughter ten. Everybody said +that her boy was like her and her girl like Ridley. As for brains, they +were quick brats, she thought, and modestly she ventured on a little +story about her son,—how left alone for a minute he had taken the pat +of butter in his fingers, run across the room with it, and put it on +the fire—merely for the fun of the thing, a feeling which she could +understand. + +“And you had to show the young rascal that these tricks wouldn’t do, +eh?” + +“A child of six? I don’t think they matter.” + +“I’m an old-fashioned father.” + +“Nonsense, Willoughby; Rachel knows better.” + +Much as Willoughby would doubtless have liked his daughter to praise +him she did not; her eyes were unreflecting as water, her fingers still +toying with the fossilised fish, her mind absent. The elder people went +on to speak of arrangements that could be made for Ridley’s comfort—a +table placed where he couldn’t help looking at the sea, far from +boilers, at the same time sheltered from the view of people passing. +Unless he made this a holiday, when his books were all packed, he would +have no holiday whatever; for out at Santa Marina Helen knew, by +experience, that he would work all day; his boxes, she said, were +packed with books. + +“Leave it to me—leave it to me!” said Willoughby, obviously intending +to do much more than she asked of him. But Ridley and Mr. Pepper were +heard fumbling at the door. + +“How are you, Vinrace?” said Ridley, extending a limp hand as he came +in, as though the meeting were melancholy to both, but on the whole +more so to him. + +Willoughby preserved his heartiness, tempered by respect. For the +moment nothing was said. + +“We looked in and saw you laughing,” Helen remarked. “Mr. Pepper had +just told a very good story.” + +“Pish. None of the stories were good,” said her husband peevishly. + +“Still a severe judge, Ridley?” enquired Mr. Vinrace. + +“We bored you so that you left,” said Ridley, speaking directly to his +wife. + +As this was quite true Helen did not attempt to deny it, and her next +remark, “But didn’t they improve after we’d gone?” was unfortunate, for +her husband answered with a droop of his shoulders, “If possible they +got worse.” + +The situation was now one of considerable discomfort for every one +concerned, as was proved by a long interval of constraint and silence. +Mr. Pepper, indeed, created a diversion of a kind by leaping on to his +seat, both feet tucked under him, with the action of a spinster who +detects a mouse, as the draught struck at his ankles. Drawn up there, +sucking at his cigar, with his arms encircling his knees, he looked +like the image of Buddha, and from this elevation began a discourse, +addressed to nobody, for nobody had called for it, upon the unplumbed +depths of ocean. He professed himself surprised to learn that although +Mr. Vinrace possessed ten ships, regularly plying between London and +Buenos Aires, not one of them was bidden to investigate the great white +monsters of the lower waters. + +“No, no,” laughed Willoughby, “the monsters of the earth are too many +for me!” + +Rachel was heard to sigh, “Poor little goats!” + +“If it weren’t for the goats there’d be no music, my dear; music +depends upon goats,” said her father rather sharply, and Mr. Pepper +went on to describe the white, hairless, blind monsters lying curled on +the ridges of sand at the bottom of the sea, which would explode if you +brought them to the surface, their sides bursting asunder and +scattering entrails to the winds when released from pressure, with +considerable detail and with such show of knowledge, that Ridley was +disgusted, and begged him to stop. + +From all this Helen drew her own conclusions, which were gloomy enough. +Pepper was a bore; Rachel was an unlicked girl, no doubt prolific of +confidences, the very first of which would be: “You see, I don’t get on +with my father.” Willoughby, as usual, loved his business and built his +Empire, and between them all she would be considerably bored. Being a +woman of action, however, she rose, and said that for her part she was +going to bed. At the door she glanced back instinctively at Rachel, +expecting that as two of the same sex they would leave the room +together. Rachel rose, looked vaguely into Helen’s face, and remarked +with her slight stammer, “I’m going out to t-t-triumph in the wind.” + +Mrs. Ambrose’s worst suspicions were confirmed; she went down the +passage lurching from side to side, and fending off the wall now with +her right arm, now with her left; at each lurch she exclaimed +emphatically, “Damn!” + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +Uncomfortable as the night, with its rocking movement, and salt smells, +may have been, and in one case undoubtedly was, for Mr. Pepper had +insufficient clothes upon his bed, the breakfast next morning wore a +kind of beauty. The voyage had begun, and had begun happily with a soft +blue sky, and a calm sea. The sense of untapped resources, things to +say as yet unsaid, made the hour significant, so that in future years +the entire journey perhaps would be represented by this one scene, with +the sound of sirens hooting in the river the night before, somehow +mixing in. + +The table was cheerful with apples and bread and eggs. Helen handed +Willoughby the butter, and as she did so cast her eye on him and +reflected, “And she married you, and she was happy, I suppose.” + +She went off on a familiar train of thought, leading on to all kinds of +well-known reflections, from the old wonder, why Theresa had married +Willoughby? + +“Of course, one sees all that,” she thought, meaning that one sees that +he is big and burly, and has a great booming voice, and a fist and a +will of his own; “but—” here she slipped into a fine analysis of him +which is best represented by one word, “sentimental,” by which she +meant that he was never simple and honest about his feelings. For +example, he seldom spoke of the dead, but kept anniversaries with +singular pomp. She suspected him of nameless atrocities with regard to +his daughter, as indeed she had always suspected him of bullying his +wife. Naturally she fell to comparing her own fortunes with the +fortunes of her friend, for Willoughby’s wife had been perhaps the one +woman Helen called friend, and this comparison often made the staple of +their talk. Ridley was a scholar, and Willoughby was a man of business. +Ridley was bringing out the third volume of Pindar when Willoughby was +launching his first ship. They built a new factory the very year the +commentary on Aristotle—was it?—appeared at the University Press. “And +Rachel,” she looked at her, meaning, no doubt, to decide the argument, +which was otherwise too evenly balanced, by declaring that Rachel was +not comparable to her own children. “She really might be six years +old,” was all she said, however, this judgment referring to the smooth +unmarked outline of the girl’s face, and not condemning her otherwise, +for if Rachel were ever to think, feel, laugh, or express herself, +instead of dropping milk from a height as though to see what kind of +drops it made, she might be interesting though never exactly pretty. +She was like her mother, as the image in a pool on a still summer’s day +is like the vivid flushed face that hangs over it. + +Meanwhile Helen herself was under examination, though not from either +of her victims. Mr. Pepper considered her; and his meditations, carried +on while he cut his toast into bars and neatly buttered them, took him +through a considerable stretch of autobiography. One of his penetrating +glances assured him that he was right last night in judging that Helen +was beautiful. Blandly he passed her the jam. She was talking nonsense, +but not worse nonsense than people usually do talk at breakfast, the +cerebral circulation, as he knew to his cost, being apt to give trouble +at that hour. He went on saying “No” to her, on principle, for he never +yielded to a woman on account of her sex. And here, dropping his eyes +to his plate, he became autobiographical. He had not married himself +for the sufficient reason that he had never met a woman who commanded +his respect. Condemned to pass the susceptible years of youth in a +railway station in Bombay, he had seen only coloured women, military +women, official women; and his ideal was a woman who could read Greek, +if not Persian, was irreproachably fair in the face, and able to +understand the small things he let fall while undressing. As it was he +had contracted habits of which he was not in the least ashamed. Certain +odd minutes every day went to learning things by heart; he never took a +ticket without noting the number; he devoted January to Petronius, +February to Catullus, March to the Etruscan vases perhaps; anyhow he +had done good work in India, and there was nothing to regret in his +life except the fundamental defects which no wise man regrets, when the +present is still his. So concluding he looked up suddenly and smiled. +Rachel caught his eye. + +“And now you’ve chewed something thirty-seven times, I suppose?” she +thought, but said politely aloud, “Are your legs troubling you to-day, +Mr. Pepper?” + +“My shoulder blades?” he asked, shifting them painfully. “Beauty has no +effect upon uric acid that I’m aware of,” he sighed, contemplating the +round pane opposite, through which the sky and sea showed blue. At the +same time he took a little parchment volume from his pocket and laid it +on the table. As it was clear that he invited comment, Helen asked him +the name of it. She got the name; but she got also a disquisition upon +the proper method of making roads. Beginning with the Greeks, who had, +he said, many difficulties to contend with, he continued with the +Romans, passed to England and the right method, which speedily became +the wrong method, and wound up with such a fury of denunciation +directed against the road-makers of the present day in general, and the +road-makers of Richmond Park in particular, where Mr. Pepper had the +habit of cycling every morning before breakfast, that the spoons fairly +jingled against the coffee cups, and the insides of at least four rolls +mounted in a heap beside Mr. Pepper’s plate. + +“Pebbles!” he concluded, viciously dropping another bread pellet upon +the heap. “The roads of England are mended with pebbles! ‘With the +first heavy rainfall,’ I’ve told ’em, ‘your road will be a swamp.’ +Again and again my words have proved true. But d’you suppose they +listen to me when I tell ’em so, when I point out the consequences, the +consequences to the public purse, when I recommend ’em to read +Coryphaeus? No, Mrs. Ambrose, you will form no just opinion of the +stupidity of mankind until you have sat upon a Borough Council!” The +little man fixed her with a glance of ferocious energy. + +“I have had servants,” said Mrs. Ambrose, concentrating her gaze. “At +this moment I have a nurse. She’s a good woman as they go, but she’s +determined to make my children pray. So far, owing to great care on my +part, they think of God as a kind of walrus; but now that my back’s +turned—Ridley,” she demanded, swinging round upon her husband, “what +shall we do if we find them saying the Lord’s Prayer when we get home +again?” + +Ridley made the sound which is represented by “Tush.” But Willoughby, +whose discomfort as he listened was manifested by a slight movement +rocking of his body, said awkwardly, “Oh, surely, Helen, a little +religion hurts nobody.” + +“I would rather my children told lies,” she replied, and while +Willoughby was reflecting that his sister-in-law was even more +eccentric than he remembered, pushed her chair back and swept upstairs. +In a second they heard her calling back, “Oh, look! We’re out at sea!” + +They followed her on to the deck. All the smoke and the houses had +disappeared, and the ship was out in a wide space of sea very fresh and +clear though pale in the early light. They had left London sitting on +its mud. A very thin line of shadow tapered on the horizon, scarcely +thick enough to stand the burden of Paris, which nevertheless rested +upon it. They were free of roads, free of mankind, and the same +exhilaration at their freedom ran through them all. The ship was making +her way steadily through small waves which slapped her and then fizzled +like effervescing water, leaving a little border of bubbles and foam on +either side. The colourless October sky above was thinly clouded as if +by the trail of wood-fire smoke, and the air was wonderfully salt and +brisk. Indeed it was too cold to stand still. Mrs. Ambrose drew her arm +within her husband’s, and as they moved off it could be seen from the +way in which her sloping cheek turned up to his that she had something +private to communicate. They went a few paces and Rachel saw them kiss. + +Down she looked into the depth of the sea. While it was slightly +disturbed on the surface by the passage of the _Euphrosyne_, beneath it +was green and dim, and it grew dimmer and dimmer until the sand at the +bottom was only a pale blur. One could scarcely see the black ribs of +wrecked ships, or the spiral towers made by the burrowings of great +eels, or the smooth green-sided monsters who came by flickering this +way and that. + +—“And, Rachel, if any one wants me, I’m busy till one,” said her +father, enforcing his words as he often did, when he spoke to his +daughter, by a smart blow upon the shoulder. + +“Until one,” he repeated. “And you’ll find yourself some employment, +eh? Scales, French, a little German, eh? There’s Mr. Pepper who knows +more about separable verbs than any man in Europe, eh?” and he went off +laughing. Rachel laughed, too, as indeed she had laughed ever since she +could remember, without thinking it funny, but because she admired her +father. + +But just as she was turning with a view perhaps to finding some +employment, she was intercepted by a woman who was so broad and so +thick that to be intercepted by her was inevitable. The discreet +tentative way in which she moved, together with her sober black dress, +showed that she belonged to the lower orders; nevertheless she took up +a rock-like position, looking about her to see that no gentry were near +before she delivered her message, which had reference to the state of +the sheets, and was of the utmost gravity. + +“How ever we’re to get through this voyage, Miss Rachel, I really can’t +tell,” she began with a shake of her head. “There’s only just sheets +enough to go round, and the master’s has a rotten place you could put +your fingers through. And the counterpanes. Did you notice the +counterpanes? I thought to myself a poor person would have been ashamed +of them. The one I gave Mr. Pepper was hardly fit to cover a dog. . . . +No, Miss Rachel, they could _not_ be mended; they’re only fit for dust +sheets. Why, if one sewed one’s finger to the bone, one would have +one’s work undone the next time they went to the laundry.” + +Her voice in its indignation wavered as if tears were near. + +There was nothing for it but to descend and inspect a large pile of +linen heaped upon a table. Mrs. Chailey handled the sheets as if she +knew each by name, character, and constitution. Some had yellow stains, +others had places where the threads made long ladders; but to the +ordinary eye they looked much as sheets usually do look, very chill, +white, cold, and irreproachably clean. + +Suddenly Mrs. Chailey, turning from the subject of sheets, dismissing +them entirely, clenched her fists on the top of them, and proclaimed, +“And you couldn’t ask a living creature to sit where I sit!” + +Mrs. Chailey was expected to sit in a cabin which was large enough, but +too near the boilers, so that after five minutes she could hear her +heart “go,” she complained, putting her hand above it, which was a +state of things that Mrs. Vinrace, Rachel’s mother, would never have +dreamt of inflicting—Mrs. Vinrace, who knew every sheet in her house, +and expected of every one the best they could do, but no more. + +It was the easiest thing in the world to grant another room, and the +problem of sheets simultaneously and miraculously solved itself, the +spots and ladders not being past cure after all, but— + +“Lies! Lies! Lies!” exclaimed the mistress indignantly, as she ran up +on to the deck. “What’s the use of telling me lies?” + +In her anger that a woman of fifty should behave like a child and come +cringing to a girl because she wanted to sit where she had not leave to +sit, she did not think of the particular case, and, unpacking her +music, soon forgot all about the old woman and her sheets. + +Mrs. Chailey folded her sheets, but her expression testified to +flatness within. The world no longer cared about her, and a ship was +not a home. When the lamps were lit yesterday, and the sailors went +tumbling above her head, she had cried; she would cry this evening; she +would cry to-morrow. It was not home. Meanwhile she arranged her +ornaments in the room which she had won too easily. They were strange +ornaments to bring on a sea voyage—china pugs, tea-sets in miniature, +cups stamped floridly with the arms of the city of Bristol, hair-pin +boxes crusted with shamrock, antelopes’ heads in coloured plaster, +together with a multitude of tiny photographs, representing downright +workmen in their Sunday best, and women holding white babies. But there +was one portrait in a gilt frame, for which a nail was needed, and +before she sought it Mrs. Chailey put on her spectacles and read what +was written on a slip of paper at the back: + +“This picture of her mistress is given to Emma Chailey by Willoughby +Vinrace in gratitude for thirty years of devoted service.” + +Tears obliterated the words and the head of the nail. + +“So long as I can do something for your family,” she was saying, as she +hammered at it, when a voice called melodiously in the passage: + +“Mrs. Chailey! Mrs. Chailey!” + +Chailey instantly tidied her dress, composed her face, and opened the +door. + +“I’m in a fix,” said Mrs. Ambrose, who was flushed and out of breath. +“You know what gentlemen are. The chairs too high—the tables too +low—there’s six inches between the floor and the door. What I want’s a +hammer, an old quilt, and have you such a thing as a kitchen table? +Anyhow, between us”—she now flung open the door of her husband’s +sitting room, and revealed Ridley pacing up and down, his forehead all +wrinkled, and the collar of his coat turned up. + +“It’s as though they’d taken pains to torment me!” he cried, stopping +dead. “Did I come on this voyage in order to catch rheumatism and +pneumonia? Really one might have credited Vinrace with more sense. My +dear,” Helen was on her knees under a table, “you are only making +yourself untidy, and we had much better recognise the fact that we are +condemned to six weeks of unspeakable misery. To come at all was the +height of folly, but now that we are here I suppose that I can face it +like a man. My diseases of course will be increased—I feel already +worse than I did yesterday, but we’ve only ourselves to thank, and the +children happily—” + +“Move! Move! Move!” cried Helen, chasing him from corner to corner with +a chair as though he were an errant hen. “Out of the way, Ridley, and +in half an hour you’ll find it ready.” + +She turned him out of the room, and they could hear him groaning and +swearing as he went along the passage. + +“I daresay he isn’t very strong,” said Mrs. Chailey, looking at Mrs. +Ambrose compassionately, as she helped to shift and carry. + +“It’s books,” sighed Helen, lifting an armful of sad volumes from the +floor to the shelf. “Greek from morning to night. If ever Miss Rachel +marries, Chailey, pray that she may marry a man who doesn’t know his +ABC.” + +The preliminary discomforts and harshnesses, which generally make the +first days of a sea voyage so cheerless and trying to the temper, being +somehow lived through, the succeeding days passed pleasantly enough. +October was well advanced, but steadily burning with a warmth that made +the early months of the summer appear very young and capricious. Great +tracts of the earth lay now beneath the autumn sun, and the whole of +England, from the bald moors to the Cornish rocks, was lit up from dawn +to sunset, and showed in stretches of yellow, green, and purple. Under +that illumination even the roofs of the great towns glittered. In +thousands of small gardens, millions of dark-red flowers were blooming, +until the old ladies who had tended them so carefully came down the +paths with their scissors, snipped through their juicy stalks, and laid +them upon cold stone ledges in the village church. Innumerable parties +of picnickers coming home at sunset cried, “Was there ever such a day +as this?” “It’s you,” the young men whispered; “Oh, it’s you,” the +young women replied. All old people and many sick people were drawn, +were it only for a foot or two, into the open air, and prognosticated +pleasant things about the course of the world. As for the confidences +and expressions of love that were heard not only in cornfields but in +lamplit rooms, where the windows opened on the garden, and men with +cigars kissed women with grey hairs, they were not to be counted. Some +said that the sky was an emblem of the life to come. Long-tailed birds +clattered and screamed, and crossed from wood to wood, with golden eyes +in their plumage. + +But while all this went on by land, very few people thought about the +sea. They took it for granted that the sea was calm; and there was no +need, as there is in many houses when the creeper taps on the bedroom +windows, for the couples to murmur before they kiss, “Think of the +ships to-night,” or “Thank Heaven, I’m not the man in the lighthouse!” +For all they imagined, the ships when they vanished on the sky-line +dissolved, like snow in water. The grown-up view, indeed, was not much +clearer than the view of the little creatures in bathing drawers who +were trotting in to the foam all along the coasts of England, and +scooping up buckets full of water. They saw white sails or tufts of +smoke pass across the horizon, and if you had said that these were +waterspouts, or the petals of white sea flowers, they would have +agreed. + +The people in ships, however, took an equally singular view of England. +Not only did it appear to them to be an island, and a very small +island, but it was a shrinking island in which people were imprisoned. +One figured them first swarming about like aimless ants, and almost +pressing each other over the edge; and then, as the ship withdrew, one +figured them making a vain clamour, which, being unheard, either +ceased, or rose into a brawl. Finally, when the ship was out of sight +of land, it became plain that the people of England were completely +mute. The disease attacked other parts of the earth; Europe shrank, +Asia shrank, Africa and America shrank, until it seemed doubtful +whether the ship would ever run against any of those wrinkled little +rocks again. But, on the other hand, an immense dignity had descended +upon her; she was an inhabitant of the great world, which has so few +inhabitants, travelling all day across an empty universe, with veils +drawn before her and behind. She was more lonely than the caravan +crossing the desert; she was infinitely more mysterious, moving by her +own power and sustained by her own resources. The sea might give her +death or some unexampled joy, and none would know of it. She was a +bride going forth to her husband, a virgin unknown of men; in her vigor +and purity she might be likened to all beautiful things, for as a ship +she had a life of her own. + +Indeed if they had not been blessed in their weather, one blue day +being bowled up after another, smooth, round, and flawless, Mrs. +Ambrose would have found it very dull. As it was, she had her +embroidery frame set up on deck, with a little table by her side on +which lay open a black volume of philosophy. She chose a thread from +the vari-coloured tangle that lay in her lap, and sewed red into the +bark of a tree, or yellow into the river torrent. She was working at a +great design of a tropical river running through a tropical forest, +where spotted deer would eventually browse upon masses of fruit, +bananas, oranges, and giant pomegranates, while a troop of naked +natives whirled darts into the air. Between the stitches she looked to +one side and read a sentence about the Reality of Matter, or the Nature +of Good. Round her men in blue jerseys knelt and scrubbed the boards, +or leant over the rails and whistled, and not far off Mr. Pepper sat +cutting up roots with a penknife. The rest were occupied in other parts +of the ship: Ridley at his Greek—he had never found quarters more to +his liking; Willoughby at his documents, for he used a voyage to work +off arrears of business; and Rachel—Helen, between her sentences of +philosophy, wondered sometimes what Rachel _did_ do with herself? She +meant vaguely to go and see. They had scarcely spoken two words to each +other since that first evening; they were polite when they met, but +there had been no confidence of any kind. Rachel seemed to get on very +well with her father—much better, Helen thought, than she ought to—and +was as ready to let Helen alone as Helen was to let her alone. + +At that moment Rachel was sitting in her room doing absolutely nothing. +When the ship was full this apartment bore some magnificent title and +was the resort of elderly sea-sick ladies who left the deck to their +youngsters. By virtue of the piano, and a mess of books on the floor, +Rachel considered it her room, and there she would sit for hours +playing very difficult music, reading a little German, or a little +English when the mood took her, and doing—as at this moment—absolutely +nothing. + +The way she had been educated, joined to a fine natural indolence, was +of course partly the reason of it, for she had been educated as the +majority of well-to-do girls in the last part of the nineteenth century +were educated. Kindly doctors and gentle old professors had taught her +the rudiments of about ten different branches of knowledge, but they +would as soon have forced her to go through one piece of drudgery +thoroughly as they would have told her that her hands were dirty. The +one hour or the two hours weekly passed very pleasantly, partly owing +to the other pupils, partly to the fact that the window looked upon the +back of a shop, where figures appeared against the red windows in +winter, partly to the accidents that are bound to happen when more than +two people are in the same room together. But there was no subject in +the world which she knew accurately. Her mind was in the state of an +intelligent man’s in the beginning of the reign of Queen Elizabeth; she +would believe practically anything she was told, invent reasons for +anything she said. The shape of the earth, the history of the world, +how trains worked, or money was invested, what laws were in force, +which people wanted what, and why they wanted it, the most elementary +idea of a system in modern life—none of this had been imparted to her +by any of her professors or mistresses. But this system of education +had one great advantage. It did not teach anything, but it put no +obstacle in the way of any real talent that the pupil might chance to +have. Rachel, being musical, was allowed to learn nothing but music; +she became a fanatic about music. All the energies that might have gone +into languages, science, or literature, that might have made her +friends, or shown her the world, poured straight into music. Finding +her teachers inadequate, she had practically taught herself. At the age +of twenty-four she knew as much about music as most people do when they +are thirty; and could play as well as nature allowed her to, which, as +became daily more obvious, was a really generous allowance. If this one +definite gift was surrounded by dreams and ideas of the most +extravagant and foolish description, no one was any the wiser. + +Her education being thus ordinary, her circumstances were no more out +of the common. She was an only child and had never been bullied and +laughed at by brothers and sisters. Her mother having died when she was +eleven, two aunts, the sisters of her father, brought her up, and they +lived for the sake of the air in a comfortable house in Richmond. She +was of course brought up with excessive care, which as a child was for +her health; as a girl and a young woman was for what it seems almost +crude to call her morals. Until quite lately she had been completely +ignorant that for women such things existed. She groped for knowledge +in old books, and found it in repulsive chunks, but she did not +naturally care for books and thus never troubled her head about the +censorship which was exercised first by her aunts, later by her father. +Friends might have told her things, but she had few of her own +age,—Richmond being an awkward place to reach,—and, as it happened, the +only girl she knew well was a religious zealot, who in the fervour of +intimacy talked about God, and the best ways of taking up one’s cross, +a topic only fitfully interesting to one whose mind reached other +stages at other times. + +But lying in her chair, with one hand behind her head, the other +grasping the knob on the arm, she was clearly following her thoughts +intently. Her education left her abundant time for thinking. Her eyes +were fixed so steadily upon a ball on the rail of the ship that she +would have been startled and annoyed if anything had chanced to obscure +it for a second. She had begun her meditations with a shout of +laughter, caused by the following translation from _Tristan_: + +In shrinking trepidation +His shame he seems to hide +While to the king his relation +He brings the corpse-like Bride. +Seems it so senseless what I say? + + +She cried that it did, and threw down the book. Next she had picked up +_Cowper’s Letters_, the classic prescribed by her father which had +bored her, so that one sentence chancing to say something about the +smell of broom in his garden, she had thereupon seen the little hall at +Richmond laden with flowers on the day of her mother’s funeral, +smelling so strong that now any flower-scent brought back the sickly +horrible sensation; and so from one scene she passed, half-hearing, +half-seeing, to another. She saw her Aunt Lucy arranging flowers in the +drawing-room. + +“Aunt Lucy,” she volunteered, “I don’t like the smell of broom; it +reminds me of funerals.” + +“Nonsense, Rachel,” Aunt Lucy replied; “don’t say such foolish things, +dear. I always think it a particularly cheerful plant.” + +Lying in the hot sun her mind was fixed upon the characters of her +aunts, their views, and the way they lived. Indeed this was a subject +that lasted her hundreds of morning walks round Richmond Park, and +blotted out the trees and the people and the deer. Why did they do the +things they did, and what did they feel, and what was it all about? +Again she heard Aunt Lucy talking to Aunt Eleanor. She had been that +morning to take up the character of a servant, “And, of course, at +half-past ten in the morning one expects to find the housemaid brushing +the stairs.” How odd! How unspeakably odd! But she could not explain to +herself why suddenly as her aunt spoke the whole system in which they +lived had appeared before her eyes as something quite unfamiliar and +inexplicable, and themselves as chairs or umbrellas dropped about here +and there without any reason. She could only say with her slight +stammer, “Are you f-f-fond of Aunt Eleanor, Aunt Lucy?” to which her +aunt replied, with her nervous hen-like twitter of a laugh, “My dear +child, what questions you do ask!” + +“How fond? Very fond!” Rachel pursued. + +“I can’t say I’ve ever thought ‘how,’” said Miss Vinrace. “If one cares +one doesn’t think ‘how,’ Rachel,” which was aimed at the niece who had +never yet “come” to her aunts as cordially as they wished. + +“But you know I care for you, don’t you, dear, because you’re your +mother’s daughter, if for no other reason, and there _are_ plenty of +other reasons”—and she leant over and kissed her with some emotion, and +the argument was spilt irretrievably about the place like a bucket of +milk. + +By these means Rachel reached that stage in thinking, if thinking it +can be called, when the eyes are intent upon a ball or a knob and the +lips cease to move. Her efforts to come to an understanding had only +hurt her aunt’s feelings, and the conclusion must be that it is better +not to try. To feel anything strongly was to create an abyss between +oneself and others who feel strongly perhaps but differently. It was +far better to play the piano and forget all the rest. The conclusion +was very welcome. Let these odd men and women—her aunts, the Hunts, +Ridley, Helen, Mr. Pepper, and the rest—be symbols,—featureless but +dignified, symbols of age, of youth, of motherhood, of learning, and +beautiful often as people upon the stage are beautiful. It appeared +that nobody ever said a thing they meant, or ever talked of a feeling +they felt, but that was what music was for. Reality dwelling in what +one saw and felt, but did not talk about, one could accept a system in +which things went round and round quite satisfactorily to other people, +without often troubling to think about it, except as something +superficially strange. Absorbed by her music she accepted her lot very +complacently, blazing into indignation perhaps once a fortnight, and +subsiding as she subsided now. Inextricably mixed in dreamy confusion, +her mind seemed to enter into communion, to be delightfully expanded +and combined with the spirit of the whitish boards on deck, with the +spirit of the sea, with the spirit of Beethoven Op. 112, even with the +spirit of poor William Cowper there at Olney. Like a ball of +thistledown it kissed the sea, rose, kissed it again, and thus rising +and kissing passed finally out of sight. The rising and falling of the +ball of thistledown was represented by the sudden droop forward of her +own head, and when it passed out of sight she was asleep. + +Ten minutes later Mrs. Ambrose opened the door and looked at her. It +did not surprise her to find that this was the way in which Rachel +passed her mornings. She glanced round the room at the piano, at the +books, at the general mess. In the first place she considered Rachel +aesthetically; lying unprotected she looked somehow like a victim +dropped from the claws of a bird of prey, but considered as a woman, a +young woman of twenty-four, the sight gave rise to reflections. Mrs. +Ambrose stood thinking for at least two minutes. She then smiled, +turned noiselessly away and went, lest the sleeper should waken, and +there should be the awkwardness of speech between them. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Early next morning there was a sound as of chains being drawn roughly +overhead; the steady heart of the _Euphrosyne_ slowly ceased to beat; +and Helen, poking her nose above deck, saw a stationary castle upon a +stationary hill. They had dropped anchor in the mouth of the Tagus, and +instead of cleaving new waves perpetually, the same waves kept +returning and washing against the sides of the ship. + +As soon as breakfast was done, Willoughby disappeared over the vessel’s +side, carrying a brown leather case, shouting over his shoulder that +every one was to mind and behave themselves, for he would be kept in +Lisbon doing business until five o’clock that afternoon. + +At about that hour he reappeared, carrying his case, professing himself +tired, bothered, hungry, thirsty, cold, and in immediate need of his +tea. Rubbing his hands, he told them the adventures of the day: how he +had come upon poor old Jackson combing his moustache before the glass +in the office, little expecting his descent, had put him through such a +morning’s work as seldom came his way; then treated him to a lunch of +champagne and ortolans; paid a call upon Mrs. Jackson, who was fatter +than ever, poor woman, but asked kindly after Rachel—and O Lord, little +Jackson had confessed to a confounded piece of weakness—well, well, no +harm was done, he supposed, but what was the use of his giving orders +if they were promptly disobeyed? He had said distinctly that he would +take no passengers on this trip. Here he began searching in his pockets +and eventually discovered a card, which he planked down on the table +before Rachel. On it she read, “Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dalloway, 23 +Browne Street, Mayfair.” + +“Mr. Richard Dalloway,” continued Vinrace, “seems to be a gentleman who +thinks that because he was once a member of Parliament, and his wife’s +the daughter of a peer, they can have what they like for the asking. +They got round poor little Jackson anyhow. Said they must have +passages—produced a letter from Lord Glenaway, asking me as a personal +favour—overruled any objections Jackson made (I don’t believe they came +to much), and so there’s nothing for it but to submit, I suppose.” + +But it was evident that for some reason or other Willoughby was quite +pleased to submit, although he made a show of growling. + +The truth was that Mr. and Mrs. Dalloway had found themselves stranded +in Lisbon. They had been travelling on the Continent for some weeks, +chiefly with a view to broadening Mr. Dalloway’s mind. Unable for a +season, by one of the accidents of political life, to serve his country +in Parliament, Mr. Dalloway was doing the best he could to serve it out +of Parliament. For that purpose the Latin countries did very well, +although the East, of course, would have done better. + +“Expect to hear of me next in Petersburg or Teheran,” he had said, +turning to wave farewell from the steps of the Travellers’. But a +disease had broken out in the East, there was cholera in Russia, and he +was heard of, not so romantically, in Lisbon. They had been through +France; he had stopped at manufacturing centres where, producing +letters of introduction, he had been shown over works, and noted facts +in a pocket-book. In Spain he and Mrs. Dalloway had mounted mules, for +they wished to understand how the peasants live. Are they ripe for +rebellion, for example? Mrs. Dalloway had then insisted upon a day or +two at Madrid with the pictures. Finally they arrived in Lisbon and +spent six days which, in a journal privately issued afterwards, they +described as of “unique interest.” Richard had audiences with +ministers, and foretold a crisis at no distant date, “the foundations +of government being incurably corrupt. Yet how blame, etc.”; while +Clarissa inspected the royal stables, and took several snapshots +showing men now exiled and windows now broken. Among other things she +photographed Fielding’s grave, and let loose a small bird which some +ruffian had trapped, “because one hates to think of anything in a cage +where English people lie buried,” the diary stated. Their tour was +thoroughly unconventional, and followed no meditated plan. The foreign +correspondents of the _Times_ decided their route as much as anything +else. Mr. Dalloway wished to look at certain guns, and was of opinion +that the African coast is far more unsettled than people at home were +inclined to believe. For these reasons they wanted a slow inquisitive +kind of ship, comfortable, for they were bad sailors, but not +extravagant, which would stop for a day or two at this port and at +that, taking in coal while the Dalloways saw things for themselves. +Meanwhile they found themselves stranded in Lisbon, unable for the +moment to lay hands upon the precise vessel they wanted. They heard of +the _Euphrosyne_, but heard also that she was primarily a cargo boat, +and only took passengers by special arrangement, her business being to +carry dry goods to the Amazons, and rubber home again. “By special +arrangement,” however, were words of high encouragement to them, for +they came of a class where almost everything was specially arranged, or +could be if necessary. On this occasion all that Richard did was to +write a note to Lord Glenaway, the head of the line which bears his +title; to call on poor old Jackson; to represent to him how Mrs. +Dalloway was so-and-so, and he had been something or other else, and +what they wanted was such and such a thing. It was done. They parted +with compliments and pleasure on both sides, and here, a week later, +came the boat rowing up to the ship in the dusk with the Dalloways on +board of it; in three minutes they were standing together on the deck +of the _Euphrosyne_. Their arrival, of course, created some stir, and +it was seen by several pairs of eyes that Mrs. Dalloway was a tall +slight woman, her body wrapped in furs, her head in veils, while Mr. +Dalloway appeared to be a middle-sized man of sturdy build, dressed +like a sportsman on an autumnal moor. Many solid leather bags of a rich +brown hue soon surrounded them, in addition to which Mr. Dalloway +carried a despatch box, and his wife a dressing-case suggestive of a +diamond necklace and bottles with silver tops. + +“It’s so like Whistler!” she exclaimed, with a wave towards the shore, +as she shook Rachel by the hand, and Rachel had only time to look at +the grey hills on one side of her before Willoughby introduced Mrs. +Chailey, who took the lady to her cabin. + +Momentary though it seemed, nevertheless the interruption was +upsetting; every one was more or less put out by it, from Mr. Grice, +the steward, to Ridley himself. A few minutes later Rachel passed the +smoking-room, and found Helen moving arm-chairs. She was absorbed in +her arrangements, and on seeing Rachel remarked confidentially: + +“If one can give men a room to themselves where they will sit, it’s all +to the good. Arm-chairs are _the_ important things—” She began wheeling +them about. “Now, does it still look like a bar at a railway station?” + +She whipped a plush cover off a table. The appearance of the place was +marvellously improved. + +Again, the arrival of the strangers made it obvious to Rachel, as the +hour of dinner approached, that she must change her dress; and the +ringing of the great bell found her sitting on the edge of her berth in +such a position that the little glass above the washstand reflected her +head and shoulders. In the glass she wore an expression of tense +melancholy, for she had come to the depressing conclusion, since the +arrival of the Dalloways, that her face was not the face she wanted, +and in all probability never would be. + +However, punctuality had been impressed on her, and whatever face she +had, she must go in to dinner. + +These few minutes had been used by Willoughby in sketching to the +Dalloways the people they were to meet, and checking them upon his +fingers. + +“There’s my brother-in-law, Ambrose, the scholar (I daresay you’ve +heard his name), his wife, my old friend Pepper, a very quiet fellow, +but knows everything, I’m told. And that’s all. We’re a very small +party. I’m dropping them on the coast.” + +Mrs. Dalloway, with her head a little on one side, did her best to +recollect Ambrose—was it a surname?—but failed. She was made slightly +uneasy by what she had heard. She knew that scholars married any +one—girls they met in farms on reading parties; or little suburban +women who said disagreeably, “Of course I know it’s my husband you +want; not _me_.” + +But Helen came in at that point, and Mrs. Dalloway saw with relief that +though slightly eccentric in appearance, she was not untidy, held +herself well, and her voice had restraint in it, which she held to be +the sign of a lady. Mr. Pepper had not troubled to change his neat ugly +suit. + +“But after all,” Clarissa thought to herself as she followed Vinrace in +to dinner, “_every one’s_ interesting really.” + +When seated at the table she had some need of that assurance, chiefly +because of Ridley, who came in late, looked decidedly unkempt, and took +to his soup in profound gloom. + +An imperceptible signal passed between husband and wife, meaning that +they grasped the situation and would stand by each other loyally. With +scarcely a pause Mrs. Dalloway turned to Willoughby and began: + +“What I find so tiresome about the sea is that there are no flowers in +it. Imagine fields of hollyhocks and violets in mid-ocean! How divine!” + +“But somewhat dangerous to navigation,” boomed Richard, in the bass, +like the bassoon to the flourish of his wife’s violin. “Why, weeds can +be bad enough, can’t they, Vinrace? I remember crossing in the +_Mauretania_ once, and saying to the Captain—Richards—did you know +him?—‘Now tell me what perils you really dread most for your ship, +Captain Richards?’ expecting him to say icebergs, or derelicts, or fog, +or something of that sort. Not a bit of it. I’ve always remembered his +answer. ‘_Sedgius aquatici_,’ he said, which I take to be a kind of +duck-weed.” + +Mr. Pepper looked up sharply, and was about to put a question when +Willoughby continued: + +“They’ve an awful time of it—those captains! Three thousand souls on +board!” + +“Yes, indeed,” said Clarissa. She turned to Helen with an air of +profundity. “I’m convinced people are wrong when they say it’s work +that wears one; it’s responsibility. That’s why one pays one’s cook +more than one’s housemaid, I suppose.” + +“According to that, one ought to pay one’s nurse double; but one +doesn’t,” said Helen. + +“No; but think what a joy to have to do with babies, instead of +saucepans!” said Mrs. Dalloway, looking with more interest at Helen, a +probable mother. + +“I’d much rather be a cook than a nurse,” said Helen. “Nothing would +induce me to take charge of children.” + +“Mothers always exaggerate,” said Ridley. “A well-bred child is no +responsibility. I’ve travelled all over Europe with mine. You just wrap +’em up warm and put ’em in the rack.” + +Helen laughed at that. Mrs. Dalloway exclaimed, looking at Ridley: + +“How like a father! My husband’s just the same. And then one talks of +the equality of the sexes!” + +“Does one?” said Mr. Pepper. + +“Oh, some do!” cried Clarissa. “My husband had to pass an irate lady +every afternoon last session who said nothing else, I imagine.” + +“She sat outside the house; it was very awkward,” said Dalloway. “At +last I plucked up courage and said to her, ‘My good creature, you’re +only in the way where you are. You’re hindering me, and you’re doing no +good to yourself.’” + +“And then she caught him by the coat, and would have scratched his eyes +out—” Mrs. Dalloway put in. + +“Pooh—that’s been exaggerated,” said Richard. “No, I pity them, I +confess. The discomfort of sitting on those steps must be awful.” + +“Serve them right,” said Willoughby curtly. + +“Oh, I’m entirely with you there,” said Dalloway. “Nobody can condemn +the utter folly and futility of such behaviour more than I do; and as +for the whole agitation, well! may I be in my grave before a woman has +the right to vote in England! That’s all I say.” + +The solemnity of her husband’s assertion made Clarissa grave. + +“It’s unthinkable,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re a suffragist?” she +turned to Ridley. + +“I don’t care a fig one way or t’other,” said Ambrose. “If any creature +is so deluded as to think that a vote does him or her any good, let him +have it. He’ll soon learn better.” + +“You’re not a politician, I see,” she smiled. + +“Goodness, no,” said Ridley. + +“I’m afraid your husband won’t approve of me,” said Dalloway aside, to +Mrs. Ambrose. She suddenly recollected that he had been in Parliament. + +“Don’t you ever find it rather dull?” she asked, not knowing exactly +what to say. + +Richard spread his hands before him, as if inscriptions were to be read +in the palms of them. + +“If you ask me whether I ever find it rather dull,” he said, “I am +bound to say yes; on the other hand, if you ask me what career do you +consider on the whole, taking the good with the bad, the most enjoyable +and enviable, not to speak of its more serious side, of all careers, +for a man, I am bound to say, ‘The Politician’s.’” + +“The Bar or politics, I agree,” said Willoughby. “You get more run for +your money.” + +“All one’s faculties have their play,” said Richard. “I may be treading +on dangerous ground; but what I feel about poets and artists in general +is this: on your own lines, you can’t be beaten—granted; but off your +own lines—puff—one has to make allowances. Now, I shouldn’t like to +think that any one had to make allowances for me.” + +“I don’t quite agree, Richard,” said Mrs. Dalloway. “Think of Shelley. +I feel that there’s almost everything one wants in ‘Adonais.’” + +“Read ‘Adonais’ by all means,” Richard conceded. “But whenever I hear +of Shelley I repeat to myself the words of Matthew Arnold, ‘What a set! +What a set!’” + +This roused Ridley’s attention. “Matthew Arnold? A detestable prig!” he +snapped. + +“A prig—granted,” said Richard; “but, I think a man of the world. +That’s where my point comes in. We politicians doubtless seem to you” +(he grasped somehow that Helen was the representative of the arts) “a +gross commonplace set of people; but we see both sides; we may be +clumsy, but we do our best to get a grasp of things. Now your artists +_find_ things in a mess, shrug their shoulders, turn aside to their +visions—which I grant may be very beautiful—and _leave_ things in a +mess. Now that seems to me evading one’s responsibilities. Besides, we +aren’t all born with the artistic faculty.” + +“It’s dreadful,” said Mrs. Dalloway, who, while her husband spoke, had +been thinking. “When I’m with artists I feel so intensely the delights +of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures +and music and everything beautiful, and then I go out into the streets +and the first child I meet with its poor, hungry, dirty little face +makes me turn round and say, ‘No, I _can’t_ shut myself up—I _won’t_ +live in a world of my own. I should like to stop all the painting and +writing and music until this kind of thing exists no longer.’ Don’t you +feel,” she wound up, addressing Helen, “that life’s a perpetual +conflict?” Helen considered for a moment. “No,” she said. “I don’t +think I do.” + +There was a pause, which was decidedly uncomfortable. Mrs. Dalloway +then gave a little shiver, and asked whether she might have her fur +cloak brought to her. As she adjusted the soft brown fur about her neck +a fresh topic struck her. + +“I own,” she said, “that I shall never forget the _Antigone_. I saw it +at Cambridge years ago, and it’s haunted me ever since. Don’t you think +it’s quite the most modern thing you ever saw?” she asked Ridley. “It +seemed to me I’d known twenty Clytemnestras. Old Lady Ditchling for +one. I don’t know a word of Greek, but I could listen to it for ever—” + +Here Mr. Pepper struck up: + +πολλὰ τὰ δεινά, κοὐδὲν ἀν- +θρώπου δεινότερον πέλει. +τοῦτο καὶ πολιοῦ πέραν +πόντου χειμερίῳ νότῳ +χωρεῖ, περιβρυχίοισι +περῶν ὑπ᾽ οἴδμασι. + + +Mrs. Dalloway looked at him with compressed lips. + +“I’d give ten years of my life to know Greek,” she said, when he had +done. + +“I could teach you the alphabet in half an hour,” said Ridley, “and +you’d read Homer in a month. I should think it an honour to instruct +you.” + +Helen, engaged with Mr. Dalloway and the habit, now fallen into +decline, of quoting Greek in the House of Commons, noted, in the great +commonplace book that lies open beside us as we talk, the fact that all +men, even men like Ridley, really prefer women to be fashionable. + +Clarissa exclaimed that she could think of nothing more delightful. For +an instant she saw herself in her drawing-room in Browne Street with a +Plato open on her knees—Plato in the original Greek. She could not help +believing that a real scholar, if specially interested, could slip +Greek into her head with scarcely any trouble. + +Ridley engaged her to come to-morrow. + +“If only your ship is going to treat us kindly!” she exclaimed, drawing +Willoughby into play. For the sake of guests, and these were +distinguished, Willoughby was ready with a bow of his head to vouch for +the good behaviour even of the waves. + +“I’m dreadfully bad; and my husband’s not very good,” sighed Clarissa. + +“I am never sick,” Richard explained. “At least, I have only been +actually sick once,” he corrected himself. “That was crossing the +Channel. But a choppy sea, I confess, or still worse, a swell, makes me +distinctly uncomfortable. The great thing is never to miss a meal. You +look at the food, and you say, ‘I can’t’; you take a mouthful, and Lord +knows how you’re going to swallow it; but persevere, and you often +settle the attack for good. My wife’s a coward.” + +They were pushing back their chairs. The ladies were hesitating at the +doorway. + +“I’d better show the way,” said Helen, advancing. + +Rachel followed. She had taken no part in the talk; no one had spoken +to her; but she had listened to every word that was said. She had +looked from Mrs. Dalloway to Mr. Dalloway, and from Mr. Dalloway back +again. Clarissa, indeed, was a fascinating spectacle. She wore a white +dress and a long glittering necklace. What with her clothes, and her +arch delicate face, which showed exquisitely pink beneath hair turning +grey, she was astonishingly like an eighteenth-century masterpiece—a +Reynolds or a Romney. She made Helen and the others look coarse and +slovenly beside her. Sitting lightly upright she seemed to be dealing +with the world as she chose; the enormous solid globe spun round this +way and that beneath her fingers. And her husband! Mr. Dalloway rolling +that rich deliberate voice was even more impressive. He seemed to come +from the humming oily centre of the machine where the polished rods are +sliding, and the pistons thumping; he grasped things so firmly but so +loosely; he made the others appear like old maids cheapening remnants. +Rachel followed in the wake of the matrons, as if in a trance; a +curious scent of violets came back from Mrs. Dalloway, mingling with +the soft rustling of her skirts, and the tinkling of her chains. As she +followed, Rachel thought with supreme self-abasement, taking in the +whole course of her life and the lives of all her friends, “She said we +lived in a world of our own. It’s true. We’re perfectly absurd.” + +“We sit in here,” said Helen, opening the door of the saloon. + +“You play?” said Mrs. Dalloway to Mrs. Ambrose, taking up the score of +_Tristan_ which lay on the table. + +“My niece does,” said Helen, laying her hand on Rachel’s shoulder. + +“Oh, how I envy you!” Clarissa addressed Rachel for the first time. +“D’you remember this? Isn’t it divine?” She played a bar or two with +ringed fingers upon the page. + +“And then Tristan goes like this, and Isolde—oh!—it’s all too +thrilling! Have you been to Bayreuth?” + +“No, I haven’t,” said Rachel. + +“Then that’s still to come. I shall never forget my first _Parsifal_—a +grilling August day, and those fat old German women, come in their +stuffy high frocks, and then the dark theatre, and the music beginning, +and one couldn’t help sobbing. A kind man went and fetched me water, I +remember; and I could only cry on his shoulder! It caught me here” (she +touched her throat). “It’s like nothing else in the world! But where’s +your piano?” + +“It’s in another room,” Rachel explained. + +“But you will play to us?” Clarissa entreated. “I can’t imagine +anything nicer than to sit out in the moonlight and listen to +music—only that sounds too like a schoolgirl! You know,” she said, +turning to Helen, “I don’t think music’s altogether good for people—I’m +afraid not.” + +“Too great a strain?” asked Helen. + +“Too emotional, somehow,” said Clarissa. “One notices it at once when a +boy or girl takes up music as a profession. Sir William Broadley told +me just the same thing. Don’t you hate the kind of attitudes people go +into over Wagner—like this—” She cast her eyes to the ceiling, clasped +her hands, and assumed a look of intensity. “It really doesn’t mean +that they appreciate him; in fact, I always think it’s the other way +round. The people who really care about an art are always the least +affected. D’you know Henry Philips, the painter?” she asked. + +“I have seen him,” said Helen. + +“To look at, one might think he was a successful stockbroker, and not +one of the greatest painters of the age. That’s what I like.” + +“There are a great many successful stockbrokers, if you like looking at +them,” said Helen. + +Rachel wished vehemently that her aunt would not be so perverse. + +“When you see a musician with long hair, don’t you know instinctively +that he’s bad?” Clarissa asked, turning to Rachel. “Watts and +Joachim—they looked just like you and me.” + +“And how much nicer they’d have looked with curls!” said Helen. “The +question is, are you going to aim at beauty or are you not?” + +“Cleanliness!” said Clarissa, “I do want a man to look clean!” + +“By cleanliness you really mean well-cut clothes,” said Helen. + +“There’s something one knows a gentleman by,” said Clarissa, “but one +can’t say what it is.” + +“Take my husband now, does he look like a gentleman?” + +The question seemed to Clarissa in extraordinarily bad taste. “One of +the things that can’t be said,” she would have put it. She could find +no answer, but a laugh. + +“Well, anyhow,” she said, turning to Rachel, “I shall insist upon your +playing to me to-morrow.” + +There was that in her manner that made Rachel love her. + +Mrs. Dalloway hid a tiny yawn, a mere dilation of the nostrils. + +“D’you know,” she said, “I’m extraordinarily sleepy. It’s the sea air. +I think I shall escape.” + +A man’s voice, which she took to be that of Mr. Pepper, strident in +discussion, and advancing upon the saloon, gave her the alarm. + +“Good-night—good-night!” she said. “Oh, I know my way—do pray for calm! +Good-night!” + +Her yawn must have been the image of a yawn. Instead of letting her +mouth droop, dropping all her clothes in a bunch as though they +depended on one string, and stretching her limbs to the utmost end of +her berth, she merely changed her dress for a dressing-gown, with +innumerable frills, and wrapping her feet in a rug, sat down with a +writing-pad on her knee. Already this cramped little cabin was the +dressing room of a lady of quality. There were bottles containing +liquids; there were trays, boxes, brushes, pins. Evidently not an inch +of her person lacked its proper instrument. The scent which had +intoxicated Rachel pervaded the air. Thus established, Mrs. Dalloway +began to write. A pen in her hands became a thing one caressed paper +with, and she might have been stroking and tickling a kitten as she +wrote: + +Picture us, my dear, afloat in the very oddest ship you can imagine. +It’s not the ship, so much as the people. One does come across queer +sorts as one travels. I must say I find it hugely amusing. There’s the +manager of the line—called Vinrace—a nice big Englishman, doesn’t say +much—you know the sort. As for the rest—they might have come trailing +out of an old number of _Punch_. They’re like people playing croquet in +the ’sixties. How long they’ve all been shut up in this ship I don’t +know—years and years I should say—but one feels as though one had +boarded a little separate world, and they’d never been on shore, or +done ordinary things in their lives. It’s what I’ve always said about +literary people—they’re far the hardest of any to get on with. The +worst of it is, these people—a man and his wife and a niece—might have +been, one feels, just like everybody else, if they hadn’t got swallowed +up by Oxford or Cambridge or some such place, and been made cranks of. +The man’s really delightful (if he’d cut his nails), and the woman has +quite a fine face, only she dresses, of course, in a potato sack, and +wears her hair like a Liberty shopgirl’s. They talk about art, and +think us such poops for dressing in the evening. However, I can’t help +that; I’d rather die than come in to dinner without changing—wouldn’t +you? It matters ever so much more than the soup. (It’s odd how things +like that _do_ matter so much more than what’s generally supposed to +matter. I’d rather have my head cut off than wear flannel next the +skin.) Then there’s a nice shy girl—poor thing—I wish one could rake +her out before it’s too late. She has quite nice eyes and hair, only, +of course, she’ll get funny too. We ought to start a society for +broadening the minds of the young—much more useful than missionaries, +Hester! Oh, I’d forgotten there’s a dreadful little thing called +Pepper. He’s just like his name. He’s indescribably insignificant, and +rather queer in his temper, poor dear. It’s like sitting down to dinner +with an ill-conditioned fox-terrier, only one can’t comb him out, and +sprinkle him with powder, as one would one’s dog. It’s a pity, +sometimes, one can’t treat people like dogs! The great comfort is that +we’re away from newspapers, so that Richard will have a real holiday +this time. Spain wasn’t a holiday. . . . + +“You coward!” said Richard, almost filling the room with his sturdy +figure. + +“I did my duty at dinner!” cried Clarissa. + +“You’ve let yourself in for the Greek alphabet, anyhow.” + +“Oh, my dear! Who _is_ Ambrose?” + +“I gather that he was a Cambridge don; lives in London now, and edits +classics.” + +“Did you ever see such a set of cranks? The woman asked me if I thought +her husband looked like a gentleman!” + +“It was hard to keep the ball rolling at dinner, certainly,” said +Richard. “Why is it that the women, in that class, are so much queerer +than the men?” + +“They’re not half bad-looking, really—only—they’re so odd!” + +They both laughed, thinking of the same things, so that there was no +need to compare their impressions. + +“I see I shall have quite a lot to say to Vinrace,” said Richard. “He +knows Sutton and all that set. He can tell me a good deal about the +conditions of ship-building in the North.” + +“Oh, I’m glad. The men always _are_ so much better than the women.” + +“One always has something to say to a man certainly,” said Richard. +“But I’ve no doubt you’ll chatter away fast enough about the babies, +Clarice.” + +“Has she got children? She doesn’t look like it somehow.” + +“Two. A boy and girl.” + +A pang of envy shot through Mrs. Dalloway’s heart. + +“We _must_ have a son, Dick,” she said. + +“Good Lord, what opportunities there are now for young men!” said +Dalloway, for his talk had set him thinking. “I don’t suppose there’s +been so good an opening since the days of Pitt.” + +“And it’s yours!” said Clarissa. + +“To be a leader of men,” Richard soliloquised. “It’s a fine career. My +God—what a career!” + +The chest slowly curved beneath his waistcoat. + +“D’you know, Dick, I can’t help thinking of England,” said his wife +meditatively, leaning her head against his chest. “Being on this ship +seems to make it so much more vivid—what it really means to be English. +One thinks of all we’ve done, and our navies, and the people in India +and Africa, and how we’ve gone on century after century, sending out +boys from little country villages—and of men like you, Dick, and it +makes one feel as if one couldn’t bear _not_ to be English! Think of +the light burning over the House, Dick! When I stood on deck just now I +seemed to see it. It’s what one means by London.” + +“It’s the continuity,” said Richard sententiously. A vision of English +history, King following King, Prime Minister Prime Minister, and Law +Law had come over him while his wife spoke. He ran his mind along the +line of conservative policy, which went steadily from Lord Salisbury to +Alfred, and gradually enclosed, as though it were a lasso that opened +and caught things, enormous chunks of the habitable globe. + +“It’s taken a long time, but we’ve pretty nearly done it,” he said; “it +remains to consolidate.” + +“And these people don’t see it!” Clarissa exclaimed. + +“It takes all sorts to make a world,” said her husband. “There would +never be a government if there weren’t an opposition.” + +“Dick, you’re better than I am,” said Clarissa. “You see round, where I +only see _there_.” She pressed a point on the back of his hand. + +“That’s my business, as I tried to explain at dinner.” + +“What I like about you, Dick,” she continued, “is that you’re always +the same, and I’m a creature of moods.” + +“You’re a pretty creature, anyhow,” he said, gazing at her with deeper +eyes. + +“You think so, do you? Then kiss me.” + +He kissed her passionately, so that her half-written letter slid to the +ground. Picking it up, he read it without asking leave. + +“Where’s your pen?” he said; and added in his little masculine hand: + +R.D. _loquitur_: Clarice has omitted to tell you that she looked +exceedingly pretty at dinner, and made a conquest by which she has +bound herself to learn the Greek alphabet. I will take this occasion of +adding that we are both enjoying ourselves in these outlandish parts, +and only wish for the presence of our friends (yourself and John, to +wit) to make the trip perfectly enjoyable as it promises to be +instructive. . . . + + +Voices were heard at the end of the corridor. Mrs. Ambrose was speaking +low; William Pepper was remarking in his definite and rather acid +voice, “That is the type of lady with whom I find myself distinctly out +of sympathy. She—” + +But neither Richard nor Clarissa profited by the verdict, for directly +it seemed likely that they would overhear, Richard crackled a sheet of +paper. + +“I often wonder,” Clarissa mused in bed, over the little white volume +of Pascal which went with her everywhere, “whether it is really good +for a woman to live with a man who is morally her superior, as Richard +is mine. It makes one so dependent. I suppose I feel for him what my +mother and women of her generation felt for Christ. It just shows that +one can’t do without _something_.” She then fell into a sleep, which +was as usual extremely sound and refreshing, but visited by fantastic +dreams of great Greek letters stalking round the room, when she woke up +and laughed to herself, remembering where she was and that the Greek +letters were real people, lying asleep not many yards away. Then, +thinking of the black sea outside tossing beneath the moon, she +shuddered, and thought of her husband and the others as companions on +the voyage. The dreams were not confined to her indeed, but went from +one brain to another. They all dreamt of each other that night, as was +natural, considering how thin the partitions were between them, and how +strangely they had been lifted off the earth to sit next each other in +mid-ocean, and see every detail of each other’s faces, and hear +whatever they chanced to say. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +Next morning Clarissa was up before anyone else. She dressed, and was +out on deck, breathing the fresh air of a calm morning, and, making the +circuit of the ship for the second time, she ran straight into the lean +person of Mr. Grice, the steward. She apologised, and at the same time +asked him to enlighten her: what were those shiny brass stands for, +half glass on the top? She had been wondering, and could not guess. +When he had done explaining, she cried enthusiastically: + +“I do think that to be a sailor must be the finest thing in the world!” + +“And what d’you know about it?” said Mr. Grice, kindling in a strange +manner. “Pardon me. What does any man or woman brought up in England +know about the sea? They profess to know; but they don’t.” + +The bitterness with which he spoke was ominous of what was to come. He +led her off to his own quarters, and, sitting on the edge of a +brass-bound table, looking uncommonly like a sea-gull, with her white +tapering body and thin alert face, Mrs. Dalloway had to listen to the +tirade of a fanatical man. Did she realise, to begin with, what a very +small part of the world the land was? How peaceful, how beautiful, how +benignant in comparison the sea? The deep waters could sustain Europe +unaided if every earthly animal died of the plague to-morrow. Mr. Grice +recalled dreadful sights which he had seen in the richest city of the +world—men and women standing in line hour after hour to receive a mug +of greasy soup. “And I thought of the good flesh down here waiting and +asking to be caught. I’m not exactly a Protestant, and I’m not a +Catholic, but I could almost pray for the days of popery to come +again—because of the fasts.” + +As he talked he kept opening drawers and moving little glass jars. Here +were the treasures which the great ocean had bestowed upon him—pale +fish in greenish liquids, blobs of jelly with streaming tresses, fish +with lights in their heads, they lived so deep. + +“They have swum about among bones,” Clarissa sighed. + +“You’re thinking of Shakespeare,” said Mr. Grice, and taking down a +copy from a shelf well lined with books, recited in an emphatic nasal +voice: + +“Full fathom five thy father lies, + + +“A grand fellow, Shakespeare,” he said, replacing the volume. + +Clarissa was so glad to hear him say so. + +“Which is your favourite play? I wonder if it’s the same as mine?” + +“_Henry the Fifth_,” said Mr. Grice. + +“Joy!” cried Clarissa. “It is!” + +_Hamlet_ was what you might call too introspective for Mr. Grice, the +sonnets too passionate; Henry the Fifth was to him the model of an +English gentleman. But his favourite reading was Huxley, Herbert +Spencer, and Henry George; while Emerson and Thomas Hardy he read for +relaxation. He was giving Mrs. Dalloway his views upon the present +state of England when the breakfast bell rung so imperiously that she +had to tear herself away, promising to come back and be shown his +sea-weeds. + +The party, which had seemed so odd to her the night before, was already +gathered round the table, still under the influence of sleep, and +therefore uncommunicative, but her entrance sent a little flutter like +a breath of air through them all. + +“I’ve had the most interesting talk of my life!” she exclaimed, taking +her seat beside Willoughby. “D’you realise that one of your men is a +philosopher and a poet?” + +“A very interesting fellow—that’s what I always say,” said Willoughby, +distinguishing Mr. Grice. “Though Rachel finds him a bore.” + +“He’s a bore when he talks about currents,” said Rachel. Her eyes were +full of sleep, but Mrs. Dalloway still seemed to her wonderful. + +“I’ve never met a bore yet!” said Clarissa. + +“And I should say the world was full of them!” exclaimed Helen. But her +beauty, which was radiant in the morning light, took the contrariness +from her words. + +“I agree that it’s the worst one can possibly say of any one,” said +Clarissa. “How much rather one would be a murderer than a bore!” she +added, with her usual air of saying something profound. “One can fancy +liking a murderer. It’s the same with dogs. Some dogs are awful bores, +poor dears.” + +It happened that Richard was sitting next to Rachel. She was curiously +conscious of his presence and appearance—his well-cut clothes, his +crackling shirt-front, his cuffs with blue rings round them, and the +square-tipped, very clean fingers with the red stone on the little +finger of the left hand. + +“We had a dog who was a bore and knew it,” he said, addressing her in +cool, easy tones. “He was a Skye terrier, one of those long chaps, with +little feet poking out from their hair like—like caterpillars—no, like +sofas I should say. Well, we had another dog at the same time, a black +brisk animal—a Schipperke, I think, you call them. You can’t imagine a +greater contrast. The Skye so slow and deliberate, looking up at you +like some old gentleman in the club, as much as to say, ‘You don’t +really mean it, do you?’ and the Schipperke as quick as a knife. I +liked the Skye best, I must confess. There was something pathetic about +him.” + +The story seemed to have no climax. + +“What happened to him?” Rachel asked. + +“That’s a very sad story,” said Richard, lowering his voice and peeling +an apple. “He followed my wife in the car one day and got run over by a +brute of a cyclist.” + +“Was he killed?” asked Rachel. + +But Clarissa at her end of the table had overheard. + +“Don’t talk of it!” she cried. “It’s a thing I can’t bear to think of +to this day.” + +Surely the tears stood in her eyes? + +“That’s the painful thing about pets,” said Mr. Dalloway; “they die. +The first sorrow I can remember was for the death of a dormouse. I +regret to say that I sat upon it. Still, that didn’t make one any the +less sorry. Here lies the duck that Samuel Johnson sat on, eh? I was +big for my age.” + +“Then we had canaries,” he continued, “a pair of ring-doves, a lemur, +and at one time a martin.” + +“Did you live in the country?” Rachel asked him. + +“We lived in the country for six months of the year. When I say ‘we’ I +mean four sisters, a brother, and myself. There’s nothing like coming +of a large family. Sisters particularly are delightful.” + +“Dick, you were horribly spoilt!” cried Clarissa across the table. + +“No, no. Appreciated,” said Richard. + +Rachel had other questions on the tip of her tongue; or rather one +enormous question, which she did not in the least know how to put into +words. The talk appeared too airy to admit of it. + +“Please tell me—everything.” That was what she wanted to say. He had +drawn apart one little chink and showed astonishing treasures. It +seemed to her incredible that a man like that should be willing to talk +to her. He had sisters and pets, and once lived in the country. She +stirred her tea round and round; the bubbles which swam and clustered +in the cup seemed to her like the union of their minds. + +The talk meanwhile raced past her, and when Richard suddenly stated in +a jocular tone of voice, “I’m sure Miss Vinrace, now, has secret +leanings towards Catholicism,” she had no idea what to answer, and +Helen could not help laughing at the start she gave. + +However, breakfast was over and Mrs. Dalloway was rising. “I always +think religion’s like collecting beetles,” she said, summing up the +discussion as she went up the stairs with Helen. “One person has a +passion for black beetles; another hasn’t; it’s no good arguing about +it. What’s _your_ black beetle now?” + +“I suppose it’s my children,” said Helen. + +“Ah—that’s different,” Clarissa breathed. “Do tell me. You have a boy, +haven’t you? Isn’t it detestable, leaving them?” + +It was as though a blue shadow had fallen across a pool. Their eyes +became deeper, and their voices more cordial. Instead of joining them +as they began to pace the deck, Rachel was indignant with the +prosperous matrons, who made her feel outside their world and +motherless, and turning back, she left them abruptly. She slammed the +door of her room, and pulled out her music. It was all old music—Bach +and Beethoven, Mozart and Purcell—the pages yellow, the engraving rough +to the finger. In three minutes she was deep in a very difficult, very +classical fugue in A, and over her face came a queer remote impersonal +expression of complete absorption and anxious satisfaction. Now she +stumbled; now she faltered and had to play the same bar twice over; but +an invisible line seemed to string the notes together, from which rose +a shape, a building. She was so far absorbed in this work, for it was +really difficult to find how all these sounds should stand together, +and drew upon the whole of her faculties, that she never heard a knock +at the door. It was burst impulsively open, and Mrs. Dalloway stood in +the room leaving the door open, so that a strip of the white deck and +of the blue sea appeared through the opening. The shape of the Bach +fugue crashed to the ground. + +“Don’t let me interrupt,” Clarissa implored. “I heard you playing, and +I couldn’t resist. I adore Bach!” + +Rachel flushed and fumbled her fingers in her lap. She stood up +awkwardly. + +“It’s too difficult,” she said. + +“But you were playing quite splendidly! I ought to have stayed +outside.” + +“No,” said Rachel. + +She slid _Cowper’s Letters_ and _Wuthering Heights_ out of the +arm-chair, so that Clarissa was invited to sit there. + +“What a dear little room!” she said, looking round. “Oh, _Cowper’s +Letters_! I’ve never read them. Are they nice?” + +“Rather dull,” said Rachel. + +“He wrote awfully well, didn’t he?” said Clarissa; “—if one likes that +kind of thing—finished his sentences and all that. _Wuthering Heights_! +Ah—that’s more in my line. I really couldn’t exist without the Brontes! +Don’t you love them? Still, on the whole, I’d rather live without them +than without Jane Austen.” + +Lightly and at random though she spoke, her manner conveyed an +extraordinary degree of sympathy and desire to befriend. + +“Jane Austen? I don’t like Jane Austen,” said Rachel. + +“You monster!” Clarissa exclaimed. “I can only just forgive you. Tell +me why?” + +“She’s so—so—well, so like a tight plait,” Rachel floundered. + +“Ah—I see what you mean. But I don’t agree. And you won’t when you’re +older. At your age I only liked Shelley. I can remember sobbing over +him in the garden. + +He has outsoared the shadow of our night, +Envy and calumny and hate and pain— + + +you remember? + +Can touch him not and torture not again +From the contagion of the world’s slow stain. + + +How divine!—and yet what nonsense!” She looked lightly round the room. +“I always think it’s _living_, not dying, that counts. I really respect +some snuffy old stockbroker who’s gone on adding up column after column +all his days, and trotting back to his villa at Brixton with some old +pug dog he worships, and a dreary little wife sitting at the end of the +table, and going off to Margate for a fortnight—I assure you I know +heaps like that—well, they seem to me _really_ nobler than poets whom +every one worships, just because they’re geniuses and die young. But I +don’t expect _you_ to agree with me!” + +She pressed Rachel’s shoulder. + +“Um-m-m—” she went on quoting— + +Unrest which men miscall delight— + + +“when you’re my age you’ll see that the world is _crammed_ with +delightful things. I think young people make such a mistake about +that—not letting themselves be happy. I sometimes think that happiness +is the only thing that counts. I don’t know you well enough to say, but +I should guess you might be a little inclined to—when one’s young and +attractive—I’m going to say it!—_every_thing’s at one’s feet.” She +glanced round as much as to say, “not only a few stuffy books and +Bach.” + +“I long to ask questions,” she continued. “You interest me so much. If +I’m impertinent, you must just box my ears.” + +“And I—I want to ask questions,” said Rachel with such earnestness that +Mrs. Dalloway had to check her smile. + +“D’you mind if we walk?” she said. “The air’s so delicious.” + +She snuffed it like a racehorse as they shut the door and stood on +deck. + +“Isn’t it good to be alive?” she exclaimed, and drew Rachel’s arm +within hers. + +“Look, look! How exquisite!” + +The shores of Portugal were beginning to lose their substance; but the +land was still the land, though at a great distance. They could +distinguish the little towns that were sprinkled in the folds of the +hills, and the smoke rising faintly. The towns appeared to be very +small in comparison with the great purple mountains behind them. + +“Honestly, though,” said Clarissa, having looked, “I don’t like views. +They’re too inhuman.” They walked on. + +“How odd it is!” she continued impulsively. “This time yesterday we’d +never met. I was packing in a stuffy little room in the hotel. We know +absolutely nothing about each other—and yet—I feel as if I _did_ know +you!” + +“You have children—your husband was in Parliament?” + +“You’ve never been to school, and you live—?” + +“With my aunts at Richmond.” + +“Richmond?” + +“You see, my aunts like the Park. They like the quiet.” + +“And you don’t! I understand!” Clarissa laughed. + +“I like walking in the Park alone; but not—with the dogs,” she +finished. + +“No; and some people _are_ dogs; aren’t they?” said Clarissa, as if she +had guessed a secret. “But not every one—oh no, not every one.” + +“Not every one,” said Rachel, and stopped. + +“I can quite imagine you walking alone,” said Clarissa: “and +thinking—in a little world of your own. But how you will enjoy it—some +day!” + +“I shall enjoy walking with a man—is that what you mean?” said Rachel, +regarding Mrs. Dalloway with her large enquiring eyes. + +“I wasn’t thinking of a man particularly,” said Clarissa. “But you +will.” + +“No. I shall never marry,” Rachel determined. + +“I shouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Clarissa. Her sidelong glance +told Rachel that she found her attractive although she was inexplicably +amused. + +“Why do people marry?” Rachel asked. + +“That’s what you’re going to find out,” Clarissa laughed. + +Rachel followed her eyes and found that they rested for a second, on +the robust figure of Richard Dalloway, who was engaged in striking a +match on the sole of his boot; while Willoughby expounded something, +which seemed to be of great interest to them both. + +“There’s nothing like it,” she concluded. “Do tell me about the +Ambroses. Or am I asking too many questions?” + +“I find you easy to talk to,” said Rachel. + +The short sketch of the Ambroses was, however, somewhat perfunctory, +and contained little but the fact that Mr. Ambrose was her uncle. + +“Your mother’s brother?” + +When a name has dropped out of use, the lightest touch upon it tells. +Mrs. Dalloway went on: + +“Are you like your mother?” + +“No; she was different,” said Rachel. + +She was overcome by an intense desire to tell Mrs. Dalloway things she +had never told any one—things she had not realised herself until this +moment. + +“I am lonely,” she began. “I want—” She did not know what she wanted, +so that she could not finish the sentence; but her lip quivered. + +But it seemed that Mrs. Dalloway was able to understand without words. + +“I know,” she said, actually putting one arm round Rachel’s shoulder. +“When I was your age I wanted too. No one understood until I met +Richard. He gave me all I wanted. He’s man and woman as well.” Her eyes +rested upon Mr. Dalloway, leaning upon the rail, still talking. “Don’t +think I say that because I’m his wife—I see his faults more clearly +than I see any one else’s. What one wants in the person one lives with +is that they should keep one at one’s best. I often wonder what I’ve +done to be so happy!” she exclaimed, and a tear slid down her cheek. +She wiped it away, squeezed Rachel’s hand, and exclaimed: + +“How good life is!” At that moment, standing out in the fresh breeze, +with the sun upon the waves, and Mrs. Dalloway’s hand upon her arm, it +seemed indeed as if life which had been unnamed before was infinitely +wonderful, and too good to be true. + +Here Helen passed them, and seeing Rachel arm-in-arm with a comparative +stranger, looking excited, was amused, but at the same time slightly +irritated. But they were immediately joined by Richard, who had enjoyed +a very interesting talk with Willoughby and was in a sociable mood. + +“Observe my Panama,” he said, touching the brim of his hat. “Are you +aware, Miss Vinrace, how much can be done to induce fine weather by +appropriate headdress? I have determined that it is a hot summer day; I +warn you that nothing you can say will shake me. Therefore I am going +to sit down. I advise you to follow my example.” Three chairs in a row +invited them to be seated. + +Leaning back, Richard surveyed the waves. + +“That’s a very pretty blue,” he said. “But there’s a little too much of +it. Variety is essential to a view. Thus, if you have hills you ought +to have a river; if a river, hills. The best view in the world in my +opinion is that from Boars Hill on a fine day—it must be a fine day, +mark you—A rug?—Oh, thank you, my dear . . . in that case you have also +the advantage of associations—the Past.” + +“D’you want to talk, Dick, or shall I read aloud?” + +Clarissa had fetched a book with the rugs. + +“_Persuasion_,” announced Richard, examining the volume. + +“That’s for Miss Vinrace,” said Clarissa. “She can’t bear our beloved +Jane.” + +“That—if I may say so—is because you have not read her,” said Richard. +“She is incomparably the greatest female writer we possess.” + +“She is the greatest,” he continued, “and for this reason: she does not +attempt to write like a man. Every other woman does; on that account, I +don’t read ’em.” + +“Produce your instances, Miss Vinrace,” he went on, joining his +finger-tips. “I’m ready to be converted.” + +He waited, while Rachel vainly tried to vindicate her sex from the +slight he put upon it. + +“I’m afraid he’s right,” said Clarissa. “He generally is—the wretch!” + +“I brought _Persuasion_,” she went on, “because I thought it was a +little less threadbare than the others—though, Dick, it’s no good +_your_ pretending to know Jane by heart, considering that she always +sends you to sleep!” + +“After the labours of legislation, I deserve sleep,” said Richard. + +“You’re not to think about those guns,” said Clarissa, seeing that his +eye, passing over the waves, still sought the land meditatively, “or +about navies, or empires, or anything.” So saying she opened the book +and began to read: + +“‘Sir Walter Elliott, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man +who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the +_Baronetage_’—don’t you know Sir Walter?—‘There he found occupation for +an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one.’ She does write +well, doesn’t she? ‘There—’” She read on in a light humorous voice. She +was determined that Sir Walter should take her husband’s mind off the +guns of Britain, and divert him in an exquisite, quaint, sprightly, and +slightly ridiculous world. After a time it appeared that the sun was +sinking in that world, and the points becoming softer. Rachel looked up +to see what caused the change. Richard’s eyelids were closing and +opening; opening and closing. A loud nasal breath announced that he no +longer considered appearances, that he was sound asleep. + +“Triumph!” Clarissa whispered at the end of a sentence. Suddenly she +raised her hand in protest. A sailor hesitated; she gave the book to +Rachel, and stepped lightly to take the message—“Mr. Grice wished to +know if it was convenient,” etc. She followed him. Ridley, who had +prowled unheeded, started forward, stopped, and, with a gesture of +disgust, strode off to his study. The sleeping politician was left in +Rachel’s charge. She read a sentence, and took a look at him. In sleep +he looked like a coat hanging at the end of a bed; there were all the +wrinkles, and the sleeves and trousers kept their shape though no +longer filled out by legs and arms. You can then best judge the age and +state of the coat. She looked him all over until it seemed to her that +he must protest. + +He was a man of forty perhaps; and here there were lines round his +eyes, and there curious clefts in his cheeks. Slightly battered he +appeared, but dogged and in the prime of life. + +“Sisters and a dormouse and some canaries,” Rachel murmured, never +taking her eyes off him. “I wonder, I wonder.” She ceased, her chin +upon her hand, still looking at him. A bell chimed behind them, and +Richard raised his head. Then he opened his eyes which wore for a +second the queer look of a shortsighted person’s whose spectacles are +lost. It took him a moment to recover from the impropriety of having +snored, and possibly grunted, before a young lady. To wake and find +oneself left alone with one was also slightly disconcerting. + +“I suppose I’ve been dozing,” he said. “What’s happened to everyone? +Clarissa?” + +“Mrs. Dalloway has gone to look at Mr. Grice’s fish,” Rachel replied. + +“I might have guessed,” said Richard. “It’s a common occurrence. And +how have you improved the shining hour? Have you become a convert?” + +“I don’t think I’ve read a line,” said Rachel. + +“That’s what I always find. There are too many things to look at. I +find nature very stimulating myself. My best ideas have come to me out +of doors.” + +“When you were walking?” + +“Walking—riding—yachting—I suppose the most momentous conversations of +my life took place while perambulating the great court at Trinity. I +was at both universities. It was a fad of my father’s. He thought it +broadening to the mind. I think I agree with him. I can remember—what +an age ago it seems!—settling the basis of a future state with the +present Secretary for India. We thought ourselves very wise. I’m not +sure we weren’t. We were happy, Miss Vinrace, and we were young—gifts +which make for wisdom.” + +“Have you done what you said you’d do?” she asked. + +“A searching question! I answer—Yes and No. If on the one hand I have +not accomplished what I set out to accomplish—which of us does!—on the +other I can fairly say this: I have not lowered my ideal.” + +He looked resolutely at a sea-gull, as though his ideal flew on the +wings of the bird. + +“But,” said Rachel, “what _is_ your ideal?” + +“There you ask too much, Miss Vinrace,” said Richard playfully. + +She could only say that she wanted to know, and Richard was +sufficiently amused to answer. + +“Well, how shall I reply? In one word—Unity. Unity of aim, of dominion, +of progress. The dispersion of the best ideas over the greatest area.” + +“The English?” + +“I grant that the English seem, on the whole, whiter than most men, +their records cleaner. But, good Lord, don’t run away with the idea +that I don’t see the drawbacks—horrors—unmentionable things done in our +very midst! I’m under no illusions. Few people, I suppose, have fewer +illusions than I have. Have you ever been in a factory, Miss +Vinrace!—No, I suppose not—I may say I hope not.” + +As for Rachel, she had scarcely walked through a poor street, and +always under the escort of father, maid, or aunts. + +“I was going to say that if you’d ever seen the kind of thing that’s +going on round you, you’d understand what it is that makes me and men +like me politicians. You asked me a moment ago whether I’d done what I +set out to do. Well, when I consider my life, there is one fact I admit +that I’m proud of; owing to me some thousands of girls in +Lancashire—and many thousands to come after them—can spend an hour +every day in the open air which their mothers had to spend over their +looms. I’m prouder of that, I own, than I should be of writing Keats +and Shelley into the bargain!” + +It became painful to Rachel to be one of those who write Keats and +Shelley. She liked Richard Dalloway, and warmed as he warmed. He seemed +to mean what he said. + +“I know nothing!” she exclaimed. + +“It’s far better that you should know nothing,” he said paternally, +“and you wrong yourself, I’m sure. You play very nicely, I’m told, and +I’ve no doubt you’ve read heaps of learned books.” + +Elderly banter would no longer check her. + +“You talk of unity,” she said. “You ought to make me understand.” + +“I never allow my wife to talk politics,” he said seriously. “For this +reason. It is impossible for human beings, constituted as they are, +both to fight and to have ideals. If I have preserved mine, as I am +thankful to say that in great measure I have, it is due to the fact +that I have been able to come home to my wife in the evening and to +find that she has spent her day in calling, music, play with the +children, domestic duties—what you will; her illusions have not been +destroyed. She gives me courage to go on. The strain of public life is +very great,” he added. + +This made him appear a battered martyr, parting every day with some of +the finest gold, in the service of mankind. + +“I can’t think,” Rachel exclaimed, “how any one does it!” + +“Explain, Miss Vinrace,” said Richard. “This is a matter I want to +clear up.” + +His kindness was genuine, and she determined to take the chance he gave +her, although to talk to a man of such worth and authority made her +heart beat. + +“It seems to me like this,” she began, doing her best first to +recollect and then to expose her shivering private visions. + +“There’s an old widow in her room, somewhere, let us suppose in the +suburbs of Leeds.” + +Richard bent his head to show that he accepted the widow. + +“In London you’re spending your life, talking, writing things, getting +bills through, missing what seems natural. The result of it all is that +she goes to her cupboard and finds a little more tea, a few lumps of +sugar, or a little less tea and a newspaper. Widows all over the +country I admit do this. Still, there’s the mind of the widow—the +affections; those you leave untouched. But you waste you own.” + +“If the widow goes to her cupboard and finds it bare,” Richard +answered, “her spiritual outlook we may admit will be affected. If I +may pick holes in your philosophy, Miss Vinrace, which has its merits, +I would point out that a human being is not a set of compartments, but +an organism. Imagination, Miss Vinrace; use your imagination; that’s +where you young Liberals fail. Conceive the world as a whole. Now for +your second point; when you assert that in trying to set the house in +order for the benefit of the young generation I am wasting my higher +capabilities, I totally disagree with you. I can conceive no more +exalted aim—to be the citizen of the Empire. Look at it in this way, +Miss Vinrace; conceive the state as a complicated machine; we citizens +are parts of that machine; some fulfil more important duties; others +(perhaps I am one of them) serve only to connect some obscure parts of +the mechanism, concealed from the public eye. Yet if the meanest screw +fails in its task, the proper working of the whole is imperilled.” + +It was impossible to combine the image of a lean black widow, gazing +out of her window, and longing for some one to talk to, with the image +of a vast machine, such as one sees at South Kensington, thumping, +thumping, thumping. The attempt at communication had been a failure. + +“We don’t seem to understand each other,” she said. + +“Shall I say something that will make you very angry?” he replied. + +“It won’t,” said Rachel. + +“Well, then; no woman has what I may call the political instinct. You +have very great virtues; I am the first, I hope, to admit that; but I +have never met a woman who even saw what is meant by statesmanship. I +am going to make you still more angry. I hope that I never shall meet +such a woman. Now, Miss Vinrace, are we enemies for life?” + +Vanity, irritation, and a thrusting desire to be understood, urged her +to make another attempt. + +“Under the streets, in the sewers, in the wires, in the telephones, +there is something alive; is that what you mean? In things like +dust-carts, and men mending roads? You feel that all the time when you +walk about London, and when you turn on a tap and the water comes?” + +“Certainly,” said Richard. “I understand you to mean that the whole of +modern society is based upon cooperative effort. If only more people +would realise that, Miss Vinrace, there would be fewer of your old +widows in solitary lodgings!” + +Rachel considered. + +“Are you a Liberal or are you a Conservative?” she asked. + +“I call myself a Conservative for convenience sake,” said Richard, +smiling. “But there is more in common between the two parties than +people generally allow.” + +There was a pause, which did not come on Rachel’s side from any lack of +things to say; as usual she could not say them, and was further +confused by the fact that the time for talking probably ran short. She +was haunted by absurd jumbled ideas—how, if one went back far enough, +everything perhaps was intelligible; everything was in common; for the +mammoths who pastured in the fields of Richmond High Street had turned +into paving stones and boxes full of ribbon, and her aunts. + +“Did you say you lived in the country when you were a child?” she +asked. + +Crude as her manners seemed to him, Richard was flattered. There could +be no doubt that her interest was genuine. + +“I did,” he smiled. + +“And what happened?” she asked. “Or do I ask too many questions?” + +“I’m flattered, I assure you. But—let me see—what happened? Well, +riding, lessons, sisters. There was an enchanted rubbish heap, I +remember, where all kinds of queer things happened. Odd, what things +impress children! I can remember the look of the place to this day. +It’s a fallacy to think that children are happy. They’re not; they’re +unhappy. I’ve never suffered so much as I did when I was a child.” + +“Why?” she asked. + +“I didn’t get on well with my father,” said Richard shortly. “He was a +very able man, but hard. Well—it makes one determined not to sin in +that way oneself. Children never forget injustice. They forgive heaps +of things grown-up people mind; but that sin is the unpardonable sin. +Mind you—I daresay I was a difficult child to manage; but when I think +what I was ready to give! No, I was more sinned against than sinning. +And then I went to school, where I did very fairly well; and and then, +as I say, my father sent me to both universities. . . . D’you know, +Miss Vinrace, you’ve made me think? How little, after all, one can tell +anybody about one’s life! Here I sit; there you sit; both, I doubt not, +chock-full of the most interesting experiences, ideas, emotions; yet +how communicate? I’ve told you what every second person you meet might +tell you.” + +“I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s the way of saying things, isn’t it, +not the things?” + +“True,” said Richard. “Perfectly true.” He paused. “When I look back +over my life—I’m forty-two—what are the great facts that stand out? +What were the revelations, if I may call them so? The misery of the +poor and—” (he hesitated and pitched over) “love!” + +Upon that word he lowered his voice; it was a word that seemed to +unveil the skies for Rachel. + +“It’s an odd thing to say to a young lady,” he continued. “But have you +any idea what—what I mean by that? No, of course not. I don’t use the +word in a conventional sense. I use it as young men use it. Girls are +kept very ignorant, aren’t they? Perhaps it’s wise—perhaps—You _don’t_ +know?” + +He spoke as if he had lost consciousness of what he was saying. + +“No; I don’t,” she said, scarcely speaking above her breath. + +“Warships, Dick! Over there! Look!” Clarissa, released from Mr. Grice, +appreciative of all his seaweeds, skimmed towards them, gesticulating. + +She had sighted two sinister grey vessels, low in the water, and bald +as bone, one closely following the other with the look of eyeless +beasts seeking their prey. Consciousness returned to Richard instantly. + +“By George!” he exclaimed, and stood shielding his eyes. + +“Ours, Dick?” said Clarissa. + +“The Mediterranean Fleet,” he answered. + +The _Euphrosyne_ was slowly dipping her flag. Richard raised his hat. +Convulsively Clarissa squeezed Rachel’s hand. + +“Aren’t you glad to be English!” she said. + +The warships drew past, casting a curious effect of discipline and +sadness upon the waters, and it was not until they were again invisible +that people spoke to each other naturally. At lunch the talk was all of +valour and death, and the magnificent qualities of British admirals. +Clarissa quoted one poet, Willoughby quoted another. Life on board a +man-of-war was splendid, so they agreed, and sailors, whenever one met +them, were quite especially nice and simple. + +This being so, no one liked it when Helen remarked that it seemed to +her as wrong to keep sailors as to keep a Zoo, and that as for dying on +a battle-field, surely it was time we ceased to praise courage—“or to +write bad poetry about it,” snarled Pepper. + +But Helen was really wondering why Rachel, sitting silent, looked so +queer and flushed. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +She was not able to follow up her observations, however, or to come to +any conclusion, for by one of those accidents which are liable to +happen at sea, the whole course of their lives was now put out of +order. + +Even at tea the floor rose beneath their feet and pitched too low +again, and at dinner the ship seemed to groan and strain as though a +lash were descending. She who had been a broad-backed dray-horse, upon +whose hind-quarters pierrots might waltz, became a colt in a field. The +plates slanted away from the knives, and Mrs. Dalloway’s face blanched +for a second as she helped herself and saw the potatoes roll this way +and that. Willoughby, of course, extolled the virtues of his ship, and +quoted what had been said of her by experts and distinguished +passengers, for he loved his own possessions. Still, dinner was uneasy, +and directly the ladies were alone Clarissa owned that she would be +better off in bed, and went, smiling bravely. + +Next morning the storm was on them, and no politeness could ignore it. +Mrs. Dalloway stayed in her room. Richard faced three meals, eating +valiantly at each; but at the third, certain glazed asparagus swimming +in oil finally conquered him. + +“That beats me,” he said, and withdrew. + +“Now we are alone once more,” remarked William Pepper, looking round +the table; but no one was ready to engage him in talk, and the meal +ended in silence. + +On the following day they met—but as flying leaves meet in the air. +Sick they were not; but the wind propelled them hastily into rooms, +violently downstairs. They passed each other gasping on deck; they +shouted across tables. They wore fur coats; and Helen was never seen +without a bandanna on her head. For comfort they retreated to their +cabins, where with tightly wedged feet they let the ship bounce and +tumble. Their sensations were the sensations of potatoes in a sack on a +galloping horse. The world outside was merely a violent grey tumult. +For two days they had a perfect rest from their old emotions. Rachel +had just enough consciousness to suppose herself a donkey on the summit +of a moor in a hail-storm, with its coat blown into furrows; then she +became a wizened tree, perpetually driven back by the salt Atlantic +gale. + +Helen, on the other hand, staggered to Mrs. Dalloway’s door, knocked, +could not be heard for the slamming of doors and the battering of wind, +and entered. + +There were basins, of course. Mrs. Dalloway lay half-raised on a +pillow, and did not open her eyes. Then she murmured, “Oh, Dick, is +that you?” + +Helen shouted—for she was thrown against the washstand—“How are you?” + +Clarissa opened one eye. It gave her an incredibly dissipated +appearance. “Awful!” she gasped. Her lips were white inside. + +Planting her feet wide, Helen contrived to pour champagne into a +tumbler with a tooth-brush in it. + +“Champagne,” she said. + +“There’s a tooth-brush in it,” murmured Clarissa, and smiled; it might +have been the contortion of one weeping. She drank. + +“Disgusting,” she whispered, indicating the basins. Relics of humour +still played over her face like moonshine. + +“Want more?” Helen shouted. Speech was again beyond Clarissa’s reach. +The wind laid the ship shivering on her side. Pale agonies crossed Mrs. +Dalloway in waves. When the curtains flapped, grey lights puffed across +her. Between the spasms of the storm, Helen made the curtain fast, +shook the pillows, stretched the bed-clothes, and smoothed the hot +nostrils and forehead with cold scent. + +“You _are_ good!” Clarissa gasped. “Horrid mess!” + +She was trying to apologise for white underclothes fallen and scattered +on the floor. For one second she opened a single eye, and saw that the +room was tidy. + +“That’s nice,” she gasped. + +Helen left her; far, far away she knew that she felt a kind of liking +for Mrs. Dalloway. She could not help respecting her spirit and her +desire, even in the throes of sickness, for a tidy bedroom. Her +petticoats, however, rose above her knees. + +Quite suddenly the storm relaxed its grasp. It happened at tea; the +expected paroxysm of the blast gave out just as it reached its climax +and dwindled away, and the ship instead of taking the usual plunge went +steadily. The monotonous order of plunging and rising, roaring and +relaxing, was interfered with, and every one at table looked up and +felt something loosen within them. The strain was slackened and human +feelings began to peep again, as they do when daylight shows at the end +of a tunnel. + +“Try a turn with me,” Ridley called across to Rachel. + +“Foolish!” cried Helen, but they went stumbling up the ladder. Choked +by the wind their spirits rose with a rush, for on the skirts of all +the grey tumult was a misty spot of gold. Instantly the world dropped +into shape; they were no longer atoms flying in the void, but people +riding a triumphant ship on the back of the sea. Wind and space were +banished; the world floated like an apple in a tub, and the mind of +man, which had been unmoored also, once more attached itself to the old +beliefs. + +Having scrambled twice round the ship and received many sound cuffs +from the wind, they saw a sailor’s face positively shine golden. They +looked, and beheld a complete yellow circle of sun; next minute it was +traversed by sailing stands of cloud, and then completely hidden. By +breakfast the next morning, however, the sky was swept clean, the +waves, although steep, were blue, and after their view of the strange +under-world, inhabited by phantoms, people began to live among tea-pots +and loaves of bread with greater zest than ever. + +Richard and Clarissa, however, still remained on the borderland. She +did not attempt to sit up; her husband stood on his feet, contemplated +his waistcoat and trousers, shook his head, and then lay down again. +The inside of his brain was still rising and falling like the sea on +the stage. At four o’clock he woke from sleep and saw the sunlight make +a vivid angle across the red plush curtains and the grey tweed +trousers. The ordinary world outside slid into his mind, and by the +time he was dressed he was an English gentleman again. + +He stood beside his wife. She pulled him down to her by the lapel of +his coat, kissed him, and held him fast for a minute. + +“Go and get a breath of air, Dick,” she said. “You look quite washed +out. . . . How nice you smell! . . . And be polite to that woman. She +was so kind to me.” + +Thereupon Mrs. Dalloway turned to the cool side of her pillow, terribly +flattened but still invincible. + +Richard found Helen talking to her brother-in-law, over two dishes of +yellow cake and smooth bread and butter. + +“You look very ill!” she exclaimed on seeing him. “Come and have some +tea.” + +He remarked that the hands that moved about the cups were beautiful. + +“I hear you’ve been very good to my wife,” he said. “She’s had an awful +time of it. You came in and fed her with champagne. Were you among the +saved yourself?” + +“I? Oh, I haven’t been sick for twenty years—sea-sick, I mean.” + +“There are three stages of convalescence, I always say,” broke in the +hearty voice of Willoughby. “The milk stage, the bread-and-butter +stage, and the roast-beef stage. I should say you were at the +bread-and-butter stage.” He handed him the plate. + +“Now, I should advise a hearty tea, then a brisk walk on deck; and by +dinner-time you’ll be clamouring for beef, eh?” He went off laughing, +excusing himself on the score of business. + +“What a splendid fellow he is!” said Richard. “Always keen on +something.” + +“Yes,” said Helen, “he’s always been like that.” + +“This is a great undertaking of his,” Richard continued. “It’s a +business that won’t stop with ships, I should say. We shall see him in +Parliament, or I’m much mistaken. He’s the kind of man we want in +Parliament—the man who has done things.” + +But Helen was not much interested in her brother-in-law. + +“I expect your head’s aching, isn’t it?” she asked, pouring a fresh +cup. + +“Well, it is,” said Richard. “It’s humiliating to find what a slave one +is to one’s body in this world. D’you know, I can never work without a +kettle on the hob. As often as not I don’t drink tea, but I must feel +that I can if I want to.” + +“That’s very bad for you,” said Helen. + +“It shortens one’s life; but I’m afraid, Mrs. Ambrose, we politicians +must make up our minds to that at the outset. We’ve got to burn the +candle at both ends, or—” + +“You’ve cooked your goose!” said Helen brightly. + +“We can’t make you take us seriously, Mrs. Ambrose,” he protested. “May +I ask how you’ve spent your time? Reading—philosophy?” (He saw the +black book.) “Metaphysics and fishing!” he exclaimed. “If I had to live +again I believe I should devote myself to one or the other.” He began +turning the pages. + +“‘Good, then, is indefinable,’” he read out. “How jolly to think that’s +going on still! ‘So far as I know there is only one ethical writer, +Professor Henry Sidgwick, who has clearly recognised and stated this +fact.’ That’s just the kind of thing we used to talk about when we were +boys. I can remember arguing until five in the morning with Duffy—now +Secretary for India—pacing round and round those cloisters until we +decided it was too late to go to bed, and we went for a ride instead. +Whether we ever came to any conclusion—that’s another matter. Still, +it’s the arguing that counts. It’s things like that that stand out in +life. Nothing’s been quite so vivid since. It’s the philosophers, it’s +the scholars,” he continued, “they’re the people who pass the torch, +who keep the light burning by which we live. Being a politician doesn’t +necessarily blind one to that, Mrs. Ambrose.” + +“No. Why should it?” said Helen. “But can you remember if your wife +takes sugar?” + +She lifted the tray and went off with it to Mrs. Dalloway. + +Richard twisted a muffler twice round his throat and struggled up on +deck. His body, which had grown white and tender in a dark room, +tingled all over in the fresh air. He felt himself a man undoubtedly in +the prime of life. Pride glowed in his eye as he let the wind buffet +him and stood firm. With his head slightly lowered he sheered round +corners, strode uphill, and met the blast. There was a collision. For a +second he could not see what the body was he had run into. “Sorry.” +“Sorry.” It was Rachel who apologised. They both laughed, too much +blown about to speak. She drove open the door of her room and stepped +into its calm. In order to speak to her, it was necessary that Richard +should follow. They stood in a whirlpool of wind; papers began flying +round in circles, the door crashed to, and they tumbled, laughing, into +chairs. Richard sat upon Bach. + +“My word! What a tempest!” he exclaimed. + +“Fine, isn’t it?” said Rachel. Certainly the struggle and wind had +given her a decision she lacked; red was in her cheeks, and her hair +was down. + +“Oh, what fun!” he cried. “What am I sitting on? Is this your room? How +jolly!” “There—sit there,” she commanded. Cowper slid once more. + +“How jolly to meet again,” said Richard. “It seems an age. _Cowper’s +Letters_? . . . Bach? . . . _Wuthering Heights_? . . . Is this where +you meditate on the world, and then come out and pose poor politicians +with questions? In the intervals of sea-sickness I’ve thought a lot of +our talk. I assure you, you made me think.” + +“I made you think! But why?” + +“What solitary icebergs we are, Miss Vinrace! How little we can +communicate! There are lots of things I should like to tell you +about—to hear your opinion of. Have you ever read Burke?” + +“Burke?” she repeated. “Who was Burke?” + +“No? Well, then I shall make a point of sending you a copy. _The Speech +on the French Revolution_—_The American Rebellion_? Which shall it be, +I wonder?” He noted something in his pocket-book. “And then you must +write and tell me what you think of it. This reticence—this +isolation—that’s what’s the matter with modern life! Now, tell me about +yourself. What are your interests and occupations? I should imagine +that you were a person with very strong interests. Of course you are! +Good God! When I think of the age we live in, with its opportunities +and possibilities, the mass of things to be done and enjoyed—why +haven’t we ten lives instead of one? But about yourself?” + +“You see, I’m a woman,” said Rachel. + +“I know—I know,” said Richard, throwing his head back, and drawing his +fingers across his eyes. + +“How strange to be a woman! A young and beautiful woman,” he continued +sententiously, “has the whole world at her feet. That’s true, Miss +Vinrace. You have an inestimable power—for good or for evil. What +couldn’t you do—” he broke off. + +“What?” asked Rachel. + +“You have beauty,” he said. The ship lurched. Rachel fell slightly +forward. Richard took her in his arms and kissed her. Holding her +tight, he kissed her passionately, so that she felt the hardness of his +body and the roughness of his cheek printed upon hers. She fell back in +her chair, with tremendous beats of the heart, each of which sent black +waves across her eyes. He clasped his forehead in his hands. + +“You tempt me,” he said. The tone of his voice was terrifying. He +seemed choked in fright. They were both trembling. Rachel stood up and +went. Her head was cold, her knees shaking, and the physical pain of +the emotion was so great that she could only keep herself moving above +the great leaps of her heart. She leant upon the rail of the ship, and +gradually ceased to feel, for a chill of body and mind crept over her. +Far out between the waves little black and white sea-birds were riding. +Rising and falling with smooth and graceful movements in the hollows of +the waves they seemed singularly detached and unconcerned. + +“You’re peaceful,” she said. She became peaceful too, at the same time +possessed with a strange exultation. Life seemed to hold infinite +possibilities she had never guessed at. She leant upon the rail and +looked over the troubled grey waters, where the sunlight was fitfully +scattered upon the crests of the waves, until she was cold and +absolutely calm again. Nevertheless something wonderful had happened. + +At dinner, however, she did not feel exalted, but merely uncomfortable, +as if she and Richard had seen something together which is hidden in +ordinary life, so that they did not like to look at each other. Richard +slid his eyes over her uneasily once, and never looked at her again. +Formal platitudes were manufactured with effort, but Willoughby was +kindled. + +“Beef for Mr. Dalloway!” he shouted. “Come now—after that walk you’re +at the beef stage, Dalloway!” + +Wonderful masculine stories followed about Bright and Disraeli and +coalition governments, wonderful stories which made the people at the +dinner-table seem featureless and small. After dinner, sitting alone +with Rachel under the great swinging lamp, Helen was struck by her +pallor. It once more occurred to her that there was something strange +in the girl’s behaviour. + +“You look tired. Are you tired?” she asked. + +“Not tired,” said Rachel. “Oh, yes, I suppose I am tired.” + +Helen advised bed, and she went, not seeing Richard again. She must +have been very tired for she fell asleep at once, but after an hour or +two of dreamless sleep, she dreamt. She dreamt that she was walking +down a long tunnel, which grew so narrow by degrees that she could +touch the damp bricks on either side. At length the tunnel opened and +became a vault; she found herself trapped in it, bricks meeting her +wherever she turned, alone with a little deformed man who squatted on +the floor gibbering, with long nails. His face was pitted and like the +face of an animal. The wall behind him oozed with damp, which collected +into drops and slid down. Still and cold as death she lay, not daring +to move, until she broke the agony by tossing herself across the bed, +and woke crying “Oh!” + +Light showed her the familiar things: her clothes, fallen off the +chair; the water jug gleaming white; but the horror did not go at once. +She felt herself pursued, so that she got up and actually locked her +door. A voice moaned for her; eyes desired her. All night long +barbarian men harassed the ship; they came scuffling down the passages, +and stopped to snuffle at her door. She could not sleep again. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +“That’s the tragedy of life—as I always say!” said Mrs. Dalloway. +“Beginning things and having to end them. Still, I’m not going to let +_this_ end, if you’re willing.” It was the morning, the sea was calm, +and the ship once again was anchored not far from another shore. + +She was dressed in her long fur cloak, with the veils wound around her +head, and once more the rich boxes stood on top of each other so that +the scene of a few days back seemed to be repeated. + +“D’you suppose we shall ever meet in London?” said Ridley ironically. +“You’ll have forgotten all about me by the time you step out there.” + +He pointed to the shore of the little bay, where they could now see the +separate trees with moving branches. + +“How horrid you are!” she laughed. “Rachel’s coming to see me +anyhow—the instant you get back,” she said, pressing Rachel’s arm. +“Now—you’ve no excuse!” + +With a silver pencil she wrote her name and address on the flyleaf of +_Persuasion_, and gave the book to Rachel. Sailors were shouldering the +luggage, and people were beginning to congregate. There were Captain +Cobbold, Mr. Grice, Willoughby, Helen, and an obscure grateful man in a +blue jersey. + +“Oh, it’s time,” said Clarissa. “Well, good-bye. I _do_ like you,” she +murmured as she kissed Rachel. People in the way made it unnecessary +for Richard to shake Rachel by the hand; he managed to look at her very +stiffly for a second before he followed his wife down the ship’s side. + +The boat separating from the vessel made off towards the land, and for +some minutes Helen, Ridley, and Rachel leant over the rail, watching. +Once Mrs. Dalloway turned and waved; but the boat steadily grew smaller +and smaller until it ceased to rise and fall, and nothing could be seen +save two resolute backs. + +“Well, that’s over,” said Ridley after a long silence. “We shall never +see _them_ again,” he added, turning to go to his books. A feeling of +emptiness and melancholy came over them; they knew in their hearts that +it was over, and that they had parted for ever, and the knowledge +filled them with far greater depression than the length of their +acquaintance seemed to justify. Even as the boat pulled away they could +feel other sights and sounds beginning to take the place of the +Dalloways, and the feeling was so unpleasant that they tried to resist +it. For so, too, would they be forgotten. + +In much the same way as Mrs. Chailey downstairs was sweeping the +withered rose-leaves off the dressing-table, so Helen was anxious to +make things straight again after the visitors had gone. Rachel’s +obvious languor and listlessness made her an easy prey, and indeed +Helen had devised a kind of trap. That something had happened she now +felt pretty certain; moreover, she had come to think that they had been +strangers long enough; she wished to know what the girl was like, +partly of course because Rachel showed no disposition to be known. So, +as they turned from the rail, she said: + +“Come and talk to me instead of practising,” and led the way to the +sheltered side where the deck-chairs were stretched in the sun. Rachel +followed her indifferently. Her mind was absorbed by Richard; by the +extreme strangeness of what had happened, and by a thousand feelings of +which she had not been conscious before. She made scarcely any attempt +to listen to what Helen was saying, as Helen indulged in commonplaces +to begin with. While Mrs. Ambrose arranged her embroidery, sucked her +silk, and threaded her needle, she lay back gazing at the horizon. + +“Did you like those people?” Helen asked her casually. + +“Yes,” she replied blankly. + +“You talked to him, didn’t you?” + +She said nothing for a minute. + +“He kissed me,” she said without any change of tone. + +Helen started, looked at her, but could not make out what she felt. + +“M-m-m’yes,” she said, after a pause. “I thought he was that kind of +man.” + +“What kind of man?” said Rachel. + +“Pompous and sentimental.” + +“I like him,” said Rachel. + +“So you really didn’t mind?” + +For the first time since Helen had known her Rachel’s eyes lit up +brightly. + +“I did mind,” she said vehemently. “I dreamt. I couldn’t sleep.” + +“Tell me what happened,” said Helen. She had to keep her lips from +twitching as she listened to Rachel’s story. It was poured out abruptly +with great seriousness and no sense of humour. + +“We talked about politics. He told me what he had done for the poor +somewhere. I asked him all sorts of questions. He told me about his own +life. The day before yesterday, after the storm, he came in to see me. +It happened then, quite suddenly. He kissed me. I don’t know why.” As +she spoke she grew flushed. “I was a good deal excited,” she continued. +“But I didn’t mind till afterwards; when—” she paused, and saw the +figure of the bloated little man again—“I became terrified.” + +From the look in her eyes it was evident she was again terrified. Helen +was really at a loss what to say. From the little she knew of Rachel’s +upbringing she supposed that she had been kept entirely ignorant as to +the relations of men with women. With a shyness which she felt with +women and not with men she did not like to explain simply what these +are. Therefore she took the other course and belittled the whole +affair. + +“Oh, well,” she said, “He was a silly creature, and if I were you, I’d +think no more about it.” + +“No,” said Rachel, sitting bolt upright, “I shan’t do that. I shall +think about it all day and all night until I find out exactly what it +does mean.” + +“Don’t you ever read?” Helen asked tentatively. + +“_Cowper’s Letters_—that kind of thing. Father gets them for me or my +Aunts.” + +Helen could hardly restrain herself from saying out loud what she +thought of a man who brought up his daughter so that at the age of +twenty-four she scarcely knew that men desired women and was terrified +by a kiss. She had good reason to fear that Rachel had made herself +incredibly ridiculous. + +“You don’t know many men?” she asked. + +“Mr. Pepper,” said Rachel ironically. + +“So no one’s ever wanted to marry you?” + +“No,” she answered ingenuously. + +Helen reflected that as, from what she had said, Rachel certainly would +think these things out, it might be as well to help her. + +“You oughtn’t to be frightened,” she said. “It’s the most natural thing +in the world. Men will want to kiss you, just as they’ll want to marry +you. The pity is to get things out of proportion. It’s like noticing +the noises people make when they eat, or men spitting; or, in short, +any small thing that gets on one’s nerves.” + +Rachel seemed to be inattentive to these remarks. + +“Tell me,” she said suddenly, “what are those women in Piccadilly?” + +“In Picadilly? They are prostituted,” said Helen. + +“It _is_ terrifying—it _is_ disgusting,” Rachel asserted, as if she +included Helen in the hatred. + +“It is,” said Helen. “But—” + +“I did like him,” Rachel mused, as if speaking to herself. “I wanted to +talk to him; I wanted to know what he’d done. The women in Lancashire—” + +It seemed to her as she recalled their talk that there was something +lovable about Richard, good in their attempted friendship, and +strangely piteous in the way they had parted. + +The softening of her mood was apparent to Helen. + +“You see,” she said, “you must take things as they are; and if you want +friendship with men you must run risks. Personally,” she continued, +breaking into a smile, “I think it’s worth it; I don’t mind being +kissed; I’m rather jealous, I believe, that Mr. Dalloway kissed you and +didn’t kiss me. Though,” she added, “he bored me considerably.” + +But Rachel did not return the smile or dismiss the whole affair, as +Helen meant her to. Her mind was working very quickly, inconsistently +and painfully. Helen’s words hewed down great blocks which had stood +there always, and the light which came in was cold. After sitting for a +time with fixed eyes, she burst out: + +“So that’s why I can’t walk alone!” + +By this new light she saw her life for the first time a creeping +hedged-in thing, driven cautiously between high walls, here turned +aside, there plunged in darkness, made dull and crippled for ever—her +life that was the only chance she had—a thousand words and actions +became plain to her. + +“Because men are brutes! I hate men!” she exclaimed. + +“I thought you said you liked him?” said Helen. + +“I liked him, and I liked being kissed,” she answered, as if that only +added more difficulties to her problem. + +Helen was surprised to see how genuine both shock and problem were, but +she could think of no way of easing the difficulty except by going on +talking. She wanted to make her niece talk, and so to understand why +this rather dull, kindly, plausible politician had made so deep an +impression on her, for surely at the age of twenty-four this was not +natural. + +“And did you like Mrs. Dalloway too?” she asked. + +As she spoke she saw Rachel redden; for she remembered silly things she +had said, and also, it occurred to her that she treated this exquisite +woman rather badly, for Mrs. Dalloway had said that she loved her +husband. + +“She was quite nice, but a thimble-pated creature,” Helen continued. “I +never heard such nonsense! Chitter-chatter-chitter-chatter—fish and the +Greek alphabet—never listened to a word any one said—chock-full of +idiotic theories about the way to bring up children—I’d far rather talk +to him any day. He was pompous, but he did at least understand what was +said to him.” + +The glamour insensibly faded a little both from Richard and Clarissa. +They had not been so wonderful after all, then, in the eyes of a mature +person. + +“It’s very difficult to know what people are like,” Rachel remarked, +and Helen saw with pleasure that she spoke more naturally. “I suppose I +was taken in.” + +There was little doubt about that according to Helen, but she +restrained herself and said aloud: + +“One has to make experiments.” + +“And they _were_ nice,” said Rachel. “They were extraordinarily +interesting.” She tried to recall the image of the world as a live +thing that Richard had given her, with drains like nerves, and bad +houses like patches of diseased skin. She recalled his +watch-words—Unity—Imagination, and saw again the bubbles meeting in her +tea-cup as he spoke of sisters and canaries, boyhood and his father, +her small world becoming wonderfully enlarged. + +“But all people don’t seem to you equally interesting, do they?” asked +Mrs. Ambrose. + +Rachel explained that most people had hitherto been symbols; but that +when they talked to one they ceased to be symbols, and became—“I could +listen to them for ever!” she exclaimed. She then jumped up, +disappeared downstairs for a minute, and came back with a fat red book. + +“_Who’s Who_,” she said, laying it upon Helen’s knee and turning the +pages. “It gives short lives of people—for instance: ‘Sir Roland Beal; +born 1852; parents from Moffatt; educated at Rugby; passed first into +R.E.; married 1878 the daughter of T. Fishwick; served in the +Bechuanaland Expedition 1884-85 (honourably mentioned). Clubs: United +Service, Naval and Military. Recreations: an enthusiastic curler.’” + +Sitting on the deck at Helen’s feet she went on turning the pages and +reading biographies of bankers, writers, clergymen, sailors, surgeons, +judges, professors, statesmen, editors, philanthropists, merchants, and +actresses; what clubs they belonged to, where they lived, what games +they played, and how many acres they owned. + +She became absorbed in the book. + +Helen meanwhile stitched at her embroidery and thought over the things +they had said. Her conclusion was that she would very much like to show +her niece, if it were possible, how to live, or as she put it, how to +be a reasonable person. She thought that there must be something wrong +in this confusion between politics and kissing politicians, and that an +elder person ought to be able to help. + +“I quite agree,” she said, “that people are very interesting; only—” +Rachel, putting her finger between the pages, looked up enquiringly. + +“Only I think you ought to discriminate,” she ended. “It’s a pity to be +intimate with people who are—well, rather second-rate, like the +Dalloways, and to find it out later.” + +“But how does one know?” Rachel asked. + +“I really can’t tell you,” replied Helen candidly, after a moment’s +thought. “You’ll have to find out for yourself. But try and—Why don’t +you call me Helen?” she added. “‘Aunt’s’ a horrid name. I never liked +my Aunts.” + +“I should like to call you Helen,” Rachel answered. + +“D’you think me very unsympathetic?” + +Rachel reviewed the points which Helen had certainly failed to +understand; they arose chiefly from the difference of nearly twenty +years in age between them, which made Mrs. Ambrose appear too humorous +and cool in a matter of such moment. + +“No,” she said. “Some things you don’t understand, of course.” + +“Of course,” Helen agreed. “So now you can go ahead and be a person on +your own account,” she added. + +The vision of her own personality, of herself as a real everlasting +thing, different from anything else, unmergeable, like the sea or the +wind, flashed into Rachel’s mind, and she became profoundly excited at +the thought of living. + +“I can by m-m-myself,” she stammered, “in spite of you, in spite of the +Dalloways, and Mr. Pepper, and Father, and my Aunts, in spite of +these?” She swept her hand across a whole page of statesmen and +soldiers. + +“In spite of them all,” said Helen gravely. She then put down her +needle, and explained a plan which had come into her head as they +talked. Instead of wandering on down the Amazons until she reached some +sulphurous tropical port, where one had to lie within doors all day +beating off insects with a fan, the sensible thing to do surely was to +spend the season with them in their villa by the seaside, where among +other advantages Mrs. Ambrose herself would be at hand to—“After all, +Rachel,” she broke off, “it’s silly to pretend that because there’s +twenty years’ difference between us we therefore can’t talk to each +other like human beings.” + +“No; because we like each other,” said Rachel. + +“Yes,” Mrs. Ambrose agreed. + +That fact, together with other facts, had been made clear by their +twenty minutes’ talk, although how they had come to these conclusions +they could not have said. + +However they were come by, they were sufficiently serious to send Mrs. +Ambrose a day or two later in search of her brother-in-law. She found +him sitting in his room working, applying a stout blue pencil +authoritatively to bundles of filmy paper. Papers lay to left and to +right of him, there were great envelopes so gorged with papers that +they spilt papers on to the table. Above him hung a photograph of a +woman’s head. The need of sitting absolutely still before a Cockney +photographer had given her lips a queer little pucker, and her eyes for +the same reason looked as though she thought the whole situation +ridiculous. Nevertheless it was the head of an individual and +interesting woman, who would no doubt have turned and laughed at +Willoughby if she could have caught his eye; but when he looked up at +her he sighed profoundly. In his mind this work of his, the great +factories at Hull which showed like mountains at night, the ships that +crossed the ocean punctually, the schemes for combining this and that +and building up a solid mass of industry, was all an offering to her; +he laid his success at her feet; and was always thinking how to educate +his daughter so that Theresa might be glad. He was a very ambitious +man; and although he had not been particularly kind to her while she +lived, as Helen thought, he now believed that she watched him from +Heaven, and inspired what was good in him. + +Mrs. Ambrose apologised for the interruption, and asked whether she +might speak to him about a plan of hers. Would he consent to leave his +daughter with them when they landed, instead of taking her on up the +Amazons? + +“We would take great care of her,” she added, “and we should really +like it.” + +Willoughby looked very grave and carefully laid aside his papers. + +“She’s a good girl,” he said at length. “There is a likeness?”—he +nodded his head at the photograph of Theresa and sighed. Helen looked +at Theresa pursing up her lips before the Cockney photographer. It +suggested her in an absurd human way, and she felt an intense desire to +share some joke. + +“She’s the only thing that’s left to me,” sighed Willoughby. “We go on +year after year without talking about these things—” He broke off. “But +it’s better so. Only life’s very hard.” + +Helen was sorry for him, and patted him on the shoulder, but she felt +uncomfortable when her brother-in-law expressed his feelings, and took +refuge in praising Rachel, and explaining why she thought her plan +might be a good one. + +“True,” said Willoughby when she had done. “The social conditions are +bound to be primitive. I should be out a good deal. I agreed because +she wished it. And of course I have complete confidence in you. . . . +You see, Helen,” he continued, becoming confidential, “I want to bring +her up as her mother would have wished. I don’t hold with these modern +views—any more than you do, eh? She’s a nice quiet girl, devoted to her +music—a little less of _that_ would do no harm. Still, it’s kept her +happy, and we lead a very quiet life at Richmond. I should like her to +begin to see more people. I want to take her about with me when I get +home. I’ve half a mind to rent a house in London, leaving my sisters at +Richmond, and take her to see one or two people who’d be kind to her +for my sake. I’m beginning to realise,” he continued, stretching +himself out, “that all this is tending to Parliament, Helen. It’s the +only way to get things done as one wants them done. I talked to +Dalloway about it. In that case, of course, I should want Rachel to be +able to take more part in things. A certain amount of entertaining +would be necessary—dinners, an occasional evening party. One’s +constituents like to be fed, I believe. In all these ways Rachel could +be of great help to me. So,” he wound up, “I should be very glad, if we +arrange this visit (which must be upon a business footing, mind), if +you could see your way to helping my girl, bringing her out—she’s a +little shy now,—making a woman of her, the kind of woman her mother +would have liked her to be,” he ended, jerking his head at the +photograph. + +Willoughby’s selfishness, though consistent as Helen saw with real +affection for his daughter, made her determined to have the girl to +stay with her, even if she had to promise a complete course of +instruction in the feminine graces. She could not help laughing at the +notion of it—Rachel a Tory hostess!—and marvelling as she left him at +the astonishing ignorance of a father. + +Rachel, when consulted, showed less enthusiasm than Helen could have +wished. One moment she was eager, the next doubtful. Visions of a great +river, now blue, now yellow in the tropical sun and crossed by bright +birds, now white in the moon, now deep in shade with moving trees and +canoes sliding out from the tangled banks, beset her. Helen promised a +river. Then she did not want to leave her father. That feeling seemed +genuine too, but in the end Helen prevailed, although when she had won +her case she was beset by doubts, and more than once regretted the +impulse which had entangled her with the fortunes of another human +being. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +From a distance the _Euphrosyne_ looked very small. Glasses were turned +upon her from the decks of great liners, and she was pronounced a +tramp, a cargo-boat, or one of those wretched little passenger steamers +where people rolled about among the cattle on deck. The insect-like +figures of Dalloways, Ambroses, and Vinraces were also derided, both +from the extreme smallness of their persons and the doubt which only +strong glasses could dispel as to whether they were really live +creatures or only lumps on the rigging. Mr. Pepper with all his +learning had been mistaken for a cormorant, and then, as unjustly, +transformed into a cow. At night, indeed, when the waltzes were +swinging in the saloon, and gifted passengers reciting, the little +ship—shrunk to a few beads of light out among the dark waves, and one +high in air upon the mast-head—seemed something mysterious and +impressive to heated partners resting from the dance. She became a ship +passing in the night—an emblem of the loneliness of human life, an +occasion for queer confidences and sudden appeals for sympathy. + +On and on she went, by day and by night, following her path, until one +morning broke and showed the land. Losing its shadow-like appearance it +became first cleft and mountainous, next coloured grey and purple, next +scattered with white blocks which gradually separated themselves, and +then, as the progress of the ship acted upon the view like a +field-glass of increasing power, became streets of houses. By nine +o’clock the _Euphrosyne_ had taken up her position in the middle of a +great bay; she dropped her anchor; immediately, as if she were a +recumbent giant requiring examination, small boats came swarming about +her. She rang with cries; men jumped on to her; her deck was thumped by +feet. The lonely little island was invaded from all quarters at once, +and after four weeks of silence it was bewildering to hear human +speech. Mrs. Ambrose alone heeded none of this stir. She was pale with +suspense while the boat with mail bags was making towards them. +Absorbed in her letters she did not notice that she had left the +_Euphrosyne_, and felt no sadness when the ship lifted up her voice and +bellowed thrice like a cow separated from its calf. + +“The children are well!” she exclaimed. Mr. Pepper, who sat opposite +with a great mound of bag and rug upon his knees, said, “Gratifying.” +Rachel, to whom the end of the voyage meant a complete change of +perspective, was too much bewildered by the approach of the shore to +realise what children were well or why it was gratifying. Helen went on +reading. + +Moving very slowly, and rearing absurdly high over each wave, the +little boat was now approaching a white crescent of sand. Behind this +was a deep green valley, with distinct hills on either side. On the +slope of the right-hand hill white houses with brown roofs were +settled, like nesting sea-birds, and at intervals cypresses striped the +hill with black bars. Mountains whose sides were flushed with red, but +whose crowns were bald, rose as a pinnacle, half-concealing another +pinnacle behind it. The hour being still early, the whole view was +exquisitely light and airy; the blues and greens of sky and tree were +intense but not sultry. As they drew nearer and could distinguish +details, the effect of the earth with its minute objects and colours +and different forms of life was overwhelming after four weeks of the +sea, and kept them silent. + +“Three hundred years odd,” said Mr. Pepper meditatively at length. + +As nobody said, “What?” he merely extracted a bottle and swallowed a +pill. The piece of information that died within him was to the effect +that three hundred years ago five Elizabethan barques had anchored +where the _Euphrosyne_ now floated. Half-drawn up upon the beach lay an +equal number of Spanish galleons, unmanned, for the country was still a +virgin land behind a veil. Slipping across the water, the English +sailors bore away bars of silver, bales of linen, timbers of cedar +wood, golden crucifixes knobbed with emeralds. When the Spaniards came +down from their drinking, a fight ensued, the two parties churning up +the sand, and driving each other into the surf. The Spaniards, bloated +with fine living upon the fruits of the miraculous land, fell in heaps; +but the hardy Englishmen, tawny with sea-voyaging, hairy for lack of +razors, with muscles like wire, fangs greedy for flesh, and fingers +itching for gold, despatched the wounded, drove the dying into the sea, +and soon reduced the natives to a state of superstitious wonderment. +Here a settlement was made; women were imported; children grew. All +seemed to favour the expansion of the British Empire, and had there +been men like Richard Dalloway in the time of Charles the First, the +map would undoubtedly be red where it is now an odious green. But it +must be supposed that the political mind of that age lacked +imagination, and, merely for want of a few thousand pounds and a few +thousand men, the spark died that should have been a conflagration. +From the interior came Indians with subtle poisons, naked bodies, and +painted idols; from the sea came vengeful Spaniards and rapacious +Portuguese; exposed to all these enemies (though the climate proved +wonderfully kind and the earth abundant) the English dwindled away and +all but disappeared. Somewhere about the middle of the seventeenth +century a single sloop watched its season and slipped out by night, +bearing within it all that was left of the great British colony, a few +men, a few women, and perhaps a dozen dusky children. English history +then denies all knowledge of the place. Owing to one cause and another +civilisation shifted its centre to a spot some four or five hundred +miles to the south, and to-day Santa Marina is not much larger than it +was three hundred years ago. In population it is a happy compromise, +for Portuguese fathers wed Indian mothers, and their children +intermarry with the Spanish. Although they get their ploughs from +Manchester, they make their coats from their own sheep, their silk from +their own worms, and their furniture from their own cedar trees, so +that in arts and industries the place is still much where it was in +Elizabethan days. + +The reasons which had drawn the English across the sea to found a small +colony within the last ten years are not so easily described, and will +never perhaps be recorded in history books. Granted facility of travel, +peace, good trade, and so on, there was besides a kind of +dissatisfaction among the English with the older countries and the +enormous accumulations of carved stone, stained glass, and rich brown +painting which they offered to the tourist. The movement in search of +something new was of course infinitely small, affecting only a handful +of well-to-do people. It began by a few schoolmasters serving their +passage out to South America as the pursers of tramp steamers. They +returned in time for the summer term, when their stories of the +splendours and hardships of life at sea, the humours of sea-captains, +the wonders of night and dawn, and the marvels of the place delighted +outsiders, and sometimes found their way into print. The country itself +taxed all their powers of description, for they said it was much bigger +than Italy, and really nobler than Greece. Again, they declared that +the natives were strangely beautiful, very big in stature, dark, +passionate, and quick to seize the knife. The place seemed new and full +of new forms of beauty, in proof of which they showed handkerchiefs +which the women had worn round their heads, and primitive carvings +coloured bright greens and blues. Somehow or other, as fashions do, the +fashion spread; an old monastery was quickly turned into a hotel, while +a famous line of steamships altered its route for the convenience of +passengers. + +Oddly enough it happened that the least satisfactory of Helen Ambrose’s +brothers had been sent out years before to make his fortune, at any +rate to keep clear of race-horses, in the very spot which had now +become so popular. Often, leaning upon the column in the verandah, he +had watched the English ships with English schoolmasters for pursers +steaming into the bay. Having at length earned enough to take a +holiday, and being sick of the place, he proposed to put his villa, on +the slope of the mountain, at his sister’s disposal. She, too, had been +a little stirred by the talk of a new world, where there was always sun +and never a fog, which went on around her, and the chance, when they +were planning where to spend the winter out of England, seemed too good +to be missed. For these reasons she determined to accept Willoughby’s +offer of free passages on his ship, to place the children with their +grand-parents, and to do the thing thoroughly while she was about it. + +Taking seats in a carriage drawn by long-tailed horses with pheasants’ +feathers erect between their ears, the Ambroses, Mr. Pepper, and Rachel +rattled out of the harbour. The day increased in heat as they drove up +the hill. The road passed through the town, where men seemed to be +beating brass and crying “Water,” where the passage was blocked by +mules and cleared by whips and curses, where the women walked barefoot, +their heads balancing baskets, and cripples hastily displayed mutilated +members; it issued among steep green fields, not so green but that the +earth showed through. Great trees now shaded all but the centre of the +road, and a mountain stream, so shallow and so swift that it plaited +itself into strands as it ran, raced along the edge. Higher they went, +until Ridley and Rachel walked behind; next they turned along a lane +scattered with stones, where Mr. Pepper raised his stick and silently +indicated a shrub, bearing among sparse leaves a voluminous purple +blossom; and at a rickety canter the last stage of the way was +accomplished. + +The villa was a roomy white house, which, as is the case with most +continental houses, looked to an English eye frail, ramshackle, and +absurdly frivolous, more like a pagoda in a tea-garden than a place +where one slept. The garden called urgently for the services of +gardener. Bushes waved their branches across the paths, and the blades +of grass, with spaces of earth between them, could be counted. In the +circular piece of ground in front of the verandah were two cracked +vases, from which red flowers drooped, with a stone fountain between +them, now parched in the sun. The circular garden led to a long garden, +where the gardener’s shears had scarcely been, unless now and then, +when he cut a bough of blossom for his beloved. A few tall trees shaded +it, and round bushes with wax-like flowers mobbed their heads together +in a row. A garden smoothly laid with turf, divided by thick hedges, +with raised beds of bright flowers, such as we keep within walls in +England, would have been out of place upon the side of this bare hill. +There was no ugliness to shut out, and the villa looked straight across +the shoulder of a slope, ribbed with olive trees, to the sea. + +The indecency of the whole place struck Mrs. Chailey forcibly. There +were no blinds to shut out the sun, nor was there any furniture to +speak of for the sun to spoil. Standing in the bare stone hall, and +surveying a staircase of superb breadth, but cracked and carpetless, +she further ventured the opinion that there were rats, as large as +terriers at home, and that if one put one’s foot down with any force +one would come through the floor. As for hot water—at this point her +investigations left her speechless. + +“Poor creature!” she murmured to the sallow Spanish servant-girl who +came out with the pigs and hens to receive them, “no wonder you hardly +look like a human being!” Maria accepted the compliment with an +exquisite Spanish grace. In Chailey’s opinion they would have done +better to stay on board an English ship, but none knew better than she +that her duty commanded her to stay. + +When they were settled in, and in train to find daily occupation, there +was some speculation as to the reasons which induced Mr. Pepper to +stay, taking up his lodging in the Ambroses’ house. Efforts had been +made for some days before landing to impress upon him the advantages of +the Amazons. + +“That great stream!” Helen would begin, gazing as if she saw a +visionary cascade, “I’ve a good mind to go with you myself, +Willoughby—only I can’t. Think of the sunsets and the moonrises—I +believe the colours are unimaginable.” + +“There are wild peacocks,” Rachel hazarded. + +“And marvellous creatures in the water,” Helen asserted. + +“One might discover a new reptile,” Rachel continued. + +“There’s certain to be a revolution, I’m told,” Helen urged. + +The effect of these subterfuges was a little dashed by Ridley, who, +after regarding Pepper for some moments, sighed aloud, “Poor fellow!” +and inwardly speculated upon the unkindness of women. + +He stayed, however, in apparent contentment for six days, playing with +a microscope and a notebook in one of the many sparsely furnished +sitting-rooms, but on the evening of the seventh day, as they sat at +dinner, he appeared more restless than usual. The dinner-table was set +between two long windows which were left uncurtained by Helen’s orders. +Darkness fell as sharply as a knife in this climate, and the town then +sprang out in circles and lines of bright dots beneath them. Buildings +which never showed by day showed by night, and the sea flowed right +over the land judging by the moving lights of the steamers. The sight +fulfilled the same purpose as an orchestra in a London restaurant, and +silence had its setting. William Pepper observed it for some time; he +put on his spectacles to contemplate the scene. + +“I’ve identified the big block to the left,” he observed, and pointed +with his fork at a square formed by several rows of lights. + +“One should infer that they can cook vegetables,” he added. + +“An hotel?” said Helen. + +“Once a monastery,” said Mr. Pepper. + +Nothing more was said then, but, the day after, Mr. Pepper returned +from a midday walk, and stood silently before Helen who was reading in +the verandah. + +“I’ve taken a room over there,” he said. + +“You’re not going?” she exclaimed. + +“On the whole—yes,” he remarked. “No private cook _can_ cook +vegetables.” + +Knowing his dislike of questions, which she to some extent shared, +Helen asked no more. Still, an uneasy suspicion lurked in her mind that +William was hiding a wound. She flushed to think that her words, or her +husband’s, or Rachel’s had penetrated and stung. She was half-moved to +cry, “Stop, William; explain!” and would have returned to the subject +at luncheon if William had not shown himself inscrutable and chill, +lifting fragments of salad on the point of his fork, with the gesture +of a man pronging seaweed, detecting gravel, suspecting germs. + +“If you all die of typhoid I won’t be responsible!” he snapped. + +“If you die of dulness, neither will I,” Helen echoed in her heart. + +She reflected that she had never yet asked him whether he had been in +love. They had got further and further from that subject instead of +drawing nearer to it, and she could not help feeling it a relief when +William Pepper, with all his knowledge, his microscope, his note-books, +his genuine kindliness and good sense, but a certain dryness of soul, +took his departure. Also she could not help feeling it sad that +friendships should end thus, although in this case to have the room +empty was something of a comfort, and she tried to console herself with +the reflection that one never knows how far other people feel the +things they might be supposed to feel. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +The next few months passed away, as many years can pass away, without +definite events, and yet, if suddenly disturbed, it would be seen that +such months or years had a character unlike others. The three months +which had passed had brought them to the beginning of March. The +climate had kept its promise, and the change of season from winter to +spring had made very little difference, so that Helen, who was sitting +in the drawing-room with a pen in her hand, could keep the windows open +though a great fire of logs burnt on one side of her. Below, the sea +was still blue and the roofs still brown and white, though the day was +fading rapidly. It was dusk in the room, which, large and empty at all +times, now appeared larger and emptier than usual. Her own figure, as +she sat writing with a pad on her knee, shared the general effect of +size and lack of detail, for the flames which ran along the branches, +suddenly devouring little green tufts, burnt intermittently and sent +irregular illuminations across her face and the plaster walls. There +were no pictures on the walls but here and there boughs laden with +heavy-petalled flowers spread widely against them. Of the books fallen +on the bare floor and heaped upon the large table, it was only possible +in this light to trace the outline. + +Mrs. Ambrose was writing a very long letter. Beginning “Dear Bernard,” +it went on to describe what had been happening in the Villa San +Gervasio during the past three months, as, for instance, that they had +had the British Consul to dinner, and had been taken over a Spanish +man-of-war, and had seen a great many processions and religious +festivals, which were so beautiful that Mrs. Ambrose couldn’t conceive +why, if people must have a religion, they didn’t all become Roman +Catholics. They had made several expeditions though none of any length. +It was worth coming if only for the sake of the flowering trees which +grew wild quite near the house, and the amazing colours of sea and +earth. The earth, instead of being brown, was red, purple, green. “You +won’t believe me,” she added, “there is no colour like it in England.” +She adopted, indeed, a condescending tone towards that poor island, +which was now advancing chilly crocuses and nipped violets in nooks, in +copses, in cosy corners, tended by rosy old gardeners in mufflers, who +were always touching their hats and bobbing obsequiously. She went on +to deride the islanders themselves. Rumours of London all in a ferment +over a General Election had reached them even out here. “It seems +incredible,” she went on, “that people should care whether Asquith is +in or Austen Chamberlain out, and while you scream yourselves hoarse +about politics you let the only people who are trying for something +good starve or simply laugh at them. When have you ever encouraged a +living artist? Or bought his best work? Why are you all so ugly and so +servile? Here the servants are human beings. They talk to one as if +they were equals. As far as I can tell there are no aristocrats.” + +Perhaps it was the mention of aristocrats that reminded her of Richard +Dalloway and Rachel, for she ran on with the same penful to describe +her niece. + +“It’s an odd fate that has put me in charge of a girl,” she wrote, +“considering that I have never got on well with women, or had much to +do with them. However, I must retract some of the things that I have +said against them. If they were properly educated I don’t see why they +shouldn’t be much the same as men—as satisfactory I mean; though, of +course, very different. The question is, how should one educate them. +The present method seems to me abominable. This girl, though +twenty-four, had never heard that men desired women, and, until I +explained it, did not know how children were born. Her ignorance upon +other matters as important” (here Mrs. Ambrose’s letter may not be +quoted) . . . “was complete. It seems to me not merely foolish but +criminal to bring people up like that. Let alone the suffering to them, +it explains why women are what they are—the wonder is they’re no worse. +I have taken it upon myself to enlighten her, and now, though still a +good deal prejudiced and liable to exaggerate, she is more or less a +reasonable human being. Keeping them ignorant, of course, defeats its +own object, and when they begin to understand they take it all much too +seriously. My brother-in-law really deserved a catastrophe—which he +won’t get. I now pray for a young man to come to my help; some one, I +mean, who would talk to her openly, and prove how absurd most of her +ideas about life are. Unluckily such men seem almost as rare as the +women. The English colony certainly doesn’t provide one; artists, +merchants, cultivated people—they are stupid, conventional, and +flirtatious. . . .” She ceased, and with her pen in her hand sat +looking into the fire, making the logs into caves and mountains, for it +had grown too dark to go on writing. Moreover, the house began to stir +as the hour of dinner approached; she could hear the plates being +chinked in the dining-room next door, and Chailey instructing the +Spanish girl where to put things down in vigorous English. The bell +rang; she rose, met Ridley and Rachel outside, and they all went in to +dinner. + +Three months had made but little difference in the appearance either of +Ridley or Rachel; yet a keen observer might have thought that the girl +was more definite and self-confident in her manner than before. Her +skin was brown, her eyes certainly brighter, and she attended to what +was said as though she might be going to contradict it. The meal began +with the comfortable silence of people who are quite at their ease +together. Then Ridley, leaning on his elbow and looking out of the +window, observed that it was a lovely night. + +“Yes,” said Helen. She added, “The season’s begun,” looking at the +lights beneath them. She asked Maria in Spanish whether the hotel was +not filling up with visitors. Maria informed her with pride that there +would come a time when it was positively difficult to buy eggs—the +shopkeepers would not mind what prices they asked; they would get them, +at any rate, from the English. + +“That’s an English steamer in the bay,” said Rachel, looking at a +triangle of lights below. “She came in early this morning.” + +“Then we may hope for some letters and send ours back,” said Helen. + +For some reason the mention of letters always made Ridley groan, and +the rest of the meal passed in a brisk argument between husband and +wife as to whether he was or was not wholly ignored by the entire +civilised world. + +“Considering the last batch,” said Helen, “you deserve beating. You +were asked to lecture, you were offered a degree, and some silly woman +praised not only your books but your beauty—she said he was what +Shelley would have been if Shelley had lived to fifty-five and grown a +beard. Really, Ridley, I think you’re the vainest man I know,” she +ended, rising from the table, “which I may tell you is saying a good +deal.” + +Finding her letter lying before the fire she added a few lines to it, +and then announced that she was going to take the letters now—Ridley +must bring his—and Rachel? + +“I hope you’ve written to your Aunts? It’s high time.” + +The women put on cloaks and hats, and after inviting Ridley to come +with them, which he emphatically refused to do, exclaiming that Rachel +he expected to be a fool, but Helen surely knew better, they turned to +go. He stood over the fire gazing into the depths of the looking-glass, +and compressing his face into the likeness of a commander surveying a +field of battle, or a martyr watching the flames lick his toes, rather +than that of a secluded Professor. + +Helen laid hold of his beard. + +“Am I a fool?” she said. + +“Let me go, Helen.” + +“Am I a fool?” she repeated. + +“Vile woman!” he exclaimed, and kissed her. + +“We’ll leave you to your vanities,” she called back as they went out of +the door. + +It was a beautiful evening, still light enough to see a long way down +the road, though the stars were coming out. The pillar-box was let into +a high yellow wall where the lane met the road, and having dropped the +letters into it, Helen was for turning back. + +“No, no,” said Rachel, taking her by the wrist. “We’re going to see +life. You promised.” + +“Seeing life” was the phrase they used for their habit of strolling +through the town after dark. The social life of Santa Marina was +carried on almost entirely by lamp-light, which the warmth of the +nights and the scents culled from flowers made pleasant enough. The +young women, with their hair magnificently swept in coils, a red flower +behind the ear, sat on the doorsteps, or issued out on to balconies, +while the young men ranged up and down beneath, shouting up a greeting +from time to time and stopping here and there to enter into amorous +talk. At the open windows merchants could be seen making up the day’s +account, and older women lifting jars from shelf to shelf. The streets +were full of people, men for the most part, who interchanged their +views of the world as they walked, or gathered round the wine-tables at +the street corner, where an old cripple was twanging his guitar +strings, while a poor girl cried her passionate song in the gutter. The +two Englishwomen excited some friendly curiosity, but no one molested +them. + +Helen sauntered on, observing the different people in their shabby +clothes, who seemed so careless and so natural, with satisfaction. + +“Just think of the Mall to-night!” she exclaimed at length. “It’s the +fifteenth of March. Perhaps there’s a Court.” She thought of the crowd +waiting in the cold spring air to see the grand carriages go by. “It’s +very cold, if it’s not raining,” she said. “First there are men selling +picture postcards; then there are wretched little shop-girls with round +bandboxes; then there are bank clerks in tail coats; and then—any +number of dressmakers. People from South Kensington drive up in a hired +fly; officials have a pair of bays; earls, on the other hand, are +allowed one footman to stand up behind; dukes have two, royal dukes—so +I was told—have three; the king, I suppose, can have as many as he +likes. And the people believe in it!” + +Out here it seemed as though the people of England must be shaped in +the body like the kings and queens, knights and pawns of the +chessboard, so strange were their differences, so marked and so +implicitly believed in. + +They had to part in order to circumvent a crowd. + +“They believe in God,” said Rachel as they regained each other. She +meant that the people in the crowd believed in Him; for she remembered +the crosses with bleeding plaster figures that stood where foot-paths +joined, and the inexplicable mystery of a service in a Roman Catholic +church. + +“We shall never understand!” she sighed. + +They had walked some way and it was now night, but they could see a +large iron gate a little way farther down the road on their left. + +“Do you mean to go right up to the hotel?” Helen asked. + +Rachel gave the gate a push; it swung open, and, seeing no one about +and judging that nothing was private in this country, they walked +straight on. An avenue of trees ran along the road, which was +completely straight. The trees suddenly came to an end; the road turned +a corner, and they found themselves confronted by a large square +building. They had come out upon the broad terrace which ran round the +hotel and were only a few feet distant from the windows. A row of long +windows opened almost to the ground. They were all of them uncurtained, +and all brilliantly lighted, so that they could see everything inside. +Each window revealed a different section of the life of the hotel. They +drew into one of the broad columns of shadow which separated the +windows and gazed in. They found themselves just outside the +dining-room. It was being swept; a waiter was eating a bunch of grapes +with his leg across the corner of a table. Next door was the kitchen, +where they were washing up; white cooks were dipping their arms into +cauldrons, while the waiters made their meal voraciously off broken +meats, sopping up the gravy with bits of crumb. Moving on, they became +lost in a plantation of bushes, and then suddenly found themselves +outside the drawing-room, where the ladies and gentlemen, having dined +well, lay back in deep arm-chairs, occasionally speaking or turning +over the pages of magazines. A thin woman was flourishing up and down +the piano. + +“What is a dahabeeyah, Charles?” the distinct voice of a widow, seated +in an arm-chair by the window, asked her son. + +It was the end of the piece, and his answer was lost in the general +clearing of throats and tapping of knees. + +“They’re all old in this room,” Rachel whispered. + +Creeping on, they found that the next window revealed two men in +shirt-sleeves playing billiards with two young ladies. + +“He pinched my arm!” the plump young woman cried, as she missed her +stroke. + +“Now you two—no ragging,” the young man with the red face reproved +them, who was marking. + +“Take care or we shall be seen,” whispered Helen, plucking Rachel by +the arm. Incautiously her head had risen to the middle of the window. + +Turning the corner they came to the largest room in the hotel, which +was supplied with four windows, and was called the Lounge, although it +was really a hall. Hung with armour and native embroideries, furnished +with divans and screens, which shut off convenient corners, the room +was less formal than the others, and was evidently the haunt of youth. +Signor Rodriguez, whom they knew to be the manager of the hotel, stood +quite near them in the doorway surveying the scene—the gentlemen +lounging in chairs, the couples leaning over coffee-cups, the game of +cards in the centre under profuse clusters of electric light. He was +congratulating himself upon the enterprise which had turned the +refectory, a cold stone room with pots on trestles, into the most +comfortable room in the house. The hotel was very full, and proved his +wisdom in decreeing that no hotel can flourish without a lounge. + +The people were scattered about in couples or parties of four, and +either they were actually better acquainted, or the informal room made +their manners easier. Through the open window came an uneven humming +sound like that which rises from a flock of sheep pent within hurdles +at dusk. The card-party occupied the centre of the foreground. + +Helen and Rachel watched them play for some minutes without being able +to distinguish a word. Helen was observing one of the men intently. He +was a lean, somewhat cadaverous man of about her own age, whose profile +was turned to them, and he was the partner of a highly-coloured girl, +obviously English by birth. + +Suddenly, in the strange way in which some words detach themselves from +the rest, they heard him say quite distinctly:— + +“All you want is practice, Miss Warrington; courage and practice—one’s +no good without the other.” + +“Hughling Elliot! Of course!” Helen exclaimed. She ducked her head +immediately, for at the sound of his name he looked up. The game went +on for a few minutes, and was then broken up by the approach of a +wheeled chair, containing a voluminous old lady who paused by the table +and said:— + +“Better luck to-night, Susan?” + +“All the luck’s on our side,” said a young man who until now had kept +his back turned to the window. He appeared to be rather stout, and had +a thick crop of hair. + +“Luck, Mr. Hewet?” said his partner, a middle-aged lady with +spectacles. “I assure you, Mrs. Paley, our success is due solely to our +brilliant play.” + +“Unless I go to bed early I get practically no sleep at all,” Mrs. +Paley was heard to explain, as if to justify her seizure of Susan, who +got up and proceeded to wheel the chair to the door. + +“They’ll get some one else to take my place,” she said cheerfully. But +she was wrong. No attempt was made to find another player, and after +the young man had built three stories of a card-house, which fell down, +the players strolled off in different directions. + +Mr. Hewet turned his full face towards the window. They could see that +he had large eyes obscured by glasses; his complexion was rosy, his +lips clean-shaven; and, seen among ordinary people, it appeared to be +an interesting face. He came straight towards them, but his eyes were +fixed not upon the eavesdroppers but upon a spot where the curtain hung +in folds. + +“Asleep?” he said. + +Helen and Rachel started to think that some one had been sitting near +to them unobserved all the time. There were legs in the shadow. A +melancholy voice issued from above them. + +“Two women,” it said. + +A scuffling was heard on the gravel. The women had fled. They did not +stop running until they felt certain that no eye could penetrate the +darkness and the hotel was only a square shadow in the distance, with +red holes regularly cut in it. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +An hour passed, and the downstairs rooms at the hotel grew dim and were +almost deserted, while the little box-like squares above them were +brilliantly irradiated. Some forty or fifty people were going to bed. +The thump of jugs set down on the floor above could be heard and the +clink of china, for there was not as thick a partition between the +rooms as one might wish, so Miss Allan, the elderly lady who had been +playing bridge, determined, giving the wall a smart rap with her +knuckles. It was only matchboard, she decided, run up to make many +little rooms of one large one. Her grey petticoats slipped to the +ground, and, stooping, she folded her clothes with neat, if not loving +fingers, screwed her hair into a plait, wound her father’s great gold +watch, and opened the complete works of Wordsworth. She was reading the +“Prelude,” partly because she always read the “Prelude” abroad, and +partly because she was engaged in writing a short _Primer of English +Literature_—_Beowulf to Swinburne_—which would have a paragraph on +Wordsworth. She was deep in the fifth book, stopping indeed to pencil a +note, when a pair of boots dropped, one after another, on the floor +above her. She looked up and speculated. Whose boots were they, she +wondered. She then became aware of a swishing sound next door—a woman, +clearly, putting away her dress. It was succeeded by a gentle tapping +sound, such as that which accompanies hair-dressing. It was very +difficult to keep her attention fixed upon the “Prelude.” Was it Susan +Warrington tapping? She forced herself, however, to read to the end of +the book, when she placed a mark between the pages, sighed contentedly, +and then turned out the light. + +Very different was the room through the wall, though as like in shape +as one egg-box is like another. As Miss Allan read her book, Susan +Warrington was brushing her hair. Ages have consecrated this hour, and +the most majestic of all domestic actions, to talk of love between +women; but Miss Warrington being alone could not talk; she could only +look with extreme solicitude at her own face in the glass. She turned +her head from side to side, tossing heavy locks now this way now that; +and then withdrew a pace or two, and considered herself seriously. + +“I’m nice-looking,” she determined. “Not pretty—possibly,” she drew +herself up a little. “Yes—most people would say I was handsome.” + +She was really wondering what Arthur Venning would say she was. Her +feeling about him was decidedly queer. She would not admit to herself +that she was in love with him or that she wanted to marry him, yet she +spent every minute when she was alone in wondering what he thought of +her, and in comparing what they had done to-day with what they had done +the day before. + +“He didn’t ask me to play, but he certainly followed me into the hall,” +she meditated, summing up the evening. She was thirty years of age, and +owing to the number of her sisters and the seclusion of life in a +country parsonage had as yet had no proposal of marriage. The hour of +confidences was often a sad one, and she had been known to jump into +bed, treating her hair unkindly, feeling herself overlooked by life in +comparison with others. She was a big, well-made woman, the red lying +upon her cheeks in patches that were too well defined, but her serious +anxiety gave her a kind of beauty. + +She was just about to pull back the bed-clothes when she exclaimed, +“Oh, but I’m forgetting,” and went to her writing-table. A brown volume +lay there stamped with the figure of the year. She proceeded to write +in the square ugly hand of a mature child, as she wrote daily year +after year, keeping the diaries, though she seldom looked at them. + +“A.M.—Talked to Mrs. H. Elliot about country neighbours. She knows the +Manns; also the Selby-Carroways. How small the world is! Like her. Read +a chapter of _Miss Appleby’s Adventure_ to Aunt E. P.M.—Played +lawn-tennis with Mr. Perrott and Evelyn M. Don’t _like_ Mr. P. Have a +feeling that he is not ‘quite,’ though clever certainly. Beat them. Day +splendid, view wonderful. One gets used to no trees, though much too +bare at first. Cards after dinner. Aunt E. cheerful, though twingy, she +says. Mem.: _ask about damp sheets_.” + +She knelt in prayer, and then lay down in bed, tucking the blankets +comfortably about her, and in a few minutes her breathing showed that +she was asleep. With its profoundly peaceful sighs and hesitations it +resembled that of a cow standing up to its knees all night through in +the long grass. + +A glance into the next room revealed little more than a nose, prominent +above the sheets. Growing accustomed to the darkness, for the windows +were open and showed grey squares with splinters of starlight, one +could distinguish a lean form, terribly like the body of a dead person, +the body indeed of William Pepper, asleep too. Thirty-six, +thirty-seven, thirty-eight—here were three Portuguese men of business, +asleep presumably, since a snore came with the regularity of a great +ticking clock. Thirty-nine was a corner room, at the end of the +passage, but late though it was—“One” struck gently downstairs—a line +of light under the door showed that some one was still awake. + +“How late you are, Hugh!” a woman, lying in bed, said in a peevish but +solicitous voice. Her husband was brushing his teeth, and for some +moments did not answer. + +“You should have gone to sleep,” he replied. “I was talking to +Thornbury.” + +“But you know that I never can sleep when I’m waiting for you,” she +said. + +To that he made no answer, but only remarked, “Well then, we’ll turn +out the light.” They were silent. + +The faint but penetrating pulse of an electric bell could now be heard +in the corridor. Old Mrs. Paley, having woken hungry but without her +spectacles, was summoning her maid to find the biscuit-box. The maid +having answered the bell, drearily respectful even at this hour though +muffled in a mackintosh, the passage was left in silence. Downstairs +all was empty and dark; but on the upper floor a light still burnt in +the room where the boots had dropped so heavily above Miss Allan’s +head. Here was the gentleman who, a few hours previously, in the shade +of the curtain, had seemed to consist entirely of legs. Deep in an +arm-chair he was reading the third volume of Gibbon’s _History of the +Decline and Fall of Rome_ by candle-light. As he read he knocked the +ash automatically, now and again, from his cigarette and turned the +page, while a whole procession of splendid sentences entered his +capacious brow and went marching through his brain in order. It seemed +likely that this process might continue for an hour or more, until the +entire regiment had shifted its quarters, had not the door opened, and +the young man, who was inclined to be stout, come in with large naked +feet. + +“Oh, Hirst, what I forgot to say was—” + +“Two minutes,” said Hirst, raising his finger. + +He safely stowed away the last words of the paragraph. + +“What was it you forgot to say?” he asked. + +“D’you think you _do_ make enough allowance for feelings?” asked Mr. +Hewet. He had again forgotten what he had meant to say. + +After intense contemplation of the immaculate Gibbon Mr. Hirst smiled +at the question of his friend. He laid aside his book and considered. + +“I should call yours a singularly untidy mind,” he observed. “Feelings? +Aren’t they just what we do allow for? We put love up there, and all +the rest somewhere down below.” With his left hand he indicated the top +of a pyramid, and with his right the base. + +“But you didn’t get out of bed to tell me that,” he added severely. + +“I got out of bed,” said Hewet vaguely, “merely to talk I suppose.” + +“Meanwhile I shall undress,” said Hirst. When naked of all but his +shirt, and bent over the basin, Mr. Hirst no longer impressed one with +the majesty of his intellect, but with the pathos of his young yet ugly +body, for he stooped, and he was so thin that there were dark lines +between the different bones of his neck and shoulders. + +“Women interest me,” said Hewet, who, sitting on the bed with his chin +resting on his knees, paid no attention to the undressing of Mr. Hirst. + +“They’re so stupid,” said Hirst. “You’re sitting on my pyjamas.” + +“I suppose they _are_ stupid?” Hewet wondered. + +“There can’t be two opinions about that, I imagine,” said Hirst, +hopping briskly across the room, “unless you’re in love—that fat woman +Warrington?” he enquired. + +“Not one fat woman—all fat women,” Hewet sighed. + +“The women I saw to-night were not fat,” said Hirst, who was taking +advantage of Hewet’s company to cut his toe-nails. + +“Describe them,” said Hewet. + +“You know I can’t describe things!” said Hirst. “They were much like +other women, I should think. They always are.” + +“No; that’s where we differ,” said Hewet. “I say everything’s +different. No two people are in the least the same. Take you and me +now.” + +“So I used to think once,” said Hirst. “But now they’re all types. +Don’t take us,—take this hotel. You could draw circles round the whole +lot of them, and they’d never stray outside.” + +(“You can kill a hen by doing that”), Hewet murmured. + +“Mr. Hughling Elliot, Mrs. Hughling Elliot, Miss Allan, Mr. and Mrs. +Thornbury—one circle,” Hirst continued. “Miss Warrington, Mr. Arthur +Venning, Mr. Perrott, Evelyn M. another circle; then there are a whole +lot of natives; finally ourselves.” + +“Are we all alone in our circle?” asked Hewet. + +“Quite alone,” said Hirst. “You try to get out, but you can’t. You only +make a mess of things by trying.” + +“I’m not a hen in a circle,” said Hewet. “I’m a dove on a tree-top.” + +“I wonder if this is what they call an ingrowing toe-nail?” said Hirst, +examining the big toe on his left foot. + +“I flit from branch to branch,” continued Hewet. “The world is +profoundly pleasant.” He lay back on the bed, upon his arms. + +“I wonder if it’s really nice to be as vague as you are?” asked Hirst, +looking at him. “It’s the lack of continuity—that’s what’s so odd about +you,” he went on. “At the age of twenty-seven, which is nearly thirty, +you seem to have drawn no conclusions. A party of old women excites you +still as though you were three.” + +Hewet contemplated the angular young man who was neatly brushing the +rims of his toe-nails into the fire-place in silence for a moment. + +“I respect you, Hirst,” he remarked. + +“I envy you—some things,” said Hirst. “One: your capacity for not +thinking; two: people like you better than they like me. Women like +you, I suppose.” + +“I wonder whether that isn’t really what matters most?” said Hewet. +Lying now flat on the bed he waved his hand in vague circles above him. + +“Of course it is,” said Hirst. “But that’s not the difficulty. The +difficulty is, isn’t it, to find an appropriate object?” + +“There are no female hens in your circle?” asked Hewet. + +“Not the ghost of one,” said Hirst. + +Although they had known each other for three years Hirst had never yet +heard the true story of Hewet’s loves. In general conversation it was +taken for granted that they were many, but in private the subject was +allowed to lapse. The fact that he had money enough to do no work, and +that he had left Cambridge after two terms owing to a difference with +the authorities, and had then travelled and drifted, made his life +strange at many points where his friends’ lives were much of a piece. + +“I don’t see your circles—I don’t see them,” Hewet continued. “I see a +thing like a teetotum spinning in and out—knocking into things—dashing +from side to side—collecting numbers—more and more and more, till the +whole place is thick with them. Round and round they go—out there, over +the rim—out of sight.” + +His fingers showed that the waltzing teetotums had spun over the edge +of the counterpane and fallen off the bed into infinity. + +“Could you contemplate three weeks alone in this hotel?” asked Hirst, +after a moment’s pause. + +Hewet proceeded to think. + +“The truth of it is that one never is alone, and one never is in +company,” he concluded. + +“Meaning?” said Hirst. + +“Meaning? Oh, something about bubbles—auras—what d’you call ’em? You +can’t see my bubble; I can’t see yours; all we see of each other is a +speck, like the wick in the middle of that flame. The flame goes about +with us everywhere; it’s not ourselves exactly, but what we feel; the +world is short, or people mainly; all kinds of people.” + +“A nice streaky bubble yours must be!” said Hirst. + +“And supposing my bubble could run into some one else’s bubble—” + +“And they both burst?” put in Hirst. + +“Then—then—then—” pondered Hewet, as if to himself, “it would be an +e-nor-mous world,” he said, stretching his arms to their full width, as +though even so they could hardly clasp the billowy universe, for when +he was with Hirst he always felt unusually sanguine and vague. + +“I don’t think you altogether as foolish as I used to, Hewet,” said +Hirst. “You don’t know what you mean but you try to say it.” + +“But aren’t you enjoying yourself here?” asked Hewet. + +“On the whole—yes,” said Hirst. “I like observing people. I like +looking at things. This country is amazingly beautiful. Did you notice +how the top of the mountain turned yellow to-night? Really we must take +our lunch and spend the day out. You’re getting disgustingly fat.” He +pointed at the calf of Hewet’s bare leg. + +“We’ll get up an expedition,” said Hewet energetically. “We’ll ask the +entire hotel. We’ll hire donkeys and—” + +“Oh, Lord!” said Hirst, “do shut it! I can see Miss Warrington and Miss +Allan and Mrs. Elliot and the rest squatting on the stones and +quacking, ‘How jolly!’” + +“We’ll ask Venning and Perrott and Miss Murgatroyd—every one we can lay +hands on,” went on Hewet. “What’s the name of the little old +grasshopper with the eyeglasses? Pepper?—Pepper shall lead us.” + +“Thank God, you’ll never get the donkeys,” said Hirst. + +“I must make a note of that,” said Hewet, slowly dropping his feet to +the floor. “Hirst escorts Miss Warrington; Pepper advances alone on a +white ass; provisions equally distributed—or shall we hire a mule? The +matrons—there’s Mrs. Paley, by Jove!—share a carriage.” + +“That’s where you’ll go wrong,” said Hirst. “Putting virgins among +matrons.” + +“How long should you think that an expedition like that would take, +Hirst?” asked Hewet. + +“From twelve to sixteen hours I would say,” said Hirst. “The time +usually occupied by a first confinement.” + +“It will need considerable organisation,” said Hewet. He was now +padding softly round the room, and stopped to stir the books on the +table. They lay heaped one upon another. + +“We shall want some poets too,” he remarked. “Not Gibbon; no; d’you +happen to have _Modern Love_ or _John Donne_? You see, I contemplate +pauses when people get tired of looking at the view, and then it would +be nice to read something rather difficult aloud.” + +“Mrs. Paley _will_ enjoy herself,” said Hirst. + +“Mrs. Paley will enjoy it certainly,” said Hewet. “It’s one of the +saddest things I know—the way elderly ladies cease to read poetry. And +yet how appropriate this is: + +I speak as one who plumbs + Life’s dim profound, +One who at length can sound + Clear views and certain. +But—after love what comes? + A scene that lours, +A few sad vacant hours, + And then, the Curtain. + + +I daresay Mrs. Paley is the only one of us who can really understand +that.” + +“We’ll ask her,” said Hirst. “Please, Hewet, if you must go to bed, +draw my curtain. Few things distress me more than the moonlight.” + +Hewet retreated, pressing the poems of Thomas Hardy beneath his arm, +and in their beds next door to each other both the young men were soon +asleep. + +Between the extinction of Hewet’s candle and the rising of a dusky +Spanish boy who was the first to survey the desolation of the hotel in +the early morning, a few hours of silence intervened. One could almost +hear a hundred people breathing deeply, and however wakeful and +restless it would have been hard to escape sleep in the middle of so +much sleep. Looking out of the windows, there was only darkness to be +seen. All over the shadowed half of the world people lay prone, and a +few flickering lights in empty streets marked the places where their +cities were built. Red and yellow omnibuses were crowding each other in +Piccadilly; sumptuous women were rocking at a standstill; but here in +the darkness an owl flitted from tree to tree, and when the breeze +lifted the branches the moon flashed as if it were a torch. Until all +people should awake again the houseless animals were abroad, the tigers +and the stags, and the elephants coming down in the darkness to drink +at pools. The wind at night blowing over the hills and woods was purer +and fresher than the wind by day, and the earth, robbed of detail, more +mysterious than the earth coloured and divided by roads and fields. For +six hours this profound beauty existed, and then as the east grew +whiter and whiter the ground swam to the surface, the roads were +revealed, the smoke rose and the people stirred, and the sun shone upon +the windows of the hotel at Santa Marina until they were uncurtained, +and the gong blaring all through the house gave notice of breakfast. + +Directly breakfast was over, the ladies as usual circled vaguely, +picking up papers and putting them down again, about the hall. + +“And what are you going to do to-day?” asked Mrs. Elliot drifting up +against Miss Warrington. + +Mrs. Elliot, the wife of Hughling the Oxford Don, was a short woman, +whose expression was habitually plaintive. Her eyes moved from thing to +thing as though they never found anything sufficiently pleasant to rest +upon for any length of time. + +“I’m going to try to get Aunt Emma out into the town,” said Susan. +“She’s not seen a thing yet.” + +“I call it so spirited of her at her age,” said Mrs. Elliot, “coming +all this way from her own fireside.” + +“Yes, we always tell her she’ll die on board ship,” Susan replied. “She +was born on one,” she added. + +“In the old days,” said Mrs. Elliot, “a great many people were. I +always pity the poor women so! We’ve got a lot to complain of!” She +shook her head. Her eyes wandered about the table, and she remarked +irrelevantly, “The poor little Queen of Holland! Newspaper reporters +practically, one may say, at her bedroom door!” + +“Were you talking of the Queen of Holland?” said the pleasant voice of +Miss Allan, who was searching for the thick pages of _The Times_ among +a litter of thin foreign sheets. + +“I always envy any one who lives in such an excessively flat country,” +she remarked. + +“How very strange!” said Mrs. Elliot. “I find a flat country so +depressing.” + +“I’m afraid you can’t be very happy here then, Miss Allan,” said Susan. + +“On the contrary,” said Miss Allan, “I am exceedingly fond of +mountains.” Perceiving _The Times_ at some distance, she moved off to +secure it. + +“Well, I must find my husband,” said Mrs. Elliot, fidgeting away. + +“And I must go to my aunt,” said Miss Warrington, and taking up the +duties of the day they moved away. + +Whether the flimsiness of foreign sheets and the coarseness of their +type is any proof of frivolity and ignorance, there is no doubt that +English people scarce consider news read there as news, any more than a +programme bought from a man in the street inspires confidence in what +it says. A very respectable elderly pair, having inspected the long +tables of newspapers, did not think it worth their while to read more +than the headlines. + +“The debate on the fifteenth should have reached us by now,” Mrs. +Thornbury murmured. Mr. Thornbury, who was beautifully clean and had +red rubbed into his handsome worn face like traces of paint on a +weather-beaten wooden figure, looked over his glasses and saw that Miss +Allan had _The Times_. + +The couple therefore sat themselves down in arm-chairs and waited. + +“Ah, there’s Mr. Hewet,” said Mrs. Thornbury. “Mr. Hewet,” she +continued, “do come and sit by us. I was telling my husband how much +you reminded me of a dear old friend of mine—Mary Umpleby. She was a +most delightful woman, I assure you. She grew roses. We used to stay +with her in the old days.” + +“No young man likes to have it said that he resembles an elderly +spinster,” said Mr. Thornbury. + +“On the contrary,” said Mr. Hewet, “I always think it a compliment to +remind people of some one else. But Miss Umpleby—why did she grow +roses?” + +“Ah, poor thing,” said Mrs. Thornbury, “that’s a long story. She had +gone through dreadful sorrows. At one time I think she would have lost +her senses if it hadn’t been for her garden. The soil was very much +against her—a blessing in disguise; she had to be up at dawn—out in all +weathers. And then there are creatures that eat roses. But she +triumphed. She always did. She was a brave soul.” She sighed deeply but +at the same time with resignation. + +“I did not realise that I was monopolising the paper,” said Miss Allan, +coming up to them. + +“We were so anxious to read about the debate,” said Mrs. Thornbury, +accepting it on behalf of her husband. + +“One doesn’t realise how interesting a debate can be until one has sons +in the navy. My interests are equally balanced, though; I have sons in +the army too; and one son who makes speeches at the Union—my baby!” + +“Hirst would know him, I expect,” said Hewet. + +“Mr. Hirst has such an interesting face,” said Mrs. Thornbury. “But I +feel one ought to be very clever to talk to him. Well, William?” she +enquired, for Mr. Thornbury grunted. + +“They’re making a mess of it,” said Mr. Thornbury. He had reached the +second column of the report, a spasmodic column, for the Irish members +had been brawling three weeks ago at Westminster over a question of +naval efficiency. After a disturbed paragraph or two, the column of +print once more ran smoothly. + +“You have read it?” Mrs. Thornbury asked Miss Allan. + +“No, I am ashamed to say I have only read about the discoveries in +Crete,” said Miss Allan. + +“Oh, but I would give so much to realise the ancient world!” cried Mrs. +Thornbury. “Now that we old people are alone,—we’re on our second +honeymoon,—I am really going to put myself to school again. After all +we are _founded_ on the past, aren’t we, Mr. Hewet? My soldier son says +that there is still a great deal to be learnt from Hannibal. One ought +to know so much more than one does. Somehow when I read the paper, I +begin with the debates first, and, before I’ve done, the door always +opens—we’re a very large party at home—and so one never does think +enough about the ancients and all they’ve done for us. But _you_ begin +at the beginning, Miss Allan.” + +“When I think of the Greeks I think of them as naked black men,” said +Miss Allan, “which is quite incorrect, I’m sure.” + +“And you, Mr. Hirst?” said Mrs. Thornbury, perceiving that the gaunt +young man was near. “I’m sure you read everything.” + +“I confine myself to cricket and crime,” said Hirst. “The worst of +coming from the upper classes,” he continued, “is that one’s friends +are never killed in railway accidents.” + +Mr. Thornbury threw down the paper, and emphatically dropped his +eyeglasses. The sheets fell in the middle of the group, and were eyed +by them all. + +“It’s not gone well?” asked his wife solicitously. + +Hewet picked up one sheet and read, “A lady was walking yesterday in +the streets of Westminster when she perceived a cat in the window of a +deserted house. The famished animal—” + +“I shall be out of it anyway,” Mr. Thornbury interrupted peevishly. + +“Cats are often forgotten,” Miss Allan remarked. + +“Remember, William, the Prime Minister has reserved his answer,” said +Mrs. Thornbury. + +“At the age of eighty, Mr. Joshua Harris of Eeles Park, Brondesbury, +has had a son,” said Hirst. + +“. . . The famished animal, which had been noticed by workmen for some +days, was rescued, but—by Jove! it bit the man’s hand to pieces!” + +“Wild with hunger, I suppose,” commented Miss Allan. + +“You’re all neglecting the chief advantage of being abroad,” said Mr. +Hughling Elliot, who had joined the group. “You might read your news in +French, which is equivalent to reading no news at all.” + +Mr. Elliot had a profound knowledge of Coptic, which he concealed as +far as possible, and quoted French phrases so exquisitely that it was +hard to believe that he could also speak the ordinary tongue. He had an +immense respect for the French. + +“Coming?” he asked the two young men. “We ought to start before it’s +really hot.” + +“I beg of you not to walk in the heat, Hugh,” his wife pleaded, giving +him an angular parcel enclosing half a chicken and some raisins. + +“Hewet will be our barometer,” said Mr. Elliot. “He will melt before I +shall.” Indeed, if so much as a drop had melted off his spare ribs, the +bones would have lain bare. The ladies were left alone now, surrounding +_The Times_ which lay upon the floor. Miss Allan looked at her father’s +watch. + +“Ten minutes to eleven,” she observed. + +“Work?” asked Mrs. Thornbury. + +“Work,” replied Miss Allan. + +“What a fine creature she is!” murmured Mrs. Thornbury, as the square +figure in its manly coat withdrew. + +“And I’m sure she has a hard life,” sighed Mrs. Elliot. + +“Oh, it _is_ a hard life,” said Mrs. Thornbury. “Unmarried +women—earning their livings—it’s the hardest life of all.” + +“Yet she seems pretty cheerful,” said Mrs. Elliot. + +“It must be very interesting,” said Mrs. Thornbury. “I envy her her +knowledge.” + +“But that isn’t what women want,” said Mrs. Elliot. + +“I’m afraid it’s all a great many can hope to have,” sighed Mrs. +Thornbury. “I believe that there are more of us than ever now. Sir +Harley Lethbridge was telling me only the other day how difficult it is +to find boys for the navy—partly because of their teeth, it is true. +And I have heard young women talk quite openly of—” + +“Dreadful, dreadful!” exclaimed Mrs. Elliot. “The crown, as one may +call it, of a woman’s life. I, who know what it is to be childless—” +she sighed and ceased. + +“But we must not be hard,” said Mrs. Thornbury. “The conditions are so +much changed since I was a young woman.” + +“Surely _maternity_ does not change,” said Mrs. Elliot. + +“In some ways we can learn a great deal from the young,” said Mrs. +Thornbury. “I learn so much from my own daughters.” + +“I believe that Hughling really doesn’t mind,” said Mrs. Elliot. “But +then he has his work.” + +“Women without children can do so much for the children of others,” +observed Mrs. Thornbury gently. + +“I sketch a great deal,” said Mrs. Elliot, “but that isn’t really an +occupation. It’s so disconcerting to find girls just beginning doing +better than one does oneself! And nature’s difficult—very difficult!” + +“Are there not institutions—clubs—that you could help?” asked Mrs. +Thornbury. + +“They are so exhausting,” said Mrs. Elliot. “I look strong, because of +my colour; but I’m not; the youngest of eleven never is.” + +“If the mother is careful before,” said Mrs. Thornbury judicially, +“there is no reason why the size of the family should make any +difference. And there is no training like the training that brothers +and sisters give each other. I am sure of that. I have seen it with my +own children. My eldest boy Ralph, for instance—” + +But Mrs. Elliot was inattentive to the elder lady’s experience, and her +eyes wandered about the hall. + +“My mother had two miscarriages, I know,” she said suddenly. “The first +because she met one of those great dancing bears—they shouldn’t be +allowed; the other—it was a horrid story—our cook had a child and there +was a dinner party. So I put my dyspepsia down to that.” + +“And a miscarriage is so much worse than a confinement,” Mrs. Thornbury +murmured absentmindedly, adjusting her spectacles and picking up _The +Times_. Mrs. Elliot rose and fluttered away. + +When she had heard what one of the million voices speaking in the paper +had to say, and noticed that a cousin of hers had married a clergyman +at Minehead—ignoring the drunken women, the golden animals of Crete, +the movements of battalions, the dinners, the reforms, the fires, the +indignant, the learned and benevolent, Mrs. Thornbury went upstairs to +write a letter for the mail. + +The paper lay directly beneath the clock, the two together seeming to +represent stability in a changing world. Mr. Perrott passed through; +Mr. Venning poised for a second on the edge of a table. Mrs. Paley was +wheeled past. Susan followed. Mr. Venning strolled after her. +Portuguese military families, their clothes suggesting late rising in +untidy bedrooms, trailed across, attended by confidential nurses +carrying noisy children. As midday drew on, and the sun beat straight +upon the roof, an eddy of great flies droned in a circle; iced drinks +were served under the palms; the long blinds were pulled down with a +shriek, turning all the light yellow. The clock now had a silent hall +to tick in, and an audience of four or five somnolent merchants. By +degrees white figures with shady hats came in at the door, admitting a +wedge of the hot summer day, and shutting it out again. After resting +in the dimness for a minute, they went upstairs. Simultaneously, the +clock wheezed one, and the gong sounded, beginning softly, working +itself into a frenzy, and ceasing. There was a pause. Then all those +who had gone upstairs came down; cripples came, planting both feet on +the same step lest they should slip; prim little girls came, holding +the nurse’s finger; fat old men came still buttoning waistcoats. The +gong had been sounded in the garden, and by degrees recumbent figures +rose and strolled in to eat, since the time had come for them to feed +again. There were pools and bars of shade in the garden even at midday, +where two or three visitors could lie working or talking at their ease. + +Owing to the heat of the day, luncheon was generally a silent meal, +when people observed their neighbors and took stock of any new faces +there might be, hazarding guesses as to who they were and what they +did. Mrs. Paley, although well over seventy and crippled in the legs, +enjoyed her food and the peculiarities of her fellow-beings. She was +seated at a small table with Susan. + +“I shouldn’t like to say what _she_ is!” she chuckled, surveying a tall +woman dressed conspicuously in white, with paint in the hollows of her +cheeks, who was always late, and always attended by a shabby female +follower, at which remark Susan blushed, and wondered why her aunt said +such things. + +Lunch went on methodically, until each of the seven courses was left in +fragments and the fruit was merely a toy, to be peeled and sliced as a +child destroys a daisy, petal by petal. The food served as an +extinguisher upon any faint flame of the human spirit that might +survive the midday heat, but Susan sat in her room afterwards, turning +over and over the delightful fact that Mr. Venning had come to her in +the garden, and had sat there quite half an hour while she read aloud +to her aunt. Men and women sought different corners where they could +lie unobserved, and from two to four it might be said without +exaggeration that the hotel was inhabited by bodies without souls. +Disastrous would have been the result if a fire or a death had suddenly +demanded something heroic of human nature, but tragedies come in the +hungry hours. Towards four o’clock the human spirit again began to lick +the body, as a flame licks a black promontory of coal. Mrs. Paley felt +it unseemly to open her toothless jaw so widely, though there was no +one near, and Mrs. Elliot surveyed her round flushed face anxiously in +the looking-glass. + +Half an hour later, having removed the traces of sleep, they met each +other in the hall, and Mrs. Paley observed that she was going to have +her tea. + +“You like your tea too, don’t you?” she said, and invited Mrs. Elliot, +whose husband was still out, to join her at a special table which she +had placed for her under a tree. + +“A little silver goes a long way in this country,” she chuckled. + +She sent Susan back to fetch another cup. + +“They have such excellent biscuits here,” she said, contemplating a +plateful. “Not sweet biscuits, which I don’t like—dry biscuits . . . +Have you been sketching?” + +“Oh, I’ve done two or three little daubs,” said Mrs. Elliot, speaking +rather louder than usual. “But it’s so difficult after Oxfordshire, +where there are so many trees. The light’s so strong here. Some people +admire it, I know, but I find it very fatiguing.” + +“I really don’t need cooking, Susan,” said Mrs. Paley, when her niece +returned. “I must trouble you to move me.” Everything had to be moved. +Finally the old lady was placed so that the light wavered over her, as +though she were a fish in a net. Susan poured out tea, and was just +remarking that they were having hot weather in Wiltshire too, when Mr. +Venning asked whether he might join them. + +“It’s so nice to find a young man who doesn’t despise tea,” said Mrs. +Paley, regaining her good humour. “One of my nephews the other day +asked for a glass of sherry—at five o’clock! I told him he could get it +at the public house round the corner, but not in my drawing room.” + +“I’d rather go without lunch than tea,” said Mr. Venning. “That’s not +strictly true. I want both.” + +Mr. Venning was a dark young man, about thirty-two years of age, very +slapdash and confident in his manner, although at this moment obviously +a little excited. His friend Mr. Perrott was a barrister, and as Mr. +Perrott refused to go anywhere without Mr. Venning it was necessary, +when Mr. Perrott came to Santa Marina about a Company, for Mr. Venning +to come too. He was a barrister also, but he loathed a profession which +kept him indoors over books, and directly his widowed mother died he +was going, so he confided to Susan, to take up flying seriously, and +become partner in a large business for making aeroplanes. The talk +rambled on. It dealt, of course, with the beauties and singularities of +the place, the streets, the people, and the quantities of unowned +yellow dogs. + +“Don’t you think it dreadfully cruel the way they treat dogs in this +country?” asked Mrs. Paley. + +“I’d have ’em all shot,” said Mr. Venning. + +“Oh, but the darling puppies,” said Susan. + +“Jolly little chaps,” said Mr. Venning. “Look here, you’ve got nothing +to eat.” A great wedge of cake was handed Susan on the point of a +trembling knife. Her hand trembled too as she took it. + +“I have such a dear dog at home,” said Mrs. Elliot. + +“My parrot can’t stand dogs,” said Mrs. Paley, with the air of one +making a confidence. “I always suspect that he (or she) was teased by a +dog when I was abroad.” + +“You didn’t get far this morning, Miss Warrington,” said Mr. Venning. + +“It was hot,” she answered. Their conversation became private, owing to +Mrs. Paley’s deafness and the long sad history which Mrs. Elliot had +embarked upon of a wire-haired terrier, white with just one black spot, +belonging to an uncle of hers, which had committed suicide. “Animals do +commit suicide,” she sighed, as if she asserted a painful fact. + +“Couldn’t we explore the town this evening?” Mr. Venning suggested. + +“My aunt—” Susan began. + +“You deserve a holiday,” he said. “You’re always doing things for other +people.” + +“But that’s my life,” she said, under cover of refilling the teapot. + +“That’s no one’s life,” he returned, “no young person’s. You’ll come?” + +“I should like to come,” she murmured. + +At this moment Mrs. Elliot looked up and exclaimed, “Oh, Hugh! He’s +bringing some one,” she added. + +“He would like some tea,” said Mrs. Paley. “Susan, run and get some +cups—there are the two young men.” + +“We’re thirsting for tea,” said Mr. Elliot. “You know Mr. Ambrose, +Hilda? We met on the hill.” + +“He dragged me in,” said Ridley, “or I should have been ashamed. I’m +dusty and dirty and disagreeable.” He pointed to his boots which were +white with dust, while a dejected flower drooping in his buttonhole, +like an exhausted animal over a gate, added to the effect of length and +untidiness. He was introduced to the others. Mr. Hewet and Mr. Hirst +brought chairs, and tea began again, Susan pouring cascades of water +from pot to pot, always cheerfully, and with the competence of long +use. + +“My wife’s brother,” Ridley explained to Hilda, whom he failed to +remember, “has a house here, which he has lent us. I was sitting on a +rock thinking of nothing at all when Elliot started up like a fairy in +a pantomime.” + +“Our chicken got into the salt,” Hewet said dolefully to Susan. “Nor is +it true that bananas include moisture as well as sustenance.” + +Hirst was already drinking. + +“We’ve been cursing you,” said Ridley in answer to Mrs. Elliot’s kind +enquiries about his wife. “You tourists eat up all the eggs, Helen +tells me. That’s an eye-sore too”—he nodded his head at the hotel. +“Disgusting luxury, I call it. We live with pigs in the drawing-room.” + +“The food is not at all what it ought to be, considering the price,” +said Mrs. Paley seriously. “But unless one goes to a hotel where is one +to go to?” + +“Stay at home,” said Ridley. “I often wish I had! Everyone ought to +stay at home. But, of course, they won’t.” + +Mrs. Paley conceived a certain grudge against Ridley, who seemed to be +criticising her habits after an acquaintance of five minutes. + +“I believe in foreign travel myself,” she stated, “if one knows one’s +native land, which I think I can honestly say I do. I should not allow +any one to travel until they had visited Kent and Dorsetshire—Kent for +the hops, and Dorsetshire for its old stone cottages. There is nothing +to compare with them here.” + +“Yes—I always think that some people like the flat and other people +like the downs,” said Mrs. Elliot rather vaguely. + +Hirst, who had been eating and drinking without interruption, now lit a +cigarette, and observed, “Oh, but we’re all agreed by this time that +nature’s a mistake. She’s either very ugly, appallingly uncomfortable, +or absolutely terrifying. I don’t know which alarms me most—a cow or a +tree. I once met a cow in a field by night. The creature looked at me. +I assure you it turned my hair grey. It’s a disgrace that the animals +should be allowed to go at large.” + +“And what did the cow think of _him_?” Venning mumbled to Susan, who +immediately decided in her own mind that Mr. Hirst was a dreadful young +man, and that although he had such an air of being clever he probably +wasn’t as clever as Arthur, in the ways that really matter. + +“Wasn’t it Wilde who discovered the fact that nature makes no allowance +for hip-bones?” enquired Hughling Elliot. He knew by this time exactly +what scholarships and distinction Hirst enjoyed, and had formed a very +high opinion of his capacities. + +But Hirst merely drew his lips together very tightly and made no reply. + +Ridley conjectured that it was now permissible for him to take his +leave. Politeness required him to thank Mrs. Elliot for his tea, and to +add, with a wave of his hand, “You must come up and see us.” + +The wave included both Hirst and Hewet, and Hewet answered, “I should +like it immensely.” + +The party broke up, and Susan, who had never felt so happy in her life, +was just about to start for her walk in the town with Arthur, when Mrs. +Paley beckoned her back. She could not understand from the book how +Double Demon patience is played; and suggested that if they sat down +and worked it out together it would fill up the time nicely before +dinner. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +Among the promises which Mrs. Ambrose had made her niece should she +stay was a room cut off from the rest of the house, large, private—a +room in which she could play, read, think, defy the world, a fortress +as well as a sanctuary. Rooms, she knew, became more like worlds than +rooms at the age of twenty-four. Her judgment was correct, and when she +shut the door Rachel entered an enchanted place, where the poets sang +and things fell into their right proportions. Some days after the +vision of the hotel by night she was sitting alone, sunk in an +arm-chair, reading a brightly-covered red volume lettered on the back +_Works of Henrik Ibsen_. Music was open on the piano, and books of +music rose in two jagged pillars on the floor; but for the moment music +was deserted. + +Far from looking bored or absent-minded, her eyes were concentrated +almost sternly upon the page, and from her breathing, which was slow +but repressed, it could be seen that her whole body was constrained by +the working of her mind. At last she shut the book sharply, lay back, +and drew a deep breath, expressive of the wonder which always marks the +transition from the imaginary world to the real world. + +“What I want to know,” she said aloud, “is this: What is the truth? +What’s the truth of it all?” She was speaking partly as herself, and +partly as the heroine of the play she had just read. The landscape +outside, because she had seen nothing but print for the space of two +hours, now appeared amazingly solid and clear, but although there were +men on the hill washing the trunks of olive trees with a white liquid, +for the moment she herself was the most vivid thing in it—an heroic +statue in the middle of the foreground, dominating the view. Ibsen’s +plays always left her in that condition. She acted them for days at a +time, greatly to Helen’s amusement; and then it would be Meredith’s +turn and she became Diana of the Crossways. But Helen was aware that it +was not all acting, and that some sort of change was taking place in +the human being. When Rachel became tired of the rigidity of her pose +on the back of the chair, she turned round, slid comfortably down into +it, and gazed out over the furniture through the window opposite which +opened on the garden. (Her mind wandered away from Nora, but she went +on thinking of things that the book suggested to her, of women and +life.) + +During the three months she had been here she had made up considerably, +as Helen meant she should, for time spent in interminable walks round +sheltered gardens, and the household gossip of her aunts. But Mrs. +Ambrose would have been the first to disclaim any influence, or indeed +any belief that to influence was within her power. She saw her less +shy, and less serious, which was all to the good, and the violent leaps +and the interminable mazes which had led to that result were usually +not even guessed at by her. Talk was the medicine she trusted to, talk +about everything, talk that was free, unguarded, and as candid as a +habit of talking with men made natural in her own case. Nor did she +encourage those habits of unselfishness and amiability founded upon +insincerity which are put at so high a value in mixed households of men +and women. She desired that Rachel should think, and for this reason +offered books and discouraged too entire a dependence upon Bach and +Beethoven and Wagner. But when Mrs. Ambrose would have suggested Defoe, +Maupassant, or some spacious chronicle of family life, Rachel chose +modern books, books in shiny yellow covers, books with a great deal of +gilding on the back, which were tokens in her aunt’s eyes of harsh +wrangling and disputes about facts which had no such importance as the +moderns claimed for them. But she did not interfere. Rachel read what +she chose, reading with the curious literalness of one to whom written +sentences are unfamiliar, and handling words as though they were made +of wood, separately of great importance, and possessed of shapes like +tables or chairs. In this way she came to conclusions, which had to be +remodelled according to the adventures of the day, and were indeed +recast as liberally as any one could desire, leaving always a small +grain of belief behind them. + +Ibsen was succeeded by a novel such as Mrs. Ambrose detested, whose +purpose was to distribute the guilt of a woman’s downfall upon the +right shoulders; a purpose which was achieved, if the reader’s +discomfort were any proof of it. She threw the book down, looked out of +the window, turned away from the window, and relapsed into an +arm-chair. + +The morning was hot, and the exercise of reading left her mind +contracting and expanding like the main-spring of a clock, and the +small noises of midday, which one can ascribe to no definite cause, in +a regular rhythm. It was all very real, very big, very impersonal, and +after a moment or two she began to raise her first finger and to let it +fall on the arm of her chair so as to bring back to herself some +consciousness of her own existence. She was next overcome by the +unspeakable queerness of the fact that she should be sitting in an +arm-chair, in the morning, in the middle of the world. Who were the +people moving in the house—moving things from one place to another? And +life, what was that? It was only a light passing over the surface and +vanishing, as in time she would vanish, though the furniture in the +room would remain. Her dissolution became so complete that she could +not raise her finger any more, and sat perfectly still, listening and +looking always at the same spot. It became stranger and stranger. She +was overcome with awe that things should exist at all. . . . She forgot +that she had any fingers to raise. . . . The things that existed were +so immense and so desolate. . . . She continued to be conscious of +these vast masses of substance for a long stretch of time, the clock +still ticking in the midst of the universal silence. + +“Come in,” she said mechanically, for a string in her brain seemed to +be pulled by a persistent knocking at the door. With great slowness the +door opened and a tall human being came towards her, holding out her +arm and saying: + +“What am I to say to this?” + +The utter absurdity of a woman coming into a room with a piece of paper +in her hand amazed Rachel. + +“I don’t know what to answer, or who Terence Hewet is,” Helen +continued, in the toneless voice of a ghost. She put a paper before +Rachel on which were written the incredible words: + +DEAR MRS. AMBROSE—I am getting up a picnic for next Friday, when we +propose to start at eleven-thirty if the weather is fine, and to make +the ascent of Monte Rosa. It will take some time, but the view should +be magnificent. It would give me great pleasure if you and Miss Vinrace +would consent to be of the party.—Yours sincerely, + + +TERENCE HEWET + + +Rachel read the words aloud to make herself believe in them. For the +same reason she put her hand on Helen’s shoulder. + +“Books—books—books,” said Helen, in her absent-minded way. “More new +books—I wonder what you find in them. . . .” + +For the second time Rachel read the letter, but to herself. This time, +instead of seeming vague as ghosts, each word was astonishingly +prominent; they came out as the tops of mountains come through a mist. +_Friday_—_eleven-thirty_—_Miss Vinrace_. The blood began to run in her +veins; she felt her eyes brighten. + +“We must go,” she said, rather surprising Helen by her decision. “We +must certainly go”—such was the relief of finding that things still +happened, and indeed they appeared the brighter for the mist +surrounding them. + +“Monte Rosa—that’s the mountain over there, isn’t it?” said Helen; “but +Hewet—who’s he? One of the young men Ridley met, I suppose. Shall I say +yes, then? It may be dreadfully dull.” + +She took the letter back and went, for the messenger was waiting for +her answer. + +The party which had been suggested a few nights ago in Mr. Hirst’s +bedroom had taken shape and was the source of great satisfaction to Mr. +Hewet, who had seldom used his practical abilities, and was pleased to +find them equal to the strain. His invitations had been universally +accepted, which was the more encouraging as they had been issued +against Hirst’s advice to people who were very dull, not at all suited +to each other, and sure not to come. + +“Undoubtedly,” he said, as he twirled and untwirled a note signed Helen +Ambrose, “the gifts needed to make a great commander have been absurdly +overrated. About half the intellectual effort which is needed to review +a book of modern poetry has enabled me to get together seven or eight +people, of opposite sexes, at the same spot at the same hour on the +same day. What else is generalship, Hirst? What more did Wellington do +on the field of Waterloo? It’s like counting the number of pebbles of a +path, tedious but not difficult.” + +He was sitting in his bedroom, one leg over the arm of the chair, and +Hirst was writing a letter opposite. Hirst was quick to point out that +all the difficulties remained. + +“For instance, here are two women you’ve never seen. Suppose one of +them suffers from mountain-sickness, as my sister does, and the other—” + +“Oh, the women are for you,” Hewet interrupted. “I asked them solely +for your benefit. What you want, Hirst, you know, is the society of +young women of your own age. You don’t know how to get on with women, +which is a great defect, considering that half the world consists of +women.” + +Hirst groaned that he was quite aware of that. + +But Hewet’s complacency was a little chilled as he walked with Hirst to +the place where a general meeting had been appointed. He wondered why +on earth he had asked these people, and what one really expected to get +from bunching human beings up together. + +“Cows,” he reflected, “draw together in a field; ships in a calm; and +we’re just the same when we’ve nothing else to do. But why do we do +it?—is it to prevent ourselves from seeing to the bottom of things” (he +stopped by a stream and began stirring it with his walking-stick and +clouding the water with mud), “making cities and mountains and whole +universes out of nothing, or do we really love each other, or do we, on +the other hand, live in a state of perpetual uncertainty, knowing +nothing, leaping from moment to moment as from world to world?—which +is, on the whole, the view _I_ incline to.” + +He jumped over the stream; Hirst went round and joined him, remarking +that he had long ceased to look for the reason of any human action. + +Half a mile further, they came to a group of plane trees and the +salmon-pink farmhouse standing by the stream which had been chosen as +meeting-place. It was a shady spot, lying conveniently just where the +hill sprung out from the flat. Between the thin stems of the plane +trees the young men could see little knots of donkeys pasturing, and a +tall woman rubbing the nose of one of them, while another woman was +kneeling by the stream lapping water out of her palms. + +As they entered the shady place, Helen looked up and then held out her +hand. + +“I must introduce myself,” she said. “I am Mrs. Ambrose.” + +Having shaken hands, she said, “That’s my niece.” + +Rachel approached awkwardly. She held out her hand, but withdrew it. +“It’s all wet,” she said. + +Scarcely had they spoken, when the first carriage drew up. + +The donkeys were quickly jerked into attention, and the second carriage +arrived. By degrees the grove filled with people—the Elliots, the +Thornburys, Mr. Venning and Susan, Miss Allan, Evelyn Murgatroyd, and +Mr. Perrott. Mr. Hirst acted the part of hoarse energetic sheep-dog. By +means of a few words of caustic Latin he had the animals marshalled, +and by inclining a sharp shoulder he lifted the ladies. “What Hewet +fails to understand,” he remarked, “is that we must break the back of +the ascent before midday.” He was assisting a young lady, by name +Evelyn Murgatroyd, as he spoke. She rose light as a bubble to her seat. +With a feather drooping from a broad-brimmed hat, in white from top to +toe, she looked like a gallant lady of the time of Charles the First +leading royalist troops into action. + +“Ride with me,” she commanded; and, as soon as Hirst had swung himself +across a mule, the two started, leading the cavalcade. + +“You’re not to call me Miss Murgatroyd. I hate it,” she said. “My +name’s Evelyn. What’s yours?” + +“St. John,” he said. + +“I like that,” said Evelyn. “And what’s your friend’s name?” + +“His initials being R. S. T., we call him Monk,” said Hirst. + +“Oh, you’re all too clever,” she said. “Which way? Pick me a branch. +Let’s canter.” + +She gave her donkey a sharp cut with a switch and started forward. The +full and romantic career of Evelyn Murgatroyd is best hit off by her +own words, “Call me Evelyn and I’ll call you St. John.” She said that +on very slight provocation—her surname was enough—but although a great +many young men had answered her already with considerable spirit she +went on saying it and making choice of none. But her donkey stumbled to +a jog-trot, and she had to ride in advance alone, for the path when it +began to ascend one of the spines of the hill became narrow and +scattered with stones. The cavalcade wound on like a jointed +caterpillar, tufted with the white parasols of the ladies, and the +panama hats of the gentlemen. At one point where the ground rose +sharply, Evelyn M. jumped off, threw her reins to the native boy, and +adjured St. John Hirst to dismount too. Their example was followed by +those who felt the need of stretching. + +“I don’t see any need to get off,” said Miss Allan to Mrs. Elliot just +behind her, “considering the difficulty I had getting on.” + +“These little donkeys stand anything, _n’est-ce pas_?” Mrs. Elliot +addressed the guide, who obligingly bowed his head. + +“Flowers,” said Helen, stooping to pick the lovely little bright +flowers which grew separately here and there. “You pinch their leaves +and then they smell,” she said, laying one on Miss Allan’s knee. + +“Haven’t we met before?” asked Miss Allan, looking at her. + +“I was taking it for granted,” Helen laughed, for in the confusion of +meeting they had not been introduced. + +“How sensible!” chirped Mrs. Elliot. “That’s just what one would always +like—only unfortunately it’s not possible.” + +“Not possible?” said Helen. “Everything’s possible. Who knows what +mayn’t happen before night-fall?” she continued, mocking the poor +lady’s timidity, who depended so implicitly upon one thing following +another that the mere glimpse of a world where dinner could be +disregarded, or the table moved one inch from its accustomed place, +filled her with fears for her own stability. + +Higher and higher they went, becoming separated from the world. The +world, when they turned to look back, flattened itself out, and was +marked with squares of thin green and grey. + +“Towns are very small,” Rachel remarked, obscuring the whole of Santa +Marina and its suburbs with one hand. The sea filled in all the angles +of the coast smoothly, breaking in a white frill, and here and there +ships were set firmly in the blue. The sea was stained with purple and +green blots, and there was a glittering line upon the rim where it met +the sky. The air was very clear and silent save for the sharp noise of +grasshoppers and the hum of bees, which sounded loud in the ear as they +shot past and vanished. The party halted and sat for a time in a quarry +on the hillside. + +“Amazingly clear,” exclaimed St. John, identifying one cleft in the +land after another. + +Evelyn M. sat beside him, propping her chin on her hand. She surveyed +the view with a certain look of triumph. + +“D’you think Garibaldi was ever up here?” she asked Mr. Hirst. Oh, if +she had been his bride! If, instead of a picnic party, this was a party +of patriots, and she, red-shirted like the rest, had lain among grim +men, flat on the turf, aiming her gun at the white turrets beneath +them, screening her eyes to pierce through the smoke! So thinking, her +foot stirred restlessly, and she exclaimed: + +“I don’t call this _life_, do you?” + +“What do you call life?” said St. John. + +“Fighting—revolution,” she said, still gazing at the doomed city. “You +only care for books, I know.” + +“You’re quite wrong,” said St. John. + +“Explain,” she urged, for there were no guns to be aimed at bodies, and +she turned to another kind of warfare. + +“What do I care for? People,” he said. + +“Well, I _am_ surprised!” she exclaimed. “You look so awfully serious. +Do let’s be friends and tell each other what we’re like. I hate being +cautious, don’t you?” + +But St. John was decidedly cautious, as she could see by the sudden +constriction of his lips, and had no intention of revealing his soul to +a young lady. “The ass is eating my hat,” he remarked, and stretched +out for it instead of answering her. Evelyn blushed very slightly and +then turned with some impetuosity upon Mr. Perrott, and when they +mounted again it was Mr. Perrott who lifted her to her seat. + +“When one has laid the eggs one eats the omelette,” said Hughling +Elliot, exquisitely in French, a hint to the rest of them that it was +time to ride on again. + +The midday sun which Hirst had foretold was beginning to beat down +hotly. The higher they got the more of the sky appeared, until the +mountain was only a small tent of earth against an enormous blue +background. The English fell silent; the natives who walked beside the +donkeys broke into queer wavering songs and tossed jokes from one to +the other. The way grew very steep, and each rider kept his eyes fixed +on the hobbling curved form of the rider and donkey directly in front +of him. Rather more strain was being put upon their bodies than is +quite legitimate in a party of pleasure, and Hewet overheard one or two +slightly grumbling remarks. + +“Expeditions in such heat are perhaps a little unwise,” Mrs. Elliot +murmured to Miss Allan. + +But Miss Allan returned, “I always like to get to the top”; and it was +true, although she was a big woman, stiff in the joints, and unused to +donkey-riding, but as her holidays were few she made the most of them. + +The vivacious white figure rode well in front; she had somehow +possessed herself of a leafy branch and wore it round her hat like a +garland. They went on for a few minutes in silence. + +“The view will be wonderful,” Hewet assured them, turning round in his +saddle and smiling encouragement. Rachel caught his eye and smiled too. +They struggled on for some time longer, nothing being heard but the +clatter of hooves striving on the loose stones. Then they saw that +Evelyn was off her ass, and that Mr. Perrott was standing in the +attitude of a statesman in Parliament Square, stretching an arm of +stone towards the view. A little to the left of them was a low ruined +wall, the stump of an Elizabethan watch-tower. + +“I couldn’t have stood it much longer,” Mrs. Elliot confided to Mrs. +Thornbury, but the excitement of being at the top in another moment and +seeing the view prevented any one from answering her. One after another +they came out on the flat space at the top and stood overcome with +wonder. Before them they beheld an immense space—grey sands running +into forest, and forest merging in mountains, and mountains washed by +air, the infinite distances of South America. A river ran across the +plain, as flat as the land, and appearing quite as stationary. The +effect of so much space was at first rather chilling. They felt +themselves very small, and for some time no one said anything. Then +Evelyn exclaimed, “Splendid!” She took hold of the hand that was next +her; it chanced to be Miss Allan’s hand. + +“North—South—East—West,” said Miss Allan, jerking her head slightly +towards the points of the compass. + +Hewet, who had gone a little in front, looked up at his guests as if to +justify himself for having brought them. He observed how strangely the +people standing in a row with their figures bent slightly forward and +their clothes plastered by the wind to the shape of their bodies +resembled naked statues. On their pedestal of earth they looked +unfamiliar and noble, but in another moment they had broken their rank, +and he had to see to the laying out of food. Hirst came to his help, +and they handed packets of chicken and bread from one to another. + +As St. John gave Helen her packet she looked him full in the face and +said: + +“Do you remember—two women?” + +He looked at her sharply. + +“I do,” he answered. + +“So you’re the two women!” Hewet exclaimed, looking from Helen to +Rachel. + +“Your lights tempted us,” said Helen. “We watched you playing cards, +but we never knew that we were being watched.” + +“It was like a thing in a play,” Rachel added. + +“And Hirst couldn’t describe you,” said Hewet. + +It was certainly odd to have seen Helen and to find nothing to say +about her. + +Hughling Elliot put up his eyeglass and grasped the situation. + +“I don’t know of anything more dreadful,” he said, pulling at the joint +of a chicken’s leg, “than being seen when one isn’t conscious of it. +One feels sure one has been caught doing something ridiculous—looking +at one’s tongue in a hansom, for instance.” + +Now the others ceased to look at the view, and drawing together sat +down in a circle round the baskets. + +“And yet those little looking-glasses in hansoms have a fascination of +their own,” said Mrs. Thornbury. “One’s features look so different when +one can only see a bit of them.” + +“There will soon be very few hansom cabs left,” said Mrs. Elliot. “And +four-wheeled cabs—I assure you even at Oxford it’s almost impossible to +get a four-wheeled cab.” + +“I wonder what happens to the horses,” said Susan. + +“Veal pie,” said Arthur. + +“It’s high time that horses should become extinct anyhow,” said Hirst. +“They’re distressingly ugly, besides being vicious.” + +But Susan, who had been brought up to understand that the horse is the +noblest of God’s creatures, could not agree, and Venning thought Hirst +an unspeakable ass, but was too polite not to continue the +conversation. + +“When they see us falling out of aeroplanes they get some of their own +back, I expect,” he remarked. + +“You fly?” said old Mr. Thornbury, putting on his spectacles to look at +him. + +“I hope to, some day,” said Arthur. + +Here flying was discussed at length, and Mrs. Thornbury delivered an +opinion which was almost a speech to the effect that it would be quite +necessary in time of war, and in England we were terribly behind-hand. +“If I were a young fellow,” she concluded, “I should certainly +qualify.” It was odd to look at the little elderly lady, in her grey +coat and skirt, with a sandwich in her hand, her eyes lighting up with +zeal as she imagined herself a young man in an aeroplane. For some +reason, however, the talk did not run easily after this, and all they +said was about drink and salt and the view. Suddenly Miss Allan, who +was seated with her back to the ruined wall, put down her sandwich, +picked something off her neck, and remarked, “I’m covered with little +creatures.” It was true, and the discovery was very welcome. The ants +were pouring down a glacier of loose earth heaped between the stones of +the ruin—large brown ants with polished bodies. She held out one on the +back of her hand for Helen to look at. + +“Suppose they sting?” said Helen. + +“They will not sting, but they may infest the victuals,” said Miss +Allan, and measures were taken at once to divert the ants from their +course. At Hewet’s suggestion it was decided to adopt the methods of +modern warfare against an invading army. The table-cloth represented +the invaded country, and round it they built barricades of baskets, set +up the wine bottles in a rampart, made fortifications of bread and dug +fosses of salt. When an ant got through it was exposed to a fire of +bread-crumbs, until Susan pronounced that that was cruel, and rewarded +those brave spirits with spoil in the shape of tongue. Playing this +game they lost their stiffness, and even became unusually daring, for +Mr. Perrott, who was very shy, said, “Permit me,” and removed an ant +from Evelyn’s neck. + +“It would be no laughing matter really,” said Mrs. Elliot +confidentially to Mrs. Thornbury, “if an ant did get between the vest +and the skin.” + +The noise grew suddenly more clamorous, for it was discovered that a +long line of ants had found their way on to the table-cloth by a back +entrance, and if success could be gauged by noise, Hewet had every +reason to think his party a success. Nevertheless he became, for no +reason at all, profoundly depressed. + +“They are not satisfactory; they are ignoble,” he thought, surveying +his guests from a little distance, where he was gathering together the +plates. He glanced at them all, stooping and swaying and gesticulating +round the table-cloth. Amiable and modest, respectable in many ways, +lovable even in their contentment and desire to be kind, how mediocre +they all were, and capable of what insipid cruelty to one another! +There was Mrs. Thornbury, sweet but trivial in her maternal egoism; +Mrs. Elliot, perpetually complaining of her lot; her husband a mere pea +in a pod; and Susan—she had no self, and counted neither one way nor +the other; Venning was as honest and as brutal as a schoolboy; poor old +Thornbury merely trod his round like a horse in a mill; and the less +one examined into Evelyn’s character the better, he suspected. Yet +these were the people with money, and to them rather than to others was +given the management of the world. Put among them some one more vital, +who cared for life or for beauty, and what an agony, what a waste would +they inflict on him if he tried to share with them and not to scourge! + +“There’s Hirst,” he concluded, coming to the figure of his friend; with +his usual little frown of concentration upon his forehead he was +peeling the skin off a banana. “And he’s as ugly as sin.” For the +ugliness of St. John Hirst, and the limitations that went with it, he +made the rest in some way responsible. It was their fault that he had +to live alone. Then he came to Helen, attracted to her by the sound of +her laugh. She was laughing at Miss Allan. “You wear combinations in +this heat?” she said in a voice which was meant to be private. He liked +the look of her immensely, not so much her beauty, but her largeness +and simplicity, which made her stand out from the rest like a great +stone woman, and he passed on in a gentler mood. His eye fell upon +Rachel. She was lying back rather behind the others resting on one +elbow; she might have been thinking precisely the same thoughts as +Hewet himself. Her eyes were fixed rather sadly but not intently upon +the row of people opposite her. Hewet crawled up to her on his knees, +with a piece of bread in his hand. + +“What are you looking at?” he asked. + +She was a little startled, but answered directly, “Human beings.” + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +One after another they rose and stretched themselves, and in a few +minutes divided more or less into two separate parties. One of these +parties was dominated by Hughling Elliot and Mrs. Thornbury, who, +having both read the same books and considered the same questions, were +now anxious to name the places beneath them and to hang upon them +stores of information about navies and armies, political parties, +natives and mineral products—all of which combined, they said, to prove +that South America was the country of the future. + +Evelyn M. listened with her bright blue eyes fixed upon the oracles. + +“How it makes one long to be a man!” she exclaimed. + +Mr. Perrott answered, surveying the plain, that a country with a future +was a very fine thing. + +“If I were you,” said Evelyn, turning to him and drawing her glove +vehemently through her fingers, “I’d raise a troop and conquer some +great territory and make it splendid. You’d want women for that. I’d +love to start life from the very beginning as it ought to be—nothing +squalid—but great halls and gardens and splendid men and women. But +you—you only like Law Courts!” + +“And would you really be content without pretty frocks and sweets and +all the things young ladies like?” asked Mr. Perrott, concealing a +certain amount of pain beneath his ironical manner. + +“I’m not a young lady,” Evelyn flashed; she bit her underlip. “Just +because I like splendid things you laugh at me. Why are there no men +like Garibaldi now?” she demanded. + +“Look here,” said Mr. Perrott, “you don’t give me a chance. You think +we ought to begin things fresh. Good. But I don’t see precisely—conquer +a territory? They’re all conquered already, aren’t they?” + +“It’s not any territory in particular,” Evelyn explained. “It’s the +idea, don’t you see? We lead such tame lives. And I feel sure you’ve +got splendid things in you.” + +Hewet saw the scars and hollows in Mr. Perrott’s sagacious face relax +pathetically. He could imagine the calculations which even then went on +within his mind, as to whether he would be justified in asking a woman +to marry him, considering that he made no more than five hundred a year +at the Bar, owned no private means, and had an invalid sister to +support. Mr. Perrott again knew that he was not “quite,” as Susan +stated in her diary; not quite a gentleman she meant, for he was the +son of a grocer in Leeds, had started life with a basket on his back, +and now, though practically indistinguishable from a born gentleman, +showed his origin to keen eyes in an impeccable neatness of dress, lack +of freedom in manner, extreme cleanliness of person, and a certain +indescribable timidity and precision with his knife and fork which +might be the relic of days when meat was rare, and the way of handling +it by no means gingerly. + +The two parties who were strolling about and losing their unity now +came together, and joined each other in a long stare over the yellow +and green patches of the heated landscape below. The hot air danced +across it, making it impossible to see the roofs of a village on the +plain distinctly. Even on the top of the mountain where a breeze played +lightly, it was very hot, and the heat, the food, the immense space, +and perhaps some less well-defined cause produced a comfortable +drowsiness and a sense of happy relaxation in them. They did not say +much, but felt no constraint in being silent. + +“Suppose we go and see what’s to be seen over there?” said Arthur to +Susan, and the pair walked off together, their departure certainly +sending some thrill of emotion through the rest. + +“An odd lot, aren’t they?” said Arthur. “I thought we should never get +’em all to the top. But I’m glad we came, by Jove! I wouldn’t have +missed this for something.” + +“I don’t _like_ Mr. Hirst,” said Susan inconsequently. “I suppose he’s +very clever, but why should clever people be so—I expect he’s awfully +nice, really,” she added, instinctively qualifying what might have +seemed an unkind remark. + +“Hirst? Oh, he’s one of these learned chaps,” said Arthur +indifferently. “He don’t look as if he enjoyed it. You should hear him +talking to Elliot. It’s as much as I can do to follow ’em at all. . . . +I was never good at my books.” + +With these sentences and the pauses that came between them they reached +a little hillock, on the top of which grew several slim trees. + +“D’you mind if we sit down here?” said Arthur, looking about him. “It’s +jolly in the shade—and the view—” They sat down, and looked straight +ahead of them in silence for some time. + +“But I do envy those clever chaps sometimes,” Arthur remarked. “I don’t +suppose they ever . . .” He did not finish his sentence. + +“I can’t see why you should envy them,” said Susan, with great +sincerity. + +“Odd things happen to one,” said Arthur. “One goes along smoothly +enough, one thing following another, and it’s all very jolly and plain +sailing, and you think you know all about it, and suddenly one doesn’t +know where one is a bit, and everything seems different from what it +used to seem. Now to-day, coming up that path, riding behind you, I +seemed to see everything as if—” he paused and plucked a piece of grass +up by the roots. He scattered the little lumps of earth which were +sticking to the roots—“As if it had a kind of meaning. You’ve made the +difference to me,” he jerked out, “I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell +you. I’ve felt it ever since I knew you. . . . It’s because I love +you.” + +Even while they had been saying commonplace things Susan had been +conscious of the excitement of intimacy, which seemed not only to lay +bare something in her, but in the trees and the sky, and the progress +of his speech which seemed inevitable was positively painful to her, +for no human being had ever come so close to her before. + +She was struck motionless as his speech went on, and her heart gave +great separate leaps at the last words. She sat with her fingers curled +round a stone, looking straight in front of her down the mountain over +the plain. So then, it had actually happened to her, a proposal of +marriage. + +Arthur looked round at her; his face was oddly twisted. She was drawing +her breath with such difficulty that she could hardly answer. + +“You might have known.” He seized her in his arms; again and again and +again they clasped each other, murmuring inarticulately. + +“Well,” sighed Arthur, sinking back on the ground, “that’s the most +wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me.” He looked as if he were +trying to put things seen in a dream beside real things. + +There was a long silence. + +“It’s the most perfect thing in the world,” Susan stated, very gently +and with great conviction. It was no longer merely a proposal of +marriage, but of marriage with Arthur, with whom she was in love. + +In the silence that followed, holding his hand tightly in hers, she +prayed to God that she might make him a good wife. + +“And what will Mr. Perrott say?” she asked at the end of it. + +“Dear old fellow,” said Arthur who, now that the first shock was over, +was relaxing into an enormous sense of pleasure and contentment. “We +must be very nice to him, Susan.” + +He told her how hard Perrott’s life had been, and how absurdly devoted +he was to Arthur himself. He went on to tell her about his mother, a +widow lady, of strong character. In return Susan sketched the portraits +of her own family—Edith in particular, her youngest sister, whom she +loved better than any one else, “except you, Arthur. . . . Arthur,” she +continued, “what was it that you first liked me for?” + +“It was a buckle you wore one night at sea,” said Arthur, after due +consideration. “I remember noticing—it’s an absurd thing to +notice!—that you didn’t take peas, because I don’t either.” + +From this they went on to compare their more serious tastes, or rather +Susan ascertained what Arthur cared about, and professed herself very +fond of the same thing. They would live in London, perhaps have a +cottage in the country near Susan’s family, for they would find it +strange without her at first. Her mind, stunned to begin with, now flew +to the various changes that her engagement would make—how delightful it +would be to join the ranks of the married women—no longer to hang on to +groups of girls much younger than herself—to escape the long solitude +of an old maid’s life. Now and then her amazing good fortune overcame +her, and she turned to Arthur with an exclamation of love. + +They lay in each other’s arms and had no notion that they were +observed. Yet two figures suddenly appeared among the trees above them. +“Here’s shade,” began Hewet, when Rachel suddenly stopped dead. They +saw a man and woman lying on the ground beneath them, rolling slightly +this way and that as the embrace tightened and slackened. The man then +sat upright and the woman, who now appeared to be Susan Warrington, lay +back upon the ground, with her eyes shut and an absorbed look upon her +face, as though she were not altogether conscious. Nor could you tell +from her expression whether she was happy, or had suffered something. +When Arthur again turned to her, butting her as a lamb butts a ewe, +Hewet and Rachel retreated without a word. Hewet felt uncomfortably +shy. + +“I don’t like that,” said Rachel after a moment. + +“I can remember not liking it either,” said Hewet. “I can remember—” +but he changed his mind and continued in an ordinary tone of voice, +“Well, we may take it for granted that they’re engaged. D’you think +he’ll ever fly, or will she put a stop to that?” + +But Rachel was still agitated; she could not get away from the sight +they had just seen. Instead of answering Hewet she persisted. + +“Love’s an odd thing, isn’t it, making one’s heart beat.” + +“It’s so enormously important, you see,” Hewet replied. “Their lives +are now changed for ever.” + +“And it makes one sorry for them too,” Rachel continued, as though she +were tracing the course of her feelings. “I don’t know either of them, +but I could almost burst into tears. That’s silly, isn’t it?” + +“Just because they’re in love,” said Hewet. “Yes,” he added after a +moment’s consideration, “there’s something horribly pathetic about it, +I agree.” + +And now, as they had walked some way from the grove of trees, and had +come to a rounded hollow very tempting to the back, they proceeded to +sit down, and the impression of the lovers lost some of its force, +though a certain intensity of vision, which was probably the result of +the sight, remained with them. As a day upon which any emotion has been +repressed is different from other days, so this day was now different, +merely because they had seen other people at a crisis of their lives. + +“A great encampment of tents they might be,” said Hewet, looking in +front of him at the mountains. “Isn’t it like a water-colour too—you +know the way water-colours dry in ridges all across the paper—I’ve been +wondering what they looked like.” + +His eyes became dreamy, as though he were matching things, and reminded +Rachel in their colour of the green flesh of a snail. She sat beside +him looking at the mountains too. When it became painful to look any +longer, the great size of the view seeming to enlarge her eyes beyond +their natural limit, she looked at the ground; it pleased her to +scrutinise this inch of the soil of South America so minutely that she +noticed every grain of earth and made it into a world where she was +endowed with the supreme power. She bent a blade of grass, and set an +insect on the utmost tassel of it, and wondered if the insect realised +his strange adventure, and thought how strange it was that she should +have bent that tassel rather than any other of the million tassels. + +“You’ve never told me your name,” said Hewet suddenly. “Miss Somebody +Vinrace. . . . I like to know people’s Christian names.” + +“Rachel,” she replied. + +“Rachel,” he repeated. “I have an aunt called Rachel, who put the life +of Father Damien into verse. She is a religious fanatic—the result of +the way she was brought up, down in Northamptonshire, never seeing a +soul. Have you any aunts?” + +“I live with them,” said Rachel. + +“And I wonder what they’re doing now?” Hewet enquired. + +“They are probably buying wool,” Rachel determined. She tried to +describe them. “They are small, rather pale women,” she began, “very +clean. We live in Richmond. They have an old dog, too, who will only +eat the marrow out of bones. . . . They are always going to church. +They tidy their drawers a good deal.” But here she was overcome by the +difficulty of describing people. + +“It’s impossible to believe that it’s all going on still!” she +exclaimed. + +The sun was behind them and two long shadows suddenly lay upon the +ground in front of them, one waving because it was made by a skirt, and +the other stationary, because thrown by a pair of legs in trousers. + +“You look very comfortable!” said Helen’s voice above them. + +“Hirst,” said Hewet, pointing at the scissorlike shadow; he then rolled +round to look up at them. + +“There’s room for us all here,” he said. + +When Hirst had seated himself comfortably, he said: + +“Did you congratulate the young couple?” + +It appeared that, coming to the same spot a few minutes after Hewet and +Rachel, Helen and Hirst had seen precisely the same thing. + +“No, we didn’t congratulate them,” said Hewet. “They seemed very +happy.” + +“Well,” said Hirst, pursing up his lips, “so long as I needn’t marry +either of them—” + +“We were very much moved,” said Hewet. + +“I thought you would be,” said Hirst. “Which was it, Monk? The thought +of the immortal passions, or the thought of new-born males to keep the +Roman Catholics out? I assure you,” he said to Helen, “he’s capable of +being moved by either.” + +Rachel was a good deal stung by his banter, which she felt to be +directed equally against them both, but she could think of no repartee. + +“Nothing moves Hirst,” Hewet laughed; he did not seem to be stung at +all. “Unless it were a transfinite number falling in love with a finite +one—I suppose such things do happen, even in mathematics.” + +“On the contrary,” said Hirst with a touch of annoyance, “I consider +myself a person of very strong passions.” It was clear from the way he +spoke that he meant it seriously; he spoke of course for the benefit of +the ladies. + +“By the way, Hirst,” said Hewet, after a pause, “I have a terrible +confession to make. Your book—the poems of Wordsworth, which if you +remember I took off your table just as we were starting, and certainly +put in my pocket here—” + +“Is lost,” Hirst finished for him. + +“I consider that there is still a chance,” Hewet urged, slapping +himself to right and left, “that I never did take it after all.” + +“No,” said Hirst. “It is here.” He pointed to his breast. + +“Thank God,” Hewet exclaimed. “I need no longer feel as though I’d +murdered a child!” + +“I should think you were always losing things,” Helen remarked, looking +at him meditatively. + +“I don’t lose things,” said Hewet. “I mislay them. That was the reason +why Hirst refused to share a cabin with me on the voyage out.” + +“You came out together?” Helen enquired. + +“I propose that each member of this party now gives a short +biographical sketch of himself or herself,” said Hirst, sitting +upright. “Miss Vinrace, you come first; begin.” + +Rachel stated that she was twenty-four years of age, the daughter of a +ship-owner, that she had never been properly educated; played the +piano, had no brothers or sisters, and lived at Richmond with aunts, +her mother being dead. + +“Next,” said Hirst, having taken in these facts; he pointed at Hewet. +“I am the son of an English gentleman. I am twenty-seven,” Hewet began. +“My father was a fox-hunting squire. He died when I was ten in the +hunting field. I can remember his body coming home, on a shutter I +suppose, just as I was going down to tea, and noticing that there was +jam for tea, and wondering whether I should be allowed—” + +“Yes; but keep to the facts,” Hirst put in. + +“I was educated at Winchester and Cambridge, which I had to leave after +a time. I have done a good many things since—” + +“Profession?” + +“None—at least—” + +“Tastes?” + +“Literary. I’m writing a novel.” + +“Brothers and sisters?” + +“Three sisters, no brother, and a mother.” + +“Is that all we’re to hear about you?” said Helen. She stated that she +was very old—forty last October, and her father had been a solicitor in +the city who had gone bankrupt, for which reason she had never had much +education—they lived in one place after another—but an elder brother +used to lend her books. + +“If I were to tell you everything—” she stopped and smiled. “It would +take too long,” she concluded. “I married when I was thirty, and I have +two children. My husband is a scholar. And now—it’s your turn,” she +nodded at Hirst. + +“You’ve left out a great deal,” he reproved her. “My name is St. John +Alaric Hirst,” he began in a jaunty tone of voice. “I’m twenty-four +years old. I’m the son of the Reverend Sidney Hirst, vicar of Great +Wappyng in Norfolk. Oh, I got scholarships +everywhere—Westminster—King’s. I’m now a fellow of King’s. Don’t it +sound dreary? Parents both alive (alas). Two brothers and one sister. +I’m a very distinguished young man,” he added. + +“One of the three, or is it five, most distinguished men in England,” +Hewet remarked. + +“Quite correct,” said Hirst. + +“That’s all very interesting,” said Helen after a pause. “But of course +we’ve left out the only questions that matter. For instance, are we +Christians?” + +“I am not,” “I am not,” both the young men replied. + +“I am,” Rachel stated. + +“You believe in a personal God?” Hirst demanded, turning round and +fixing her with his eyeglasses. + +“I believe—I believe,” Rachel stammered, “I believe there are things we +don’t know about, and the world might change in a minute and anything +appear.” + +At this Helen laughed outright. “Nonsense,” she said. “You’re not a +Christian. You’ve never thought what you are.—And there are lots of +other questions,” she continued, “though perhaps we can’t ask them +yet.” Although they had talked so freely they were all uncomfortably +conscious that they really knew nothing about each other. + +“The important questions,” Hewet pondered, “the really interesting +ones. I doubt that one ever does ask them.” + +Rachel, who was slow to accept the fact that only a very few things can +be said even by people who know each other well, insisted on knowing +what he meant. + +“Whether we’ve ever been in love?” she enquired. “Is that the kind of +question you mean?” + +Again Helen laughed at her, benignantly strewing her with handfuls of +the long tasselled grass, for she was so brave and so foolish. + +“Oh, Rachel,” she cried. “It’s like having a puppy in the house having +you with one—a puppy that brings one’s underclothes down into the +hall.” + +But again the sunny earth in front of them was crossed by fantastic +wavering figures, the shadows of men and women. + +“There they are!” exclaimed Mrs. Elliot. There was a touch of +peevishness in her voice. “And we’ve had _such_ a hunt to find you. Do +you know what the time is?” + +Mrs. Elliot and Mr. and Mrs. Thornbury now confronted them; Mrs. Elliot +was holding out her watch, and playfully tapping it upon the face. +Hewet was recalled to the fact that this was a party for which he was +responsible, and he immediately led them back to the watch-tower, where +they were to have tea before starting home again. A bright crimson +scarf fluttered from the top of the wall, which Mr. Perrott and Evelyn +were tying to a stone as the others came up. The heat had changed just +so far that instead of sitting in the shadow they sat in the sun, which +was still hot enough to paint their faces red and yellow, and to colour +great sections of the earth beneath them. + +“There’s nothing half so nice as tea!” said Mrs. Thornbury, taking her +cup. + +“Nothing,” said Helen. “Can’t you remember as a child chopping up hay—” +she spoke much more quickly than usual, and kept her eye fixed upon +Mrs. Thornbury, “and pretending it was tea, and getting scolded by the +nurses—why I can’t imagine, except that nurses are such brutes, won’t +allow pepper instead of salt though there’s no earthly harm in it. +Weren’t your nurses just the same?” + +During this speech Susan came into the group, and sat down by Helen’s +side. A few minutes later Mr. Venning strolled up from the opposite +direction. He was a little flushed, and in the mood to answer +hilariously whatever was said to him. + +“What have you been doing to that old chap’s grave?” he asked, pointing +to the red flag which floated from the top of the stones. + +“We have tried to make him forget his misfortune in having died three +hundred years ago,” said Mr. Perrott. + +“It would be awful—to be dead!” ejaculated Evelyn M. + +“To be dead?” said Hewet. “I don’t think it would be awful. It’s quite +easy to imagine. When you go to bed to-night fold your hands so—breathe +slower and slower—” He lay back with his hands clasped upon his breast, +and his eyes shut, “Now,” he murmured in an even monotonous voice, “I +shall never, never, never move again.” His body, lying flat among them, +did for a moment suggest death. + +“This is a horrible exhibition, Mr. Hewet!” cried Mrs. Thornbury. + +“More cake for us!” said Arthur. + +“I assure you there’s nothing horrible about it,” said Hewet, sitting +up and laying hands upon the cake. + +“It’s so natural,” he repeated. “People with children should make them +do that exercise every night. . . . Not that I look forward to being +dead.” + +“And when you allude to a grave,” said Mr. Thornbury, who spoke almost +for the first time, “have you any authority for calling that ruin a +grave? I am quite with you in refusing to accept the common +interpretation which declares it to be the remains of an Elizabethan +watch-tower—any more than I believe that the circular mounds or barrows +which we find on the top of our English downs were camps. The +antiquaries call everything a camp. I am always asking them, Well then, +where do you think our ancestors kept their cattle? Half the camps in +England are merely the ancient pound or barton as we call it in my part +of the world. The argument that no one would keep his cattle in such +exposed and inaccessible spots has no weight at all, if you reflect +that in those days a man’s cattle were his capital, his stock-in-trade, +his daughter’s dowries. Without cattle he was a serf, another man’s +man. . . .” His eyes slowly lost their intensity, and he muttered a few +concluding words under his breath, looking curiously old and forlorn. + +Hughling Elliot, who might have been expected to engage the old +gentleman in argument, was absent at the moment. He now came up holding +out a large square of cotton upon which a fine design was printed in +pleasant bright colours that made his hand look pale. + +“A bargain,” he announced, laying it down on the cloth. “I’ve just +bought it from the big man with the ear-rings. Fine, isn’t it? It +wouldn’t suit every one, of course, but it’s just the thing—isn’t it, +Hilda?—for Mrs. Raymond Parry.” + +“Mrs. Raymond Parry!” cried Helen and Mrs. Thornbury at the same +moment. + +They looked at each other as though a mist hitherto obscuring their +faces had been blown away. + +“Ah—you have been to those wonderful parties too?” Mrs. Elliot asked +with interest. + +Mrs. Parry’s drawing-room, though thousands of miles away, behind a +vast curve of water on a tiny piece of earth, came before their eyes. +They who had had no solidity or anchorage before seemed to be attached +to it somehow, and at once grown more substantial. Perhaps they had +been in the drawing-room at the same moment; perhaps they had passed +each other on the stairs; at any rate they knew some of the same +people. They looked one another up and down with new interest. But they +could do no more than look at each other, for there was no time to +enjoy the fruits of the discovery. The donkeys were advancing, and it +was advisable to begin the descent immediately, for the night fell so +quickly that it would be dark before they were home again. + +Accordingly, remounting in order, they filed off down the hillside. +Scraps of talk came floating back from one to another. There were jokes +to begin with, and laughter; some walked part of the way, and picked +flowers, and sent stones bounding before them. + +“Who writes the best Latin verse in your college, Hirst?” Mr. Elliot +called back incongruously, and Mr. Hirst returned that he had no idea. + +The dusk fell as suddenly as the natives had warned them, the hollows +of the mountain on either side filling up with darkness and the path +becoming so dim that it was surprising to hear the donkeys’ hooves +still striking on hard rock. Silence fell upon one, and then upon +another, until they were all silent, their minds spilling out into the +deep blue air. The way seemed shorter in the dark than in the day; and +soon the lights of the town were seen on the flat far beneath them. + +Suddenly some one cried, “Ah!” + +In a moment the slow yellow drop rose again from the plain below; it +rose, paused, opened like a flower, and fell in a shower of drops. + +“Fireworks,” they cried. + +Another went up more quickly; and then another; they could almost hear +it twist and roar. + +“Some Saint’s day, I suppose,” said a voice. The rush and embrace of +the rockets as they soared up into the air seemed like the fiery way in +which lovers suddenly rose and united, leaving the crowd gazing up at +them with strained white faces. But Susan and Arthur, riding down the +hill, never said a word to each other, and kept accurately apart. + +Then the fireworks became erratic, and soon they ceased altogether, and +the rest of the journey was made almost in darkness, the mountain being +a great shadow behind them, and bushes and trees little shadows which +threw darkness across the road. Among the plane-trees they separated, +bundling into carriages and driving off, without saying good-night, or +saying it only in a half-muffled way. + +It was so late that there was no time for normal conversation between +their arrival at the hotel and their retirement to bed. But Hirst +wandered into Hewet’s room with a collar in his hand. + +“Well, Hewet,” he remarked, on the crest of a gigantic yawn, “that was +a great success, I consider.” He yawned. “But take care you’re not +landed with that young woman. . . . I don’t really like young women. . +. .” + +Hewet was too much drugged by hours in the open air to make any reply. +In fact every one of the party was sound asleep within ten minutes or +so of each other, with the exception of Susan Warrington. She lay for a +considerable time looking blankly at the wall opposite, her hands +clasped above her heart, and her light burning by her side. All +articulate thought had long ago deserted her; her heart seemed to have +grown to the size of a sun, and to illuminate her entire body, shedding +like the sun a steady tide of warmth. + +“I’m happy, I’m happy, I’m happy,” she repeated. “I love every one. I’m +happy.” + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +When Susan’s engagement had been approved at home, and made public to +any one who took an interest in it at the hotel—and by this time the +society at the hotel was divided so as to point to invisible +chalk-marks such as Mr. Hirst had described, the news was felt to +justify some celebration—an expedition? That had been done already. A +dance then. The advantage of a dance was that it abolished one of those +long evenings which were apt to become tedious and lead to absurdly +early hours in spite of bridge. + +Two or three people standing under the erect body of the stuffed +leopard in the hall very soon had the matter decided. Evelyn slid a +pace or two this way and that, and pronounced that the floor was +excellent. Signor Rodriguez informed them of an old Spaniard who +fiddled at weddings—fiddled so as to make a tortoise waltz; and his +daughter, although endowed with eyes as black as coal-scuttles, had the +same power over the piano. If there were any so sick or so surly as to +prefer sedentary occupations on the night in question to spinning and +watching others spin, the drawing-room and billiard-room were theirs. +Hewet made it his business to conciliate the outsiders as much as +possible. To Hirst’s theory of the invisible chalk-marks he would pay +no attention whatever. He was treated to a snub or two, but, in reward, +found obscure lonely gentlemen delighted to have this opportunity of +talking to their kind, and the lady of doubtful character showed every +symptom of confiding her case to him in the near future. Indeed it was +made quite obvious to him that the two or three hours between dinner +and bed contained an amount of unhappiness, which was really pitiable, +so many people had not succeeded in making friends. + +It was settled that the dance was to be on Friday, one week after the +engagement, and at dinner Hewet declared himself satisfied. + +“They’re all coming!” he told Hirst. “Pepper!” he called, seeing +William Pepper slip past in the wake of the soup with a pamphlet +beneath his arm, “We’re counting on you to open the ball.” + +“You will certainly put sleep out of the question,” Pepper returned. + +“You are to take the floor with Miss Allan,” Hewet continued, +consulting a sheet of pencilled notes. + +Pepper stopped and began a discourse upon round dances, country dances, +morris dances, and quadrilles, all of which are entirely superior to +the bastard waltz and spurious polka which have ousted them most +unjustly in contemporary popularity—when the waiters gently pushed him +on to his table in the corner. + +The dining-room at this moment had a certain fantastic resemblance to a +farmyard scattered with grain on which bright pigeons kept descending. +Almost all the ladies wore dresses which they had not yet displayed, +and their hair rose in waves and scrolls so as to appear like carved +wood in Gothic churches rather than hair. The dinner was shorter and +less formal than usual, even the waiters seeming to be affected with +the general excitement. Ten minutes before the clock struck nine the +committee made a tour through the ballroom. The hall, when emptied of +its furniture, brilliantly lit, adorned with flowers whose scent tinged +the air, presented a wonderful appearance of ethereal gaiety. + +“It’s like a starlit sky on an absolutely cloudless night,” Hewet +murmured, looking about him, at the airy empty room. + +“A heavenly floor, anyhow,” Evelyn added, taking a run and sliding two +or three feet along. + +“What about those curtains?” asked Hirst. The crimson curtains were +drawn across the long windows. “It’s a perfect night outside.” + +“Yes, but curtains inspire confidence,” Miss Allan decided. “When the +ball is in full swing it will be time to draw them. We might even open +the windows a little. . . . If we do it now elderly people will imagine +there are draughts.” + +Her wisdom had come to be recognised, and held in respect. Meanwhile as +they stood talking, the musicians were unwrapping their instruments, +and the violin was repeating again and again a note struck upon the +piano. Everything was ready to begin. + +After a few minutes’ pause, the father, the daughter, and the +son-in-law who played the horn flourished with one accord. Like the +rats who followed the piper, heads instantly appeared in the doorway. +There was another flourish; and then the trio dashed spontaneously into +the triumphant swing of the waltz. It was as though the room were +instantly flooded with water. After a moment’s hesitation first one +couple, then another, leapt into mid-stream, and went round and round +in the eddies. The rhythmic swish of the dancers sounded like a +swirling pool. By degrees the room grew perceptibly hotter. The smell +of kid gloves mingled with the strong scent of flowers. The eddies +seemed to circle faster and faster, until the music wrought itself into +a crash, ceased, and the circles were smashed into little separate +bits. The couples struck off in different directions, leaving a thin +row of elderly people stuck fast to the walls, and here and there a +piece of trimming or a handkerchief or a flower lay upon the floor. +There was a pause, and then the music started again, the eddies +whirled, the couples circled round in them, until there was a crash, +and the circles were broken up into separate pieces. + +When this had happened about five times, Hirst, who leant against a +window-frame, like some singular gargoyle, perceived that Helen Ambrose +and Rachel stood in the doorway. The crowd was such that they could not +move, but he recognised them by a piece of Helen’s shoulder and a +glimpse of Rachel’s head turning round. He made his way to them; they +greeted him with relief. + +“We are suffering the tortures of the damned,” said Helen. + +“This is my idea of hell,” said Rachel. + +Her eyes were bright and she looked bewildered. + +Hewet and Miss Allan, who had been waltzing somewhat laboriously, +paused and greeted the newcomers. + +“This _is_ nice,” said Hewet. “But where is Mr. Ambrose?” + +“Pindar,” said Helen. “May a married woman who was forty in October +dance? I can’t stand still.” She seemed to fade into Hewet, and they +both dissolved in the crowd. + +“We must follow suit,” said Hirst to Rachel, and he took her resolutely +by the elbow. Rachel, without being expert, danced well, because of a +good ear for rhythm, but Hirst had no taste for music, and a few +dancing lessons at Cambridge had only put him into possession of the +anatomy of a waltz, without imparting any of its spirit. A single turn +proved to them that their methods were incompatible; instead of fitting +into each other their bones seemed to jut out in angles making smooth +turning an impossibility, and cutting, moreover, into the circular +progress of the other dancers. + +“Shall we stop?” said Hirst. Rachel gathered from his expression that +he was annoyed. + +They staggered to seats in the corner, from which they had a view of +the room. It was still surging, in waves of blue and yellow, striped by +the black evening-clothes of the gentlemen. + +“An amazing spectacle,” Hirst remarked. “Do you dance much in London?” +They were both breathing fast, and both a little excited, though each +was determined not to show any excitement at all. + +“Scarcely ever. Do you?” + +“My people give a dance every Christmas.” + +“This isn’t half a bad floor,” Rachel said. Hirst did not attempt to +answer her platitude. He sat quite silent, staring at the dancers. +After three minutes the silence became so intolerable to Rachel that +she was goaded to advance another commonplace about the beauty of the +night. Hirst interrupted her ruthlessly. + +“Was that all nonsense what you said the other day about being a +Christian and having no education?” he asked. + +“It was practically true,” she replied. “But I also play the piano very +well,” she said, “better, I expect than any one in this room. You are +the most distinguished man in England, aren’t you?” she asked shyly. + +“One of the three,” he corrected. + +Helen whirling past here tossed a fan into Rachel’s lap. + +“She is very beautiful,” Hirst remarked. + +They were again silent. Rachel was wondering whether he thought her +also nice-looking; St. John was considering the immense difficulty of +talking to girls who had no experience of life. Rachel had obviously +never thought or felt or seen anything, and she might be intelligent or +she might be just like all the rest. But Hewet’s taunt rankled in his +mind—“you don’t know how to get on with women,” and he was determined +to profit by this opportunity. Her evening-clothes bestowed on her just +that degree of unreality and distinction which made it romantic to +speak to her, and stirred a desire to talk, which irritated him because +he did not know how to begin. He glanced at her, and she seemed to him +very remote and inexplicable, very young and chaste. He drew a sigh, +and began. + +“About books now. What have you read? Just Shakespeare and the Bible?” + +“I haven’t read many classics,” Rachel stated. She was slightly annoyed +by his jaunty and rather unnatural manner, while his masculine +acquirements induced her to take a very modest view of her own power. + +“D’you mean to tell me you’ve reached the age of twenty-four without +reading Gibbon?” he demanded. + +“Yes, I have,” she answered. + +“Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, throwing out his hands. “You must begin +to-morrow. I shall send you my copy. What I want to know is—” he looked +at her critically. “You see, the problem is, can one really talk to +you? Have you got a mind, or are you like the rest of your sex? You +seem to me absurdly young compared with men of your age.” + +Rachel looked at him but said nothing. + +“About Gibbon,” he continued. “D’you think you’ll be able to appreciate +him? He’s the test, of course. It’s awfully difficult to tell about +women,” he continued, “how much, I mean, is due to lack of training, +and how much is native incapacity. I don’t see myself why you shouldn’t +understand—only I suppose you’ve led an absurd life until now—you’ve +just walked in a crocodile, I suppose, with your hair down your back.” + +The music was again beginning. Hirst’s eye wandered about the room in +search of Mrs. Ambrose. With the best will in the world he was +conscious that they were not getting on well together. + +“I’d like awfully to lend you books,” he said, buttoning his gloves, +and rising from his seat. “We shall meet again. I’m going to leave you +now.” + +He got up and left her. + +Rachel looked round. She felt herself surrounded, like a child at a +party, by the faces of strangers all hostile to her, with hooked noses +and sneering, indifferent eyes. She was by a window, she pushed it open +with a jerk. She stepped out into the garden. Her eyes swam with tears +of rage. + +“Damn that man!” she exclaimed, having acquired some of Helen’s words. +“Damn his insolence!” + +She stood in the middle of the pale square of light which the window +she had opened threw upon the grass. The forms of great black trees +rose massively in front of her. She stood still, looking at them, +shivering slightly with anger and excitement. She heard the trampling +and swinging of the dancers behind her, and the rhythmic sway of the +waltz music. + +“There are trees,” she said aloud. Would the trees make up for St. John +Hirst? She would be a Persian princess far from civilisation, riding +her horse upon the mountains alone, and making her women sing to her in +the evening, far from all this, from the strife and men and women—a +form came out of the shadow; a little red light burnt high up in its +blackness. + +“Miss Vinrace, is it?” said Hewet, peering at her. “You were dancing +with Hirst?” + +“He’s made me furious!” she cried vehemently. “No one’s any right to be +insolent!” + +“Insolent?” Hewet repeated, taking his cigar from his mouth in +surprise. “Hirst—insolent?” + +“It’s insolent to—” said Rachel, and stopped. She did not know exactly +why she had been made so angry. With a great effort she pulled herself +together. + +“Oh, well,” she added, the vision of Helen and her mockery before her, +“I dare say I’m a fool.” She made as though she were going back into +the ballroom, but Hewet stopped her. + +“Please explain to me,” he said. “I feel sure Hirst didn’t mean to hurt +you.” + +When Rachel tried to explain, she found it very difficult. She could +not say that she found the vision of herself walking in a crocodile +with her hair down her back peculiarly unjust and horrible, nor could +she explain why Hirst’s assumption of the superiority of his nature and +experience had seemed to her not only galling but terrible—as if a gate +had clanged in her face. Pacing up and down the terrace beside Hewet +she said bitterly: + +“It’s no good; we should live separate; we cannot understand each +other; we only bring out what’s worst.” + +Hewet brushed aside her generalisation as to the natures of the two +sexes, for such generalisations bored him and seemed to him generally +untrue. But, knowing Hirst, he guessed fairly accurately what had +happened, and, though secretly much amused, was determined that Rachel +should not store the incident away in her mind to take its place in the +view she had of life. + +“Now you’ll hate him,” he said, “which is wrong. Poor old Hirst—he +can’t help his method. And really, Miss Vinrace, he was doing his best; +he was paying you a compliment—he was trying—he was trying—” he could +not finish for the laughter that overcame him. + +Rachel veered round suddenly and laughed out too. She saw that there +was something ridiculous about Hirst, and perhaps about herself. + +“It’s his way of making friends, I suppose,” she laughed. “Well—I shall +do my part. I shall begin—‘Ugly in body, repulsive in mind as you are, +Mr. Hirst—’” + +“Hear, hear!” cried Hewet. “That’s the way to treat him. You see, Miss +Vinrace, you must make allowances for Hirst. He’s lived all his life in +front of a looking-glass, so to speak, in a beautiful panelled room, +hung with Japanese prints and lovely old chairs and tables, just one +splash of colour, you know, in the right place,—between the windows I +think it is,—and there he sits hour after hour with his toes on the +fender, talking about philosophy and God and his liver and his heart +and the hearts of his friends. They’re all broken. You can’t expect him +to be at his best in a ballroom. He wants a cosy, smoky, masculine +place, where he can stretch his legs out, and only speak when he’s got +something to say. For myself, I find it rather dreary. But I do respect +it. They’re all so much in earnest. They do take the serious things +very seriously.” + +The description of Hirst’s way of life interested Rachel so much that +she almost forgot her private grudge against him, and her respect +revived. + +“They are really very clever then?” she asked. + +“Of course they are. So far as brains go I think it’s true what he said +the other day; they’re the cleverest people in England. But—you ought +to take him in hand,” he added. “There’s a great deal more in him +than’s ever been got at. He wants some one to laugh at him. . . . The +idea of Hirst telling you that you’ve had no experiences! Poor old +Hirst!” + +They had been pacing up and down the terrace while they talked, and now +one by one the dark windows were uncurtained by an invisible hand, and +panes of light fell regularly at equal intervals upon the grass. They +stopped to look in at the drawing-room, and perceived Mr. Pepper +writing alone at a table. + +“There’s Pepper writing to his aunt,” said Hewet. “She must be a very +remarkable old lady, eighty-five he tells me, and he takes her for +walking tours in the New Forest. . . . Pepper!” he cried, rapping on +the window. “Go and do your duty. Miss Allan expects you.” + +When they came to the windows of the ballroom, the swing of the dancers +and the lilt of the music was irresistible. + +“Shall we?” said Hewet, and they clasped hands and swept off +magnificently into the great swirling pool. Although this was only the +second time they had met, the first time they had seen a man and woman +kissing each other, and the second time Mr. Hewet had found that a +young woman angry is very like a child. So that when they joined hands +in the dance they felt more at their ease than is usual. + +It was midnight and the dance was now at its height. Servants were +peeping in at the windows; the garden was sprinkled with the white +shapes of couples sitting out. Mrs. Thornbury and Mrs. Elliot sat side +by side under a palm tree, holding fans, handkerchiefs, and brooches +deposited in their laps by flushed maidens. Occasionally they exchanged +comments. + +“Miss Warrington _does_ look happy,” said Mrs. Elliot; they both +smiled; they both sighed. + +“He has a great deal of character,” said Mrs. Thornbury, alluding to +Arthur. + +“And character is what one wants,” said Mrs. Elliot. “Now that young +man is _clever_ enough,” she added, nodding at Hirst, who came past +with Miss Allan on his arm. + +“He does not look strong,” said Mrs. Thornbury. “His complexion is not +good.—Shall I tear it off?” she asked, for Rachel had stopped, +conscious of a long strip trailing behind her. + +“I hope you are enjoying yourselves?” Hewet asked the ladies. + +“This is a very familiar position for me!” smiled Mrs. Thornbury. “I +have brought out five daughters—and they all loved dancing! You love it +too, Miss Vinrace?” she asked, looking at Rachel with maternal eyes. “I +know I did when I was your age. How I used to beg my mother to let me +stay—and now I sympathise with the poor mothers—but I sympathise with +the daughters too!” + +She smiled sympathetically, and at the same time rather keenly, at +Rachel. + +“They seem to find a great deal to say to each other,” said Mrs. +Elliot, looking significantly at the backs of the couple as they turned +away. “Did you notice at the picnic? He was the only person who could +make her utter.” + +“Her father is a very interesting man,” said Mrs. Thornbury. “He has +one of the largest shipping businesses in Hull. He made a very able +reply, you remember, to Mr. Asquith at the last election. It is so +interesting to find that a man of his experience is a strong +Protectionist.” + +She would have liked to discuss politics, which interested her more +than personalities, but Mrs. Elliot would only talk about the Empire in +a less abstract form. + +“I hear there are dreadful accounts from England about the rats,” she +said. “A sister-in-law, who lives at Norwich, tells me it has been +quite unsafe to order poultry. The plague—you see. It attacks the rats, +and through them other creatures.” + +“And the local authorities are not taking proper steps?” asked Mrs. +Thornbury. + +“That she does not say. But she describes the attitude of the educated +people—who should know better—as callous in the extreme. Of course, my +sister-in-law is one of those active modern women, who always takes +things up, you know—the kind of woman one admires, though one does not +feel, at least I do not feel—but then she has a constitution of iron.” + +Mrs. Elliot, brought back to the consideration of her own delicacy, +here sighed. + +“A very animated face,” said Mrs. Thornbury, looking at Evelyn M. who +had stopped near them to pin tight a scarlet flower at her breast. It +would not stay, and, with a spirited gesture of impatience, she thrust +it into her partner’s button-hole. He was a tall melancholy youth, who +received the gift as a knight might receive his lady’s token. + +“Very trying to the eyes,” was Mrs. Eliot’s next remark, after watching +the yellow whirl in which so few of the whirlers had either name or +character for her, for a few minutes. Bursting out of the crowd, Helen +approached them, and took a vacant chair. + +“May I sit by you?” she said, smiling and breathing fast. “I suppose I +ought to be ashamed of myself,” she went on, sitting down, “at my age.” + +Her beauty, now that she was flushed and animated, was more expansive +than usual, and both the ladies felt the same desire to touch her. + +“I _am_ enjoying myself,” she panted. “Movement—isn’t it amazing?” + +“I have always heard that nothing comes up to dancing if one is a good +dancer,” said Mrs. Thornbury, looking at her with a smile. + +Helen swayed slightly as if she sat on wires. + +“I could dance for ever!” she said. “They ought to let themselves go +more!” she exclaimed. “They ought to leap and swing. Look! How they +mince!” + +“Have you seen those wonderful Russian dancers?” began Mrs. Elliot. But +Helen saw her partner coming and rose as the moon rises. She was half +round the room before they took their eyes off her, for they could not +help admiring her, although they thought it a little odd that a woman +of her age should enjoy dancing. + +Directly Helen was left alone for a minute she was joined by St. John +Hirst, who had been watching for an opportunity. + +“Should you mind sitting out with me?” he asked. “I’m quite incapable +of dancing.” He piloted Helen to a corner which was supplied with two +arm-chairs, and thus enjoyed the advantage of semi-privacy. They sat +down, and for a few minutes Helen was too much under the influence of +dancing to speak. + +“Astonishing!” she exclaimed at last. “What sort of shape can she think +her body is?” This remark was called forth by a lady who came past +them, waddling rather than walking, and leaning on the arm of a stout +man with globular green eyes set in a fat white face. Some support was +necessary, for she was very stout, and so compressed that the upper +part of her body hung considerably in advance of her feet, which could +only trip in tiny steps, owing to the tightness of the skirt round her +ankles. The dress itself consisted of a small piece of shiny yellow +satin, adorned here and there indiscriminately with round shields of +blue and green beads made to imitate hues of a peacock’s breast. On the +summit of a frothy castle of hair a purple plume stood erect, while her +short neck was encircled by a black velvet ribbon knobbed with gems, +and golden bracelets were tightly wedged into the flesh of her fat +gloved arms. She had the face of an impertinent but jolly little pig, +mottled red under a dusting of powder. + +St. John could not join in Helen’s laughter. + +“It makes me sick,” he declared. “The whole thing makes me sick. . . . +Consider the minds of those people—their feelings. Don’t you agree?” + +“I always make a vow never to go to another party of any description,” +Helen replied, “and I always break it.” + +She leant back in her chair and looked laughingly at the young man. She +could see that he was genuinely cross, if at the same time slightly +excited. + +“However,” he said, resuming his jaunty tone, “I suppose one must just +make up one’s mind to it.” + +“To what?” + +“There never will be more than five people in the world worth talking +to.” + +Slowly the flush and sparkle in Helen’s face died away, and she looked +as quiet and as observant as usual. + +“Five people?” she remarked. “I should say there were more than five.” + +“You’ve been very fortunate, then,” said Hirst. “Or perhaps I’ve been +very unfortunate.” He became silent. + +“Should you say I was a difficult kind of person to get on with?” he +asked sharply. + +“Most clever people are when they’re young,” Helen replied. + +“And of course I am—immensely clever,” said Hirst. “I’m infinitely +cleverer than Hewet. It’s quite possible,” he continued in his +curiously impersonal manner, “that I’m going to be one of the people +who really matter. That’s utterly different from being clever, though +one can’t expect one’s family to see it,” he added bitterly. + +Helen thought herself justified in asking, “Do you find your family +difficult to get on with?” + +“Intolerable. . . . They want me to be a peer and a privy councillor. +I’ve come out here partly in order to settle the matter. It’s got to be +settled. Either I must go to the bar, or I must stay on in Cambridge. +Of course, there are obvious drawbacks to each, but the arguments +certainly do seem to me in favour of Cambridge. This kind of thing!” he +waved his hand at the crowded ballroom. “Repulsive. I’m conscious of +great powers of affection too. I’m not susceptible, of course, in the +way Hewet is. I’m very fond of a few people. I think, for example, that +there’s something to be said for my mother, though she is in many ways +so deplorable. . . . At Cambridge, of course, I should inevitably +become the most important man in the place, but there are other reasons +why I dread Cambridge—” he ceased. + +“Are you finding me a dreadful bore?” he asked. He changed curiously +from a friend confiding in a friend to a conventional young man at a +party. + +“Not in the least,” said Helen. “I like it very much.” + +“You can’t think,” he exclaimed, speaking almost with emotion, “what a +difference it makes finding someone to talk to! Directly I saw you I +felt you might possibly understand me. I’m very fond of Hewet, but he +hasn’t the remotest idea what I’m like. You’re the only woman I’ve ever +met who seems to have the faintest conception of what I mean when I say +a thing.” + +The next dance was beginning; it was the Barcarolle out of Hoffman, +which made Helen beat her toe in time to it; but she felt that after +such a compliment it was impossible to get up and go, and, besides +being amused, she was really flattered, and the honesty of his conceit +attracted her. She suspected that he was not happy, and was +sufficiently feminine to wish to receive confidences. + +“I’m very old,” she sighed. + +“The odd thing is that I don’t find you old at all,” he replied. “I +feel as though we were exactly the same age. Moreover—” here he +hesitated, but took courage from a glance at her face, “I feel as if I +could talk quite plainly to you as one does to a man—about the +relations between the sexes, about . . . and . . .” + +In spite of his certainty a slight redness came into his face as he +spoke the last two words. + +She reassured him at once by the laugh with which she exclaimed, “I +should hope so!” + +He looked at her with real cordiality, and the lines which were drawn +about his nose and lips slackened for the first time. + +“Thank God!” he exclaimed. “Now we can behave like civilised human +beings.” + +Certainly a barrier which usually stands fast had fallen, and it was +possible to speak of matters which are generally only alluded to +between men and women when doctors are present, or the shadow of death. +In five minutes he was telling her the history of his life. It was +long, for it was full of extremely elaborate incidents, which led on to +a discussion of the principles on which morality is founded, and thus +to several very interesting matters, which even in this ballroom had to +be discussed in a whisper, lest one of the pouter pigeon ladies or +resplendent merchants should overhear them, and proceed to demand that +they should leave the place. When they had come to an end, or, to speak +more accurately, when Helen intimated by a slight slackening of her +attention that they had sat there long enough, Hirst rose, exclaiming, +“So there’s no reason whatever for all this mystery!” + +“None, except that we are English people,” she answered. She took his +arm and they crossed the ball-room, making their way with difficulty +between the spinning couples, who were now perceptibly dishevelled, and +certainly to a critical eye by no means lovely in their shapes. The +excitement of undertaking a friendship and the length of their talk had +made them hungry, and they went in search of food to the dining-room, +which was now full of people eating at little separate tables. In the +doorway they met Rachel, going up to dance again with Arthur Venning. +She was flushed and looked very happy, and Helen was struck by the fact +that in this mood she was certainly more attractive than the generality +of young women. She had never noticed it so clearly before. + +“Enjoying yourself?” she asked, as they stopped for a second. + +“Miss Vinrace,” Arthur answered for her, “has just made a confession; +she’d no idea that dances could be so delightful.” + +“Yes!” Rachel exclaimed. “I’ve changed my view of life completely!” + +“You don’t say so!” Helen mocked. They passed on. + +“That’s typical of Rachel,” she said. “She changes her view of life +about every other day. D’you know, I believe you’re just the person I +want,” she said, as they sat down, “to help me complete her education? +She’s been brought up practically in a nunnery. Her father’s too +absurd. I’ve been doing what I can—but I’m too old, and I’m a woman. +Why shouldn’t you talk to her—explain things to her—talk to her, I +mean, as you talk to me?” + +“I have made one attempt already this evening,” said St. John. “I +rather doubt that it was successful. She seems to me so very young and +inexperienced. I have promised to lend her Gibbon.” + +“It’s not Gibbon exactly,” Helen pondered. “It’s the facts of life, I +think—d’you see what I mean? What really goes on, what people feel, +although they generally try to hide it? There’s nothing to be +frightened of. It’s so much more beautiful than the pretences—always +more interesting—always better, I should say, than _that_ kind of +thing.” + +She nodded her head at a table near them, where two girls and two young +men were chaffing each other very loudly, and carrying on an arch +insinuating dialogue, sprinkled with endearments, about, it seemed, a +pair of stockings or a pair of legs. One of the girls was flirting a +fan and pretending to be shocked, and the sight was very unpleasant, +partly because it was obvious that the girls were secretly hostile to +each other. + +“In my old age, however,” Helen sighed, “I’m coming to think that it +doesn’t much matter in the long run what one does: people always go +their own way—nothing will ever influence them.” She nodded her head at +the supper party. + +But St. John did not agree. He said that he thought one could really +make a great deal of difference by one’s point of view, books and so +on, and added that few things at the present time mattered more than +the enlightenment of women. He sometimes thought that almost everything +was due to education. + +In the ballroom, meanwhile, the dancers were being formed into squares +for the lancers. Arthur and Rachel, Susan and Hewet, Miss Allan and +Hughling Elliot found themselves together. + +Miss Allan looked at her watch. + +“Half-past one,” she stated. “And I have to despatch Alexander Pope +to-morrow.” + +“Pope!” snorted Mr. Elliot. “Who reads Pope, I should like to know? And +as for reading about him—No, no, Miss Allan; be persuaded you will +benefit the world much more by dancing than by writing.” It was one of +Mr. Elliot’s affectations that nothing in the world could compare with +the delights of dancing—nothing in the world was so tedious as +literature. Thus he sought pathetically enough to ingratiate himself +with the young, and to prove to them beyond a doubt that though married +to a ninny of a wife, and rather pale and bent and careworn by his +weight of learning, he was as much alive as the youngest of them all. + +“It’s a question of bread and butter,” said Miss Allan calmly. +“However, they seem to expect me.” She took up her position and pointed +a square black toe. + +“Mr. Hewet, you bow to me.” It was evident at once that Miss Allan was +the only one of them who had a thoroughly sound knowledge of the +figures of the dance. + +After the lancers there was a waltz; after the waltz a polka; and then +a terrible thing happened; the music, which had been sounding regularly +with five-minute pauses, stopped suddenly. The lady with the great dark +eyes began to swathe her violin in silk, and the gentleman placed his +horn carefully in its case. They were surrounded by couples imploring +them in English, in French, in Spanish, of one more dance, one only; it +was still early. But the old man at the piano merely exhibited his +watch and shook his head. He turned up the collar of his coat and +produced a red silk muffler, which completely dashed his festive +appearance. Strange as it seemed, the musicians were pale and +heavy-eyed; they looked bored and prosaic, as if the summit of their +desire was cold meat and beer, succeeded immediately by bed. + +Rachel was one of those who had begged them to continue. When they +refused she began turning over the sheets of dance music which lay upon +the piano. The pieces were generally bound in coloured covers, with +pictures on them of romantic scenes—gondoliers astride on the crescent +of the moon, nuns peering through the bars of a convent window, or +young women with their hair down pointing a gun at the stars. She +remembered that the general effect of the music to which they had +danced so gaily was one of passionate regret for dead love and the +innocent years of youth; dreadful sorrows had always separated the +dancers from their past happiness. + +“No wonder they get sick of playing stuff like this,” she remarked +reading a bar or two; “they’re really hymn tunes, played very fast, +with bits out of Wagner and Beethoven.” + +“Do you play? Would you play? Anything, so long as we can dance to it!” +From all sides her gift for playing the piano was insisted upon, and +she had to consent. As very soon she had played the only pieces of +dance music she could remember, she went on to play an air from a +sonata by Mozart. + +“But that’s not a dance,” said some one pausing by the piano. + +“It is,” she replied, emphatically nodding her head. “Invent the +steps.” Sure of her melody she marked the rhythm boldly so as to +simplify the way. Helen caught the idea; seized Miss Allan by the arm, +and whirled round the room, now curtseying, now spinning round, now +tripping this way and that like a child skipping through a meadow. + +“This is the dance for people who don’t know how to dance!” she cried. +The tune changed to a minuet; St. John hopped with incredible swiftness +first on his left leg, then on his right; the tune flowed melodiously; +Hewet, swaying his arms and holding out the tails of his coat, swam +down the room in imitation of the voluptuous dreamy dance of an Indian +maiden dancing before her Rajah. The tune marched; and Miss Allen +advanced with skirts extended and bowed profoundly to the engaged pair. +Once their feet fell in with the rhythm they showed a complete lack of +self-consciousness. From Mozart Rachel passed without stopping to old +English hunting songs, carols, and hymn tunes, for, as she had +observed, any good tune, with a little management, became a tune one +could dance to. By degrees every person in the room was tripping and +turning in pairs or alone. Mr. Pepper executed an ingenious pointed +step derived from figure-skating, for which he once held some local +championship; while Mrs. Thornbury tried to recall an old country dance +which she had seen danced by her father’s tenants in Dorsetshire in the +old days. As for Mr. and Mrs. Elliot, they gallopaded round and round +the room with such impetuosity that the other dancers shivered at their +approach. Some people were heard to criticise the performance as a +romp; to others it was the most enjoyable part of the evening. + +“Now for the great round dance!” Hewet shouted. Instantly a gigantic +circle was formed, the dancers holding hands and shouting out, “D’you +ken John Peel,” as they swung faster and faster and faster, until the +strain was too great, and one link of the chain—Mrs. Thornbury—gave +way, and the rest went flying across the room in all directions, to +land upon the floor or the chairs or in each other’s arms as seemed +most convenient. + +Rising from these positions, breathless and unkempt, it struck them for +the first time that the electric lights pricked the air very vainly, +and instinctively a great many eyes turned to the windows. Yes—there +was the dawn. While they had been dancing the night had passed, and it +had come. Outside, the mountains showed very pure and remote; the dew +was sparkling on the grass, and the sky was flushed with blue, save for +the pale yellows and pinks in the East. The dancers came crowding to +the windows, pushed them open, and here and there ventured a foot upon +the grass. + +“How silly the poor old lights look!” said Evelyn M. in a curiously +subdued tone of voice. “And ourselves; it isn’t becoming.” It was true; +the untidy hair, and the green and yellow gems, which had seemed so +festive half an hour ago, now looked cheap and slovenly. The +complexions of the elder ladies suffered terribly, and, as if conscious +that a cold eye had been turned upon them, they began to say good-night +and to make their way up to bed. + +Rachel, though robbed of her audience, had gone on playing to herself. +From John Peel she passed to Bach, who was at this time the subject of +her intense enthusiasm, and one by one some of the younger dancers came +in from the garden and sat upon the deserted gilt chairs round the +piano, the room being now so clear that they turned out the lights. As +they sat and listened, their nerves were quieted; the heat and soreness +of their lips, the result of incessant talking and laughing, was +smoothed away. They sat very still as if they saw a building with +spaces and columns succeeding each other rising in the empty space. +Then they began to see themselves and their lives, and the whole of +human life advancing very nobly under the direction of the music. They +felt themselves ennobled, and when Rachel stopped playing they desired +nothing but sleep. + +Susan rose. “I think this has been the happiest night of my life!” she +exclaimed. “I do adore music,” she said, as she thanked Rachel. “It +just seems to say all the things one can’t say oneself.” She gave a +nervous little laugh and looked from one to another with great +benignity, as though she would like to say something but could not find +the words in which to express it. “Every one’s been so kind—so very +kind,” she said. Then she too went to bed. + +The party having ended in the very abrupt way in which parties do end, +Helen and Rachel stood by the door with their cloaks on, looking for a +carriage. + +“I suppose you realise that there are no carriages left?” said St. +John, who had been out to look. “You must sleep here.” + +“Oh, no,” said Helen; “we shall walk.” + +“May we come too?” Hewet asked. “We can’t go to bed. Imagine lying +among bolsters and looking at one’s washstand on a morning like this—Is +that where you live?” They had begun to walk down the avenue, and he +turned and pointed at the white and green villa on the hillside, which +seemed to have its eyes shut. + +“That’s not a light burning, is it?” Helen asked anxiously. + +“It’s the sun,” said St. John. The upper windows had each a spot of +gold on them. + +“I was afraid it was my husband, still reading Greek,” she said. “All +this time he’s been editing _Pindar_.” + +They passed through the town and turned up the steep road, which was +perfectly clear, though still unbordered by shadows. Partly because +they were tired, and partly because the early light subdued them, they +scarcely spoke, but breathed in the delicious fresh air, which seemed +to belong to a different state of life from the air at midday. When +they came to the high yellow wall, where the lane turned off from the +road, Helen was for dismissing the two young men. + +“You’ve come far enough,” she said. “Go back to bed.” + +But they seemed unwilling to move. + +“Let’s sit down a moment,” said Hewet. He spread his coat on the +ground. “Let’s sit down and consider.” They sat down and looked out +over the bay; it was very still, the sea was rippling faintly, and +lines of green and blue were beginning to stripe it. There were no +sailing boats as yet, but a steamer was anchored in the bay, looking +very ghostly in the mist; it gave one unearthly cry, and then all was +silent. + +Rachel occupied herself in collecting one grey stone after another and +building them into a little cairn; she did it very quietly and +carefully. + +“And so you’ve changed your view of life, Rachel?” said Helen. + +Rachel added another stone and yawned. “I don’t remember,” she said, “I +feel like a fish at the bottom of the sea.” She yawned again. None of +these people possessed any power to frighten her out here in the dawn, +and she felt perfectly familiar even with Mr. Hirst. + +“My brain, on the contrary,” said Hirst, “is in a condition of abnormal +activity.” He sat in his favourite position with his arms binding his +legs together and his chin resting on the top of his knees. “I see +through everything—absolutely everything. Life has no more mysteries +for me.” He spoke with conviction, but did not appear to wish for an +answer. Near though they sat, and familiar though they felt, they +seemed mere shadows to each other. + +“And all those people down there going to sleep,” Hewet began dreamily, +“thinking such different things,—Miss Warrington, I suppose, is now on +her knees; the Elliots are a little startled, it’s not often _they_ get +out of breath, and they want to get to sleep as quickly as possible; +then there’s the poor lean young man who danced all night with Evelyn; +he’s putting his flower in water and asking himself, ‘Is this +love?’—and poor old Perrott, I daresay, can’t get to sleep at all, and +is reading his favourite Greek book to console himself—and the +others—no, Hirst,” he wound up, “I don’t find it simple at all.” + +“I have a key,” said Hirst cryptically. His chin was still upon his +knees and his eyes fixed in front of him. + +A silence followed. Then Helen rose and bade them good-night. “But,” +she said, “remember that you’ve got to come and see us.” + +They waved good-night and parted, but the two young men did not go back +to the hotel; they went for a walk, during which they scarcely spoke, +and never mentioned the names of the two women, who were, to a +considerable extent, the subject of their thoughts. They did not wish +to share their impressions. They returned to the hotel in time for +breakfast. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +There were many rooms in the villa, but one room which possessed a +character of its own because the door was always shut, and no sound of +music or laughter issued from it. Every one in the house was vaguely +conscious that something went on behind that door, and without in the +least knowing what it was, were influenced in their own thoughts by the +knowledge that if the passed it the door would be shut, and if they +made a noise Mr. Ambrose inside would be disturbed. Certain acts +therefore possessed merit, and others were bad, so that life became +more harmonious and less disconnected than it would have been had Mr. +Ambrose given up editing _Pindar_, and taken to a nomad existence, in +and out of every room in the house. As it was, every one was conscious +that by observing certain rules, such as punctuality and quiet, by +cooking well, and performing other small duties, one ode after another +was satisfactorily restored to the world, and they shared the +continuity of the scholar’s life. Unfortunately, as age puts one +barrier between human beings, and learning another, and sex a third, +Mr. Ambrose in his study was some thousand miles distant from the +nearest human being, who in this household was inevitably a woman. He +sat hour after hour among white-leaved books, alone like an idol in an +empty church, still except for the passage of his hand from one side of +the sheet to another, silent save for an occasional choke, which drove +him to extend his pipe a moment in the air. As he worked his way +further and further into the heart of the poet, his chair became more +and more deeply encircled by books, which lay open on the floor, and +could only be crossed by a careful process of stepping, so delicate +that his visitors generally stopped and addressed him from the +outskirts. + +On the morning after the dance, however, Rachel came into her uncle’s +room and hailed him twice, “Uncle Ridley,” before he paid her any +attention. + +At length he looked over his spectacles. + +“Well?” he asked. + +“I want a book,” she replied. “Gibbon’s _History of the Roman Empire_. +May I have it?” + +She watched the lines on her uncle’s face gradually rearrange +themselves at her question. It had been smooth as a mask before she +spoke. + +“Please say that again,” said her uncle, either because he had not +heard or because he had not understood. + +She repeated the same words and reddened slightly as she did so. + +“Gibbon! What on earth d’you want him for?” he enquired. + +“Somebody advised me to read it,” Rachel stammered. + +“But I don’t travel about with a miscellaneous collection of +eighteenth-century historians!” her uncle exclaimed. “Gibbon! Ten big +volumes at least.” + +Rachel said that she was sorry to interrupt, and was turning to go. + +“Stop!” cried her uncle. He put down his pipe, placed his book on one +side, and rose and led her slowly round the room, holding her by the +arm. “Plato,” he said, laying one finger on the first of a row of small +dark books, “and Jorrocks next door, which is wrong. Sophocles, Swift. +You don’t care for German commentators, I presume. French, then. You +read French? You should read Balzac. Then we come to Wordsworth and +Coleridge, Pope, Johnson, Addison, Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats. One +thing leads to another. Why is Marlowe here? Mrs. Chailey, I presume. +But what’s the use of reading if you don’t read Greek? After all, if +you read Greek, you need never read anything else, pure waste of +time—pure waste of time,” thus speaking half to himself, with quick +movements of his hands; they had come round again to the circle of +books on the floor, and their progress was stopped. + +“Well,” he demanded, “which shall it be?” + +“Balzac,” said Rachel, “or have you the _Speech on the American +Revolution_, Uncle Ridley?” + +“_The Speech on the American Revolution_?” he asked. He looked at her +very keenly again. “Another young man at the dance?” + +“No. That was Mr. Dalloway,” she confessed. + +“Good Lord!” he flung back his head in recollection of Mr. Dalloway. + +She chose for herself a volume at random, submitted it to her uncle, +who, seeing that it was _La Cousine bette_, bade her throw it away if +she found it too horrible, and was about to leave him when he demanded +whether she had enjoyed her dance? + +He then wanted to know what people did at dances, seeing that he had +only been to one thirty-five years ago, when nothing had seemed to him +more meaningless and idiotic. Did they enjoy turning round and round to +the screech of a fiddle? Did they talk, and say pretty things, and if +so, why didn’t they do it, under reasonable conditions? As for +himself—he sighed and pointed at the signs of industry lying all about +him, which, in spite of his sigh, filled his face with such +satisfaction that his niece thought good to leave. On bestowing a kiss +she was allowed to go, but not until she had bound herself to learn at +any rate the Greek alphabet, and to return her French novel when done +with, upon which something more suitable would be found for her. + +As the rooms in which people live are apt to give off something of the +same shock as their faces when seen for the first time, Rachel walked +very slowly downstairs, lost in wonder at her uncle, and his books, and +his neglect of dances, and his queer, utterly inexplicable, but +apparently satisfactory view of life, when her eye was caught by a note +with her name on it lying in the hall. The address was written in a +small strong hand unknown to her, and the note, which had no beginning, +ran:— + +I send the first volume of Gibbon as I promised. Personally I find +little to be said for the moderns, but I’m going to send you Wedekind +when I’ve done him. Donne? Have you read Webster and all that set? I +envy you reading them for the first time. Completely exhausted after +last night. And you? + + +The flourish of initials which she took to be St. J. A. H., wound up +the letter. She was very much flattered that Mr. Hirst should have +remembered her, and fulfilled his promise so quickly. + +There was still an hour to luncheon, and with Gibbon in one hand, and +Balzac in the other she strolled out of the gate and down the little +path of beaten mud between the olive trees on the slope of the hill. It +was too hot for climbing hills, but along the valley there were trees +and a grass path running by the river bed. In this land where the +population was centred in the towns it was possible to lose sight of +civilisation in a very short time, passing only an occasional +farmhouse, where the women were handling red roots in the courtyard; or +a little boy lying on his elbows on the hillside surrounded by a flock +of black strong-smelling goats. Save for a thread of water at the +bottom, the river was merely a deep channel of dry yellow stones. On +the bank grew those trees which Helen had said it was worth the voyage +out merely to see. April had burst their buds, and they bore large +blossoms among their glossy green leaves with petals of a thick +wax-like substance coloured an exquisite cream or pink or deep crimson. +But filled with one of those unreasonable exultations which start +generally from an unknown cause, and sweep whole countries and skies +into their embrace, she walked without seeing. The night was +encroaching upon the day. Her ears hummed with the tunes she had played +the night before; she sang, and the singing made her walk faster and +faster. She did not see distinctly where she was going, the trees and +the landscape appearing only as masses of green and blue, with an +occasional space of differently coloured sky. Faces of people she had +seen last night came before her; she heard their voices; she stopped +singing, and began saying things over again or saying things +differently, or inventing things that might have been said. The +constraint of being among strangers in a long silk dress made it +unusually exciting to stride thus alone. Hewet, Hirst, Mr. Venning, +Miss Allan, the music, the light, the dark trees in the garden, the +dawn,—as she walked they went surging round in her head, a tumultuous +background from which the present moment, with its opportunity of doing +exactly as she liked, sprung more wonderfully vivid even than the night +before. + +So she might have walked until she had lost all knowledge of her way, +had it not been for the interruption of a tree, which, although it did +not grow across her path, stopped her as effectively as if the branches +had struck her in the face. It was an ordinary tree, but to her it +appeared so strange that it might have been the only tree in the world. +Dark was the trunk in the middle, and the branches sprang here and +there, leaving jagged intervals of light between them as distinctly as +if it had but that second risen from the ground. Having seen a sight +that would last her for a lifetime, and for a lifetime would preserve +that second, the tree once more sank into the ordinary ranks of trees, +and she was able to seat herself in its shade and to pick the red +flowers with the thin green leaves which were growing beneath it. She +laid them side by side, flower to flower and stalk to stalk, caressing +them for walking alone. Flowers and even pebbles in the earth had their +own life and disposition, and brought back the feelings of a child to +whom they were companions. Looking up, her eye was caught by the line +of the mountains flying out energetically across the sky like the lash +of a curling whip. She looked at the pale distant sky, and the high +bare places on the mountain-tops lying exposed to the sun. When she sat +down she had dropped her books on to the earth at her feet, and now she +looked down on them lying there, so square in the grass, a tall stem +bending over and tickling the smooth brown cover of Gibbon, while the +mottled blue Balzac lay naked in the sun. With a feeling that to open +and read would certainly be a surprising experience, she turned the +historian’s page and read that— + +His generals, in the early part of his reign, attempted the reduction +of Aethiopia and Arabia Felix. They marched near a thousand miles to +the south of the tropic; but the heat of the climate soon repelled the +invaders and protected the unwarlike natives of those sequestered +regions. . . . The northern countries of Europe scarcely deserved the +expense and labour of conquest. The forests and morasses of Germany +were filled with a hardy race of barbarians, who despised life when it +was separated from freedom. + + +Never had any words been so vivid and so beautiful—Arabia +Felix—Aethiopia. But those were not more noble than the others, hardy +barbarians, forests, and morasses. They seemed to drive roads back to +the very beginning of the world, on either side of which the +populations of all times and countries stood in avenues, and by passing +down them all knowledge would be hers, and the book of the world turned +back to the very first page. Such was her excitement at the +possibilities of knowledge now opening before her that she ceased to +read, and a breeze turning the page, the covers of Gibbon gently +ruffled and closed together. She then rose again and walked on. Slowly +her mind became less confused and sought the origins of her exaltation, +which were twofold and could be limited by an effort to the persons of +Mr. Hirst and Mr. Hewet. Any clear analysis of them was impossible +owing to the haze of wonder in which they were enveloped. She could not +reason about them as about people whose feelings went by the same rule +as her own did, and her mind dwelt on them with a kind of physical +pleasure such as is caused by the contemplation of bright things +hanging in the sun. From them all life seemed to radiate; the very +words of books were steeped in radiance. She then became haunted by a +suspicion which she was so reluctant to face that she welcomed a trip +and stumble over the grass because thus her attention was dispersed, +but in a second it had collected itself again. Unconsciously she had +been walking faster and faster, her body trying to outrun her mind; but +she was now on the summit of a little hillock of earth which rose above +the river and displayed the valley. She was no longer able to juggle +with several ideas, but must deal with the most persistent, and a kind +of melancholy replaced her excitement. She sank down on to the earth +clasping her knees together, and looking blankly in front of her. For +some time she observed a great yellow butterfly, which was opening and +closing its wings very slowly on a little flat stone. + +“What is it to be in love?” she demanded, after a long silence; each +word as it came into being seemed to shove itself out into an unknown +sea. Hypnotised by the wings of the butterfly, and awed by the +discovery of a terrible possibility in life, she sat for some time +longer. When the butterfly flew away, she rose, and with her two books +beneath her arm returned home again, much as a soldier prepared for +battle. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +The sun of that same day going down, dusk was saluted as usual at the +hotel by an instantaneous sparkle of electric lights. The hours between +dinner and bedtime were always difficult enough to kill, and the night +after the dance they were further tarnished by the peevishness of +dissipation. Certainly, in the opinion of Hirst and Hewet, who lay back +in long arm-chairs in the middle of the hall, with their coffee-cups +beside them, and their cigarettes in their hands, the evening was +unusually dull, the women unusually badly dressed, the men unusually +fatuous. Moreover, when the mail had been distributed half an hour ago +there were no letters for either of the two young men. As every other +person, practically, had received two or three plump letters from +England, which they were now engaged in reading, this seemed hard, and +prompted Hirst to make the caustic remark that the animals had been +fed. Their silence, he said, reminded him of the silence in the +lion-house when each beast holds a lump of raw meat in its paws. He +went on, stimulated by this comparison, to liken some to +hippopotamuses, some to canary birds, some to swine, some to parrots, +and some to loathsome reptiles curled round the half-decayed bodies of +sheep. The intermittent sounds—now a cough, now a horrible wheezing or +throat-clearing, now a little patter of conversation—were just, he +declared, what you hear if you stand in the lion-house when the bones +are being mauled. But these comparisons did not rouse Hewet, who, after +a careless glance round the room, fixed his eyes upon a thicket of +native spears which were so ingeniously arranged as to run their points +at you whichever way you approached them. He was clearly oblivious of +his surroundings; whereupon Hirst, perceiving that Hewet’s mind was a +complete blank, fixed his attention more closely upon his +fellow-creatures. He was too far from them, however, to hear what they +were saying, but it pleased him to construct little theories about them +from their gestures and appearance. + +Mrs. Thornbury had received a great many letters. She was completely +engrossed in them. When she had finished a page she handed it to her +husband, or gave him the sense of what she was reading in a series of +short quotations linked together by a sound at the back of her throat. +“Evie writes that George has gone to Glasgow. ‘He finds Mr. Chadbourne +so nice to work with, and we hope to spend Christmas together, but I +should not like to move Betty and Alfred any great distance (no, quite +right), though it is difficult to imagine cold weather in this heat. . +. . Eleanor and Roger drove over in the new trap. . . . Eleanor +certainly looked more like herself than I’ve seen her since the winter. +She has put Baby on three bottles now, which I’m sure is wise (I’m sure +it is too), and so gets better nights. . . . My hair still falls out. I +find it on the pillow! But I am cheered by hearing from Tottie Hall +Green. . . . Muriel is in Torquay enjoying herself greatly at dances. +She _is_ going to show her black pug after all.’ . . . A line from +Herbert—so busy, poor fellow! Ah! Margaret says, ‘Poor old Mrs. +Fairbank died on the eighth, quite suddenly in the conservatory, only a +maid in the house, who hadn’t the presence of mind to lift her up, +which they think might have saved her, but the doctor says it might +have come at any moment, and one can only feel thankful that it was in +the house and not in the street (I should think so!). The pigeons have +increased terribly, just as the rabbits did five years ago . . .’” +While she read her husband kept nodding his head very slightly, but +very steadily in sign of approval. + +Near by, Miss Allan was reading her letters too. They were not +altogether pleasant, as could be seen from the slight rigidity which +came over her large fine face as she finished reading them and replaced +them neatly in their envelopes. The lines of care and responsibility on +her face made her resemble an elderly man rather than a woman. The +letters brought her news of the failure of last year’s fruit crop in +New Zealand, which was a serious matter, for Hubert, her only brother, +made his living on a fruit farm, and if it failed again, of course, he +would throw up his place, come back to England, and what were they to +do with him this time? The journey out here, which meant the loss of a +term’s work, became an extravagance and not the just and wonderful +holiday due to her after fifteen years of punctual lecturing and +correcting essays upon English literature. Emily, her sister, who was a +teacher also, wrote: “We ought to be prepared, though I have no doubt +Hubert will be more reasonable this time.” And then went on in her +sensible way to say that she was enjoying a very jolly time in the +Lakes. “They are looking exceedingly pretty just now. I have seldom +seen the trees so forward at this time of year. We have taken our lunch +out several days. Old Alice is as young as ever, and asks after every +one affectionately. The days pass very quickly, and term will soon be +here. Political prospects _not_ good, I think privately, but do not +like to damp Ellen’s enthusiasm. Lloyd George has taken the Bill up, +but so have many before now, and we are where we are; but trust to find +myself mistaken. Anyhow, we have our work cut out for us. . . . Surely +Meredith lacks the _human_ note one likes in W. W.?” she concluded, and +went on to discuss some questions of English literature which Miss +Allan had raised in her last letter. + +At a little distance from Miss Allan, on a seat shaded and made +semi-private by a thick clump of palm trees, Arthur and Susan were +reading each other’s letters. The big slashing manuscripts of +hockey-playing young women in Wiltshire lay on Arthur’s knee, while +Susan deciphered tight little legal hands which rarely filled more than +a page, and always conveyed the same impression of jocular and breezy +goodwill. + +“I do hope Mr. Hutchinson will like me, Arthur,” she said, looking up. + +“Who’s your loving Flo?” asked Arthur. + +“Flo Graves—the girl I told you about, who was engaged to that dreadful +Mr. Vincent,” said Susan. “Is Mr. Hutchinson married?” she asked. + +Already her mind was busy with benevolent plans for her friends, or +rather with one magnificent plan—which was simple too—they were all to +get married—at once—directly she got back. Marriage, marriage that was +the right thing, the only thing, the solution required by every one she +knew, and a great part of her meditations was spent in tracing every +instance of discomfort, loneliness, ill-health, unsatisfied ambition, +restlessness, eccentricity, taking things up and dropping them again, +public speaking, and philanthropic activity on the part of men and +particularly on the part of women to the fact that they wanted to +marry, were trying to marry, and had not succeeded in getting married. +If, as she was bound to own, these symptoms sometimes persisted after +marriage, she could only ascribe them to the unhappy law of nature +which decreed that there was only one Arthur Venning, and only one +Susan who could marry him. Her theory, of course, had the merit of +being fully supported by her own case. She had been vaguely +uncomfortable at home for two or three years now, and a voyage like +this with her selfish old aunt, who paid her fare but treated her as +servant and companion in one, was typical of the kind of thing people +expected of her. Directly she became engaged, Mrs. Paley behaved with +instinctive respect, positively protested when Susan as usual knelt +down to lace her shoes, and appeared really grateful for an hour of +Susan’s company where she had been used to exact two or three as her +right. She therefore foresaw a life of far greater comfort than she had +been used to, and the change had already produced a great increase of +warmth in her feelings towards other people. + +It was close on twenty years now since Mrs. Paley had been able to lace +her own shoes or even to see them, the disappearance of her feet having +coincided more or less accurately with the death of her husband, a man +of business, soon after which event Mrs. Paley began to grow stout. She +was a selfish, independent old woman, possessed of a considerable +income, which she spent upon the upkeep of a house that needed seven +servants and a charwoman in Lancaster Gate, and another with a garden +and carriage-horses in Surrey. Susan’s engagement relieved her of the +one great anxiety of her life—that her son Christopher should “entangle +himself” with his cousin. Now that this familiar source of interest was +removed, she felt a little low and inclined to see more in Susan than +she used to. She had decided to give her a very handsome wedding +present, a cheque for two hundred, two hundred and fifty, or possibly, +conceivably—it depended upon the under-gardener and Huths’ bill for +doing up the drawing-room—three hundred pounds sterling. + +She was thinking of this very question, revolving the figures, as she +sat in her wheeled chair with a table spread with cards by her side. +The Patience had somehow got into a muddle, and she did not like to +call for Susan to help her, as Susan seemed to be busy with Arthur. + +“She’s every right to expect a handsome present from me, of course,” +she thought, looking vaguely at the leopard on its hind legs, “and I’ve +no doubt she does! Money goes a long way with every one. The young are +very selfish. If I were to die, nobody would miss me but Dakyns, and +she’ll be consoled by the will! However, I’ve got no reason to +complain. . . . I can still enjoy myself. I’m not a burden to any-one. +. . . I like a great many things a good deal, in spite of my legs.” + +Being slightly depressed, however, she went on to think of the only +people she had known who had not seemed to her at all selfish or fond +of money, who had seemed to her somehow rather finer than the general +run; people she willingly acknowledged, who were finer than she was. +There were only two of them. One was her brother, who had been drowned +before her eyes, the other was a girl, her greatest friend, who had +died in giving birth to her first child. These things had happened some +fifty years ago. + +“They ought not to have died,” she thought. “However, they did—and we +selfish old creatures go on.” The tears came to her eyes; she felt a +genuine regret for them, a kind of respect for their youth and beauty, +and a kind of shame for herself; but the tears did not fall; and she +opened one of those innumerable novels which she used to pronounce good +or bad, or pretty middling, or really wonderful. “I can’t think how +people come to imagine such things,” she would say, taking off her +spectacles and looking up with the old faded eyes, that were becoming +ringed with white. + +Just behind the stuffed leopard Mr. Elliot was playing chess with Mr. +Pepper. He was being defeated, naturally, for Mr. Pepper scarcely took +his eyes off the board, and Mr. Elliot kept leaning back in his chair +and throwing out remarks to a gentleman who had only arrived the night +before, a tall handsome man, with a head resembling the head of an +intellectual ram. After a few remarks of a general nature had passed, +they were discovering that they knew some of the same people, as indeed +had been obvious from their appearance directly they saw each other. + +“Ah yes, old Truefit,” said Mr. Elliot. “He has a son at Oxford. I’ve +often stayed with them. It’s a lovely old Jacobean house. Some +exquisite Greuzes—one or two Dutch pictures which the old boy kept in +the cellars. Then there were stacks upon stacks of prints. Oh, the dirt +in that house! He was a miser, you know. The boy married a daughter of +Lord Pinwells. I know them too. The collecting mania tends to run in +families. This chap collects buckles—men’s shoe-buckles they must be, +in use between the years 1580 and 1660; the dates mayn’t be right, but +fact’s as I say. Your true collector always has some unaccountable fad +of that kind. On other points he’s as level-headed as a breeder of +shorthorns, which is what he happens to be. Then the Pinwells, as you +probably know, have their share of eccentricity too. Lady Maud, for +instance—” he was interrupted here by the necessity of considering his +move,—“Lady Maud has a horror of cats and clergymen, and people with +big front teeth. I’ve heard her shout across a table, ‘Keep your mouth +shut, Miss Smith; they’re as yellow as carrots!’ across a table, mind +you. To me she’s always been civility itself. She dabbles in +literature, likes to collect a few of us in her drawing-room, but +mention a clergyman, a bishop even, nay, the Archbishop himself, and +she gobbles like a turkey-cock. I’ve been told it’s a family +feud—something to do with an ancestor in the reign of Charles the +First. Yes,” he continued, suffering check after check, “I always like +to know something of the grandmothers of our fashionable young men. In +my opinion they preserve all that we admire in the eighteenth century, +with the advantage, in the majority of cases, that they are personally +clean. Not that one would insult old Lady Barborough by calling her +clean. How often d’you think, Hilda,” he called out to his wife, “her +ladyship takes a bath?” + +“I should hardly like to say, Hugh,” Mrs. Elliot tittered, “but wearing +puce velvet, as she does even on the hottest August day, it somehow +doesn’t show.” + +“Pepper, you have me,” said Mr. Elliot. “My chess is even worse than I +remembered.” He accepted his defeat with great equanimity, because he +really wished to talk. + +He drew his chair beside Mr. Wilfrid Flushing, the newcomer. + +“Are these at all in your line?” he asked, pointing at a case in front +of them, where highly polished crosses, jewels, and bits of embroidery, +the work of the natives, were displayed to tempt visitors. + +“Shams, all of them,” said Mr. Flushing briefly. “This rug, now, isn’t +at all bad.” He stopped and picked up a piece of the rug at their feet. +“Not old, of course, but the design is quite in the right tradition. +Alice, lend me your brooch. See the difference between the old work and +the new.” + +A lady, who was reading with great concentration, unfastened her brooch +and gave it to her husband without looking at him or acknowledging the +tentative bow which Mr. Elliot was desirous of giving her. If she had +listened, she might have been amused by the reference to old Lady +Barborough, her great-aunt, but, oblivious of her surroundings, she +went on reading. + +The clock, which had been wheezing for some minutes like an old man +preparing to cough, now struck nine. The sound slightly disturbed +certain somnolent merchants, government officials, and men of +independent means who were lying back in their chairs, chatting, +smoking, ruminating about their affairs, with their eyes half shut; +they raised their lids for an instant at the sound and then closed them +again. They had the appearance of crocodiles so fully gorged by their +last meal that the future of the world gives them no anxiety whatever. +The only disturbance in the placid bright room was caused by a large +moth which shot from light to light, whizzing over elaborate heads of +hair, and causing several young women to raise their hands nervously +and exclaim, “Some one ought to kill it!” + +Absorbed in their own thoughts, Hewet and Hirst had not spoken for a +long time. + +When the clock struck, Hirst said: + +“Ah, the creatures begin to stir. . . .” He watched them raise +themselves, look about them, and settle down again. “What I abhor most +of all,” he concluded, “is the female breast. Imagine being Venning and +having to get into bed with Susan! But the really repulsive thing is +that they feel nothing at all—about what I do when I have a hot bath. +They’re gross, they’re absurd, they’re utterly intolerable!” + +So saying, and drawing no reply from Hewet, he proceeded to think about +himself, about science, about Cambridge, about the Bar, about Helen and +what she thought of him, until, being very tired, he was nodding off to +sleep. + +Suddenly Hewet woke him up. + +“How d’you know what you feel, Hirst?” + +“Are you in love?” asked Hirst. He put in his eyeglass. + +“Don’t be a fool,” said Hewet. + +“Well, I’ll sit down and think about it,” said Hirst. “One really ought +to. If these people would only think about things, the world would be a +far better place for us all to live in. Are you trying to think?” + +That was exactly what Hewet had been doing for the last half-hour, but +he did not find Hirst sympathetic at the moment. + +“I shall go for a walk,” he said. + +“Remember we weren’t in bed last night,” said Hirst with a prodigious +yawn. + +Hewet rose and stretched himself. + +“I want to go and get a breath of air,” he said. + +An unusual feeling had been bothering him all the evening and +forbidding him to settle into any one train of thought. It was +precisely as if he had been in the middle of a talk which interested +him profoundly when some one came up and interrupted him. He could not +finish the talk, and the longer he sat there the more he wanted to +finish it. As the talk that had been interrupted was a talk with +Rachel, he had to ask himself why he felt this, and why he wanted to go +on talking to her. Hirst would merely say that he was in love with her. +But he was not in love with her. Did love begin in that way, with the +wish to go on talking? No. It always began in his case with definite +physical sensations, and these were now absent, he did not even find +her physically attractive. There was something, of course, unusual +about her—she was young, inexperienced, and inquisitive, they had been +more open with each other than was usually possible. He always found +girls interesting to talk to, and surely these were good reasons why he +should wish to go on talking to her; and last night, what with the +crowd and the confusion, he had only been able to begin to talk to her. +What was she doing now? Lying on a sofa and looking at the ceiling, +perhaps. He could imagine her doing that, and Helen in an arm-chair, +with her hands on the arm of it, so—looking ahead of her, with her +great big eyes—oh no, they’d be talking, of course, about the dance. +But suppose Rachel was going away in a day or two, suppose this was the +end of her visit, and her father had arrived in one of the steamers +anchored in the bay,—it was intolerable to know so little. Therefore he +exclaimed, “How d’you know what you feel, Hirst?” to stop himself from +thinking. + +But Hirst did not help him, and the other people with their aimless +movements and their unknown lives were disturbing, so that he longed +for the empty darkness. The first thing he looked for when he stepped +out of the hall door was the light of the Ambroses’ villa. When he had +definitely decided that a certain light apart from the others higher up +the hill was their light, he was considerably reassured. There seemed +to be at once a little stability in all this incoherence. Without any +definite plan in his head, he took the turning to the right and walked +through the town and came to the wall by the meeting of the roads, +where he stopped. The booming of the sea was audible. The dark-blue +mass of the mountains rose against the paler blue of the sky. There was +no moon, but myriads of stars, and lights were anchored up and down in +the dark waves of earth all round him. He had meant to go back, but the +single light of the Ambroses’ villa had now become three separate +lights, and he was tempted to go on. He might as well make sure that +Rachel was still there. Walking fast, he soon stood by the iron gate of +their garden, and pushed it open; the outline of the house suddenly +appeared sharply before his eyes, and the thin column of the verandah +cutting across the palely lit gravel of the terrace. He hesitated. At +the back of the house some one was rattling cans. He approached the +front; the light on the terrace showed him that the sitting-rooms were +on that side. He stood as near the light as he could by the corner of +the house, the leaves of a creeper brushing his face. After a moment he +could hear a voice. The voice went on steadily; it was not talking, but +from the continuity of the sound it was a voice reading aloud. He crept +a little closer; he crumpled the leaves together so as to stop their +rustling about his ears. It might be Rachel’s voice. He left the shadow +and stepped into the radius of the light, and then heard a sentence +spoken quite distinctly. + +“And there we lived from the year 1860 to 1895, the happiest years of +my parents’ lives, and there in 1862 my brother Maurice was born, to +the delight of his parents, as he was destined to be the delight of all +who knew him.” + +The voice quickened, and the tone became conclusive rising slightly in +pitch, as if these words were at the end of the chapter. Hewet drew +back again into the shadow. There was a long silence. He could just +hear chairs being moved inside. He had almost decided to go back, when +suddenly two figures appeared at the window, not six feet from him. + +“It was Maurice Fielding, of course, that your mother was engaged to,” +said Helen’s voice. She spoke reflectively, looking out into the dark +garden, and thinking evidently as much of the look of the night as of +what she was saying. + +“Mother?” said Rachel. Hewet’s heart leapt, and he noticed the fact. +Her voice, though low, was full of surprise. + +“You didn’t know that?” said Helen. + +“I never knew there’d been any one else,” said Rachel. She was clearly +surprised, but all they said was said low and inexpressively, because +they were speaking out into the cool dark night. + +“More people were in love with her than with any one I’ve ever known,” +Helen stated. “She had that power—she enjoyed things. She wasn’t +beautiful, but—I was thinking of her last night at the dance. She got +on with every kind of person, and then she made it all so +amazingly—funny.” + +It appeared that Helen was going back into the past, choosing her words +deliberately, comparing Theresa with the people she had known since +Theresa died. + +“I don’t know how she did it,” she continued, and ceased, and there was +a long pause, in which a little owl called first here, then there, as +it moved from tree to tree in the garden. + +“That’s so like Aunt Lucy and Aunt Katie,” said Rachel at last. “They +always make out that she was very sad and very good.” + +“Then why, for goodness’ sake, did they do nothing but criticize her +when she was alive?” said Helen. Very gentle their voices sounded, as +if they fell through the waves of the sea. + +“If I were to die to-morrow . . .” she began. + +The broken sentences had an extraordinary beauty and detachment in +Hewet’s ears, and a kind of mystery too, as though they were spoken by +people in their sleep. + +“No, Rachel,” Helen’s voice continued, “I’m not going to walk in the +garden; it’s damp—it’s sure to be damp; besides, I see at least a dozen +toads.” + +“Toads? Those are stones, Helen. Come out. It’s nicer out. The flowers +smell,” Rachel replied. + +Hewet drew still farther back. His heart was beating very quickly. +Apparently Rachel tried to pull Helen out on to the terrace, and Helen +resisted. There was a certain amount of scuffling, entreating, +resisting, and laughter from both of them. Then a man’s form appeared. +Hewet could not hear what they were all saying. In a minute they had +gone in; he could hear bolts grating then; there was dead silence, and +all the lights went out. + +He turned away, still crumpling and uncrumpling a handful of leaves +which he had torn from the wall. An exquisite sense of pleasure and +relief possessed him; it was all so solid and peaceful after the ball +at the hotel, whether he was in love with them or not, and he was not +in love with them; no, but it was good that they should be alive. + +After standing still for a minute or two he turned and began to walk +towards the gate. With the movement of his body, the excitement, the +romance and the richness of life crowded into his brain. He shouted out +a line of poetry, but the words escaped him, and he stumbled among +lines and fragments of lines which had no meaning at all except for the +beauty of the words. He shut the gate, and ran swinging from side to +side down the hill, shouting any nonsense that came into his head. +“Here am I,” he cried rhythmically, as his feet pounded to the left and +to the right, “plunging along, like an elephant in the jungle, +stripping the branches as I go (he snatched at the twigs of a bush at +the roadside), roaring innumerable words, lovely words about +innumerable things, running downhill and talking nonsense aloud to +myself about roads and leaves and lights and women coming out into the +darkness—about women—about Rachel, about Rachel.” He stopped and drew a +deep breath. The night seemed immense and hospitable, and although so +dark there seemed to be things moving down there in the harbour and +movement out at sea. He gazed until the darkness numbed him, and then +he walked on quickly, still murmuring to himself. “And I ought to be in +bed, snoring and dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. Dreams and realities, +dreams and realities, dreams and realities,” he repeated all the way up +the avenue, scarcely knowing what he said, until he reached the front +door. Here he paused for a second, and collected himself before he +opened the door. + +His eyes were dazed, his hands very cold, and his brain excited and yet +half asleep. Inside the door everything was as he had left it except +that the hall was now empty. There were the chairs turning in towards +each other where people had sat talking, and the empty glasses on +little tables, and the newspapers scattered on the floor. As he shut +the door he felt as if he were enclosed in a square box, and instantly +shrivelled up. It was all very bright and very small. He stopped for a +minute by the long table to find a paper which he had meant to read, +but he was still too much under the influence of the dark and the fresh +air to consider carefully which paper it was or where he had seen it. + +As he fumbled vaguely among the papers he saw a figure cross the tail +of his eye, coming downstairs. He heard the swishing sound of skirts, +and to his great surprise, Evelyn M. came up to him, laid her hand on +the table as if to prevent him from taking up a paper, and said: + +“You’re just the person I wanted to talk to.” Her voice was a little +unpleasant and metallic, her eyes were very bright, and she kept them +fixed upon him. + +“To talk to me?” he repeated. “But I’m half asleep.” + +“But I think you understand better than most people,” she answered, and +sat down on a little chair placed beside a big leather chair so that +Hewet had to sit down beside her. + +“Well?” he said. He yawned openly, and lit a cigarette. He could not +believe that this was really happening to him. “What is it?” + +“Are you really sympathetic, or is it just a pose?” she demanded. + +“It’s for you to say,” he replied. “I’m interested, I think.” He still +felt numb all over and as if she was much too close to him. + +“Any one can be interested!” she cried impatiently. “Your friend Mr. +Hirst’s interested, I daresay however, I do believe in you. You look as +if you’d got a nice sister, somehow.” She paused, picking at some +sequins on her knees, and then, as if she had made up her mind, she +started off, “Anyhow, I’m going to ask your advice. D’you ever get into +a state where you don’t know your own mind? That’s the state I’m in +now. You see, last night at the dance Raymond Oliver,—he’s the tall +dark boy who looks as if he had Indian blood in him, but he says he’s +not really,—well, we were sitting out together, and he told me all +about himself, how unhappy he is at home, and how he hates being out +here. They’ve put him into some beastly mining business. He says it’s +beastly—I should like it, I know, but that’s neither here nor there. +And I felt awfully sorry for him, one couldn’t help being sorry for +him, and when he asked me to let him kiss me, I did. I don’t see any +harm in that, do you? And then this morning he said he’d thought I +meant something more, and I wasn’t the sort to let any one kiss me. And +we talked and talked. I daresay I was very silly, but one can’t help +liking people when one’s sorry for them. I do like him most awfully—” +She paused. “So I gave him half a promise, and then, you see, there’s +Alfred Perrott.” + +“Oh, Perrott,” said Hewet. + +“We got to know each other on that picnic the other day,” she +continued. “He seemed so lonely, especially as Arthur had gone off with +Susan, and one couldn’t help guessing what was in his mind. So we had +quite a long talk when you were looking at the ruins, and he told me +all about his life, and his struggles, and how fearfully hard it had +been. D’you know, he was a boy in a grocer’s shop and took parcels to +people’s houses in a basket? That interested me awfully, because I +always say it doesn’t matter how you’re born if you’ve got the right +stuff in you. And he told me about his sister who’s paralysed, poor +girl, and one can see she’s a great trial, though he’s evidently very +devoted to her. I must say I do admire people like that! I don’t expect +you do because you’re so clever. Well, last night we sat out in the +garden together, and I couldn’t help seeing what he wanted to say, and +comforting him a little, and telling him I did care—I really do—only, +then, there’s Raymond Oliver. What I want you to tell me is, can one be +in love with two people at once, or can’t one?” + +She became silent, and sat with her chin on her hands, looking very +intent, as if she were facing a real problem which had to be discussed +between them. + +“I think it depends what sort of person you are,” said Hewet. He looked +at her. She was small and pretty, aged perhaps twenty-eight or +twenty-nine, but though dashing and sharply cut, her features expressed +nothing very clearly, except a great deal of spirit and good health. + +“Who are you, what are you; you see, I know nothing about you,” he +continued. + +“Well, I was coming to that,” said Evelyn M. She continued to rest her +chin on her hands and to look intently ahead of her. “I’m the daughter +of a mother and no father, if that interests you,” she said. “It’s not +a very nice thing to be. It’s what often happens in the country. She +was a farmer’s daughter, and he was rather a swell—the young man up at +the great house. He never made things straight—never married her—though +he allowed us quite a lot of money. His people wouldn’t let him. Poor +father! I can’t help liking him. Mother wasn’t the sort of woman who +could keep him straight, anyhow. He was killed in the war. I believe +his men worshipped him. They say great big troopers broke down and +cried over his body on the battlefield. I wish I’d known him. Mother +had all the life crushed out of her. The world—” She clenched her fist. +“Oh, people can be horrid to a woman like that!” She turned upon Hewet. + +“Well,” she said, “d’you want to know any more about me?” + +“But you?” he asked, “Who looked after you?” + +“I’ve looked after myself mostly,” she laughed. “I’ve had splendid +friends. I do like people! That’s the trouble. What would you do if you +liked two people, both of them tremendously, and you couldn’t tell +which most?” + +“I should go on liking them—I should wait and see. Why not?” + +“But one has to make up one’s mind,” said Evelyn. “Or are you one of +the people who doesn’t believe in marriages and all that? Look +here—this isn’t fair, I do all the telling, and you tell nothing. +Perhaps you’re the same as your friend”—she looked at him suspiciously; +“perhaps you don’t like me?” + +“I don’t know you,” said Hewet. + +“I know when I like a person directly I see them! I knew I liked you +the very first night at dinner. Oh dear,” she continued impatiently, +“what a lot of bother would be saved if only people would say the +things they think straight out! I’m made like that. I can’t help it.” + +“But don’t you find it leads to difficulties?” Hewet asked. + +“That’s men’s fault,” she answered. “They always drag it in—love, I +mean.” + +“And so you’ve gone on having one proposal after another,” said Hewet. + +“I don’t suppose I’ve had more proposals than most women,” said Evelyn, +but she spoke without conviction. + +“Five, six, ten?” Hewet ventured. + +Evelyn seemed to intimate that perhaps ten was the right figure, but +that it really was not a high one. + +“I believe you’re thinking me a heartless flirt,” she protested. “But I +don’t care if you are. I don’t care what any one thinks of me. Just +because one’s interested and likes to be friends with men, and talk to +them as one talks to women, one’s called a flirt.” + +“But Miss Murgatroyd—” + +“I wish you’d call me Evelyn,” she interrupted. + +“After ten proposals do you honestly think that men are the same as +women?” + +“Honestly, honestly,—how I hate that word! It’s always used by prigs,” +cried Evelyn. “Honestly I think they ought to be. That’s what’s so +disappointing. Every time one thinks it’s not going to happen, and +every time it does.” + +“The pursuit of Friendship,” said Hewet. “The title of a comedy.” + +“You’re horrid,” she cried. “You don’t care a bit really. You might be +Mr. Hirst.” + +“Well,” said Hewet, “let’s consider. Let us consider—” He paused, +because for the moment he could not remember what it was that they had +to consider. He was far more interested in her than in her story, for +as she went on speaking his numbness had disappeared, and he was +conscious of a mixture of liking, pity, and distrust. “You’ve promised +to marry both Oliver and Perrott?” he concluded. + +“Not exactly promised,” said Evelyn. “I can’t make up my mind which I +really like best. Oh how I detest modern life!” she flung off. “It must +have been so much easier for the Elizabethans! I thought the other day +on that mountain how I’d have liked to be one of those colonists, to +cut down trees and make laws and all that, instead of fooling about +with all these people who think one’s just a pretty young lady. Though +I’m not. I really might _do_ something.” She reflected in silence for a +minute. Then she said: + +“I’m afraid right down in my heart that Alfred Perrot _won’t_ do. He’s +not strong, is he?” + +“Perhaps he couldn’t cut down a tree,” said Hewet. “Have you never +cared for anybody?” he asked. + +“I’ve cared for heaps of people, but not to marry them,” she said. “I +suppose I’m too fastidious. All my life I’ve wanted somebody I could +look up to, somebody great and big and splendid. Most men are so +small.” + +“What d’you mean by splendid?” Hewet asked. “People are—nothing more.” + +Evelyn was puzzled. + +“We don’t care for people because of their qualities,” he tried to +explain. “It’s just them that we care for,”—he struck a match—“just +that,” he said, pointing to the flames. + +“I see what you mean,” she said, “but I don’t agree. I do know why I +care for people, and I think I’m hardly ever wrong. I see at once what +they’ve got in them. Now I think you must be rather splendid; but not +Mr. Hirst.” + +Hewlet shook his head. + +“He’s not nearly so unselfish, or so sympathetic, or so big, or so +understanding,” Evelyn continued. + +Hewet sat silent, smoking his cigarette. + +“I should hate cutting down trees,” he remarked. + +“I’m not trying to flirt with you, though I suppose you think I am!” +Evelyn shot out. “I’d never have come to you if I’d thought you’d +merely think odious things of me!” The tears came into her eyes. + +“Do you never flirt?” he asked. + +“Of course I don’t,” she protested. “Haven’t I told you? I want +friendship; I want to care for some one greater and nobler than I am, +and if they fall in love with me it isn’t my fault; I don’t want it; I +positively hate it.” + +Hewet could see that there was very little use in going on with the +conversation, for it was obvious that Evelyn did not wish to say +anything in particular, but to impress upon him an image of herself, +being, for some reason which she would not reveal, unhappy, or +insecure. He was very tired, and a pale waiter kept walking +ostentatiously into the middle of the room and looking at them +meaningly. + +“They want to shut up,” he said. “My advice is that you should tell +Oliver and Perrott to-morrow that you’ve made up your mind that you +don’t mean to marry either of them. I’m certain you don’t. If you +change your mind you can always tell them so. They’re both sensible +men; they’ll understand. And then all this bother will be over.” He got +up. + +But Evelyn did not move. She sat looking up at him with her bright +eager eyes, in the depths of which he thought he detected some +disappointment, or dissatisfaction. + +“Good-night,” he said. + +“There are heaps of things I want to say to you still,” she said. “And +I’m going to, some time. I suppose you must go to bed now?” + +“Yes,” said Hewet. “I’m half asleep.” He left her still sitting by +herself in the empty hall. + +“Why is it that they _won’t_ be honest?” he muttered to himself as he +went upstairs. Why was it that relations between different people were +so unsatisfactory, so fragmentary, so hazardous, and words so dangerous +that the instinct to sympathise with another human being was an +instinct to be examined carefully and probably crushed? What had Evelyn +really wished to say to him? What was she feeling left alone in the +empty hall? The mystery of life and the unreality even of one’s own +sensations overcame him as he walked down the corridor which led to his +room. It was dimly lighted, but sufficiently for him to see a figure in +a bright dressing-gown pass swiftly in front of him, the figure of a +woman crossing from one room to another. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +Whether too slight or too vague the ties that bind people casually +meeting in a hotel at midnight, they possess one advantage at least +over the bonds which unite the elderly, who have lived together once +and so must live for ever. Slight they may be, but vivid and genuine, +merely because the power to break them is within the grasp of each, and +there is no reason for continuance except a true desire that continue +they shall. When two people have been married for years they seem to +become unconscious of each other’s bodily presence so that they move as +if alone, speak aloud things which they do not expect to be answered, +and in general seem to experience all the comfort of solitude without +its loneliness. The joint lives of Ridley and Helen had arrived at this +stage of community, and it was often necessary for one or the other to +recall with an effort whether a thing had been said or only thought, +shared or dreamt in private. At four o’clock in the afternoon two or +three days later Mrs. Ambrose was standing brushing her hair, while her +husband was in the dressing-room which opened out of her room, and +occasionally, through the cascade of water—he was washing his face—she +caught exclamations, “So it goes on year after year; I wish, I wish, I +wish I could make an end of it,” to which she paid no attention. + +“It’s white? Or only brown?” Thus she herself murmured, examining a +hair which gleamed suspiciously among the brown. She pulled it out and +laid it on the dressing-table. She was criticising her own appearance, +or rather approving of it, standing a little way back from the glass +and looking at her own face with superb pride and melancholy, when her +husband appeared in the doorway in his shirt sleeves, his face half +obscured by a towel. + +“You often tell me I don’t notice things,” he remarked. + +“Tell me if this is a white hair, then?” she replied. She laid the hair +on his hand. + +“There’s not a white hair on your head,” he exclaimed. + +“Ah, Ridley, I begin to doubt,” she sighed; and bowed her head under +his eyes so that he might judge, but the inspection produced only a +kiss where the line of parting ran, and husband and wife then proceeded +to move about the room, casually murmuring. + +“What was that you were saying?” Helen remarked, after an interval of +conversation which no third person could have understood. + +“Rachel—you ought to keep an eye upon Rachel,” he observed +significantly, and Helen, though she went on brushing her hair, looked +at him. His observations were apt to be true. + +“Young gentlemen don’t interest themselves in young women’s education +without a motive,” he remarked. + +“Oh, Hirst,” said Helen. + +“Hirst and Hewet, they’re all the same to me—all covered with spots,” +he replied. “He advises her to read Gibbon. Did you know that?” + +Helen did not know that, but she would not allow herself inferior to +her husband in powers of observation. She merely said: + +“Nothing would surprise me. Even that dreadful flying man we met at the +dance—even Mr. Dalloway—even—” + +“I advise you to be circumspect,” said Ridley. “There’s Willoughby, +remember—Willoughby”; he pointed at a letter. + +Helen looked with a sigh at an envelope which lay upon her +dressing-table. Yes, there lay Willoughby, curt, inexpressive, +perpetually jocular, robbing a whole continent of mystery, enquiring +after his daughter’s manners and morals—hoping she wasn’t a bore, and +bidding them pack her off to him on board the very next ship if she +were—and then grateful and affectionate with suppressed emotion, and +then half a page about his own triumphs over wretched little natives +who went on strike and refused to load his ships, until he roared +English oaths at them, “popping my head out of the window just as I +was, in my shirt sleeves. The beggars had the sense to scatter.” + +“If Theresa married Willoughby,” she remarked, turning the page with a +hairpin, “one doesn’t see what’s to prevent Rachel—” + +But Ridley was now off on grievances of his own connected with the +washing of his shirts, which somehow led to the frequent visits of +Hughling Elliot, who was a bore, a pedant, a dry stick of a man, and +yet Ridley couldn’t simply point at the door and tell him to go. The +truth of it was, they saw too many people. And so on and so on, more +conjugal talk pattering softly and unintelligibly, until they were both +ready to go down to tea. + +The first thing that caught Helen’s eye as she came downstairs was a +carriage at the door, filled with skirts and feathers nodding on the +tops of hats. She had only time to gain the drawing-room before two +names were oddly mispronounced by the Spanish maid, and Mrs. Thornbury +came in slightly in advance of Mrs. Wilfrid Flushing. + +“Mrs. Wilfrid Flushing,” said Mrs. Thornbury, with a wave of her hand. +“A friend of our common friend Mrs. Raymond Parry.” + +Mrs. Flushing shook hands energetically. She was a woman of forty +perhaps, very well set up and erect, splendidly robust, though not as +tall as the upright carriage of her body made her appear. + +She looked Helen straight in the face and said, “You have a charmin’ +house.” + +She had a strongly marked face, her eyes looked straight at you, and +though naturally she was imperious in her manner she was nervous at the +same time. Mrs. Thornbury acted as interpreter, making things smooth +all round by a series of charming commonplace remarks. + +“I’ve taken it upon myself, Mr. Ambrose,” she said, “to promise that +you will be so kind as to give Mrs. Flushing the benefit of your +experience. I’m sure no one here knows the country as well as you do. +No one takes such wonderful long walks. No one, I’m sure, has your +encyclopaedic knowledge upon every subject. Mr. Wilfrid Flushing is a +collector. He has discovered really beautiful things already. I had no +notion that the peasants were so artistic—though of course in the +past—” + +“Not old things—new things,” interrupted Mrs. Flushing curtly. “That +is, if he takes my advice.” + +The Ambroses had not lived for many years in London without knowing +something of a good many people, by name at least, and Helen remembered +hearing of the Flushings. Mr. Flushing was a man who kept an old +furniture shop; he had always said he would not marry because most +women have red cheeks, and would not take a house because most houses +have narrow staircases, and would not eat meat because most animals +bleed when they are killed; and then he had married an eccentric +aristocratic lady, who certainly was not pale, who looked as if she ate +meat, who had forced him to do all the things he most disliked—and this +then was the lady. Helen looked at her with interest. They had moved +out into the garden, where the tea was laid under a tree, and Mrs. +Flushing was helping herself to cherry jam. She had a peculiar jerking +movement of the body when she spoke, which caused the canary-coloured +plume on her hat to jerk too. Her small but finely-cut and vigorous +features, together with the deep red of lips and cheeks, pointed to +many generations of well-trained and well-nourished ancestors behind +her. + +“Nothin’ that’s more than twenty years old interests me,” she +continued. “Mouldy old pictures, dirty old books, they stick ’em in +museums when they’re only fit for burnin’.” + +“I quite agree,” Helen laughed. “But my husband spends his life in +digging up manuscripts which nobody wants.” She was amused by Ridley’s +expression of startled disapproval. + +“There’s a clever man in London called John who paints ever so much +better than the old masters,” Mrs. Flushing continued. “His pictures +excite me—nothin’ that’s old excites me.” + +“But even his pictures will become old,” Mrs. Thornbury intervened. + +“Then I’ll have ’em burnt, or I’ll put it in my will,” said Mrs. +Flushing. + +“And Mrs. Flushing lived in one of the most beautiful old houses in +England—Chillingley,” Mrs. Thornbury explained to the rest of them. + +“If I’d my way I’d burn that to-morrow,” Mrs. Flushing laughed. She had +a laugh like the cry of a jay, at once startling and joyless. + +“What does any sane person want with those great big houses?” she +demanded. “If you go downstairs after dark you’re covered with black +beetles, and the electric lights always goin’ out. What would you do if +spiders came out of the tap when you turned on the hot water?” she +demanded, fixing her eye on Helen. + +Mrs. Ambrose shrugged her shoulders with a smile. + +“This is what I like,” said Mrs. Flushing. She jerked her head at the +Villa. “A little house in a garden. I had one once in Ireland. One +could lie in bed in the mornin’ and pick roses outside the window with +one’s toes.” + +“And the gardeners, weren’t they surprised?” Mrs. Thornbury enquired. + +“There were no gardeners,” Mrs. Flushing chuckled. “Nobody but me and +an old woman without any teeth. You know the poor in Ireland lose their +teeth after they’re twenty. But you wouldn’t expect a politician to +understand that—Arthur Balfour wouldn’t understand that.” + +Ridley sighed that he never expected any one to understand anything, +least of all politicians. + +“However,” he concluded, “there’s one advantage I find in extreme old +age—nothing matters a hang except one’s food and one’s digestion. All I +ask is to be left alone to moulder away in solitude. It’s obvious that +the world’s going as fast as it can to—the Nethermost Pit, and all I +can do is to sit still and consume as much of my own smoke as +possible.” He groaned, and with a melancholy glance laid the jam on his +bread, for he felt the atmosphere of this abrupt lady distinctly +unsympathetic. + +“I always contradict my husband when he says that,” said Mrs. Thornbury +sweetly. “You men! Where would you be if it weren’t for the women!” + +“Read the _Symposium_,” said Ridley grimly. + +“_Symposium_?” cried Mrs. Flushing. “That’s Latin or Greek? Tell me, is +there a good translation?” + +“No,” said Ridley. “You will have to learn Greek.” + +Mrs. Flushing cried, “Ah, ah, ah! I’d rather break stones in the road. +I always envy the men who break stones and sit on those nice little +heaps all day wearin’ spectacles. I’d infinitely rather break stones +than clean out poultry runs, or feed the cows, or—” + +Here Rachel came up from the lower garden with a book in her hand. + +“What’s that book?” said Ridley, when she had shaken hands. + +“It’s Gibbon,” said Rachel as she sat down. + +“_The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_?” said Mrs. Thornbury. “A +very wonderful book, I know. My dear father was always quoting it at +us, with the result that we resolved never to read a line.” + +“Gibbon the historian?” enquired Mrs. Flushing. “I connect him with +some of the happiest hours of my life. We used to lie in bed and read +Gibbon—about the massacres of the Christians, I remember—when we were +supposed to be asleep. It’s no joke, I can tell you, readin’ a great +big book, in double columns, by a night-light, and the light that comes +through a chink in the door. Then there were the moths—tiger moths, +yellow moths, and horrid cockchafers. Louisa, my sister, would have the +window open. I wanted it shut. We fought every night of our lives over +that window. Have you ever seen a moth dyin’ in a night-light?” she +enquired. + +Again there was an interruption. Hewet and Hirst appeared at the +drawing-room window and came up to the tea-table. + +Rachel’s heart beat hard. She was conscious of an extraordinary +intensity in everything, as though their presence stripped some cover +off the surface of things; but the greetings were remarkably +commonplace. + +“Excuse me,” said Hirst, rising from his chair directly he had sat +down. He went into the drawing-room, and returned with a cushion which +he placed carefully upon his seat. + +“Rheumatism,” he remarked, as he sat down for the second time. + +“The result of the dance?” Helen enquired. + +“Whenever I get at all run down I tend to be rheumatic,” Hirst stated. +He bent his wrist back sharply. “I hear little pieces of chalk grinding +together!” + +Rachel looked at him. She was amused, and yet she was respectful; if +such a thing could be, the upper part of her face seemed to laugh, and +the lower part to check its laughter. + +Hewet picked up the book that lay on the ground. + +“You like this?” he asked in an undertone. + +“No, I don’t like it,” she replied. She had indeed been trying all the +afternoon to read it, and for some reason the glory which she had +perceived at first had faded, and, read as she would, she could not +grasp the meaning with her mind. + +“It goes round, round, round, like a roll of oil-cloth,” she hazarded. +Evidently she meant Hewet alone to hear her words, but Hirst demanded, +“What d’you mean?” + +She was instantly ashamed of her figure of speech, for she could not +explain it in words of sober criticism. + +“Surely it’s the most perfect style, so far as style goes, that’s ever +been invented,” he continued. “Every sentence is practically perfect, +and the wit—” + +“Ugly in body, repulsive in mind,” she thought, instead of thinking +about Gibbon’s style. “Yes, but strong, searching, unyielding in mind.” +She looked at his big head, a disproportionate part of which was +occupied by the forehead, and at the direct, severe eyes. + +“I give you up in despair,” he said. He meant it lightly, but she took +it seriously, and believed that her value as a human being was lessened +because she did not happen to admire the style of Gibbon. The others +were talking now in a group about the native villages which Mrs. +Flushing ought to visit. + +“I despair too,” she said impetuously. “How are you going to judge +people merely by their minds?” + +“You agree with my spinster Aunt, I expect,” said St. John in his +jaunty manner, which was always irritating because it made the person +he talked to appear unduly clumsy and in earnest. “‘Be good, sweet +maid’—I thought Mr. Kingsley and my Aunt were now obsolete.” + +“One can be very nice without having read a book,” she asserted. Very +silly and simple her words sounded, and laid her open to derision. + +“Did I ever deny it?” Hirst enquired, raising his eyebrows. + +Most unexpectedly Mrs. Thornbury here intervened, either because it was +her mission to keep things smooth or because she had long wished to +speak to Mr. Hirst, feeling as she did that young men were her sons. + +“I have lived all my life with people like your Aunt, Mr. Hirst,” she +said, leaning forward in her chair. Her brown squirrel-like eyes became +even brighter than usual. “They have never heard of Gibbon. They only +care for their pheasants and their peasants. They are great big men who +look so fine on horseback, as people must have done, I think, in the +days of the great wars. Say what you like against them—they are animal, +they are unintellectual; they don’t read themselves, and they don’t +want others to read, but they are some of the finest and the kindest +human beings on the face of the earth! You would be surprised at some +of the stories I could tell. You have never guessed, perhaps, at all +the romances that go on in the heart of the country. There are the +people, I feel, among whom Shakespeare will be born if he is ever born +again. In those old houses, up among the Downs—” + +“My Aunt,” Hirst interrupted, “spends her life in East Lambeth among +the degraded poor. I only quoted my Aunt because she is inclined to +persecute people she calls ‘intellectual,’ which is what I suspect Miss +Vinrace of doing. It’s all the fashion now. If you’re clever it’s +always taken for granted that you’re completely without sympathy, +understanding, affection—all the things that really matter. Oh, you +Christians! You’re the most conceited, patronising, hypocritical set of +old humbugs in the kingdom! Of course,” he continued, “I’m the first to +allow your country gentlemen great merits. For one thing, they’re +probably quite frank about their passions, which we are not. My father, +who is a clergyman in Norfolk, says that there is hardly a squire in +the country who does not—” + +“But about Gibbon?” Hewet interrupted. The look of nervous tension +which had come over every face was relaxed by the interruption. + +“You find him monotonous, I suppose. But you know—” He opened the book, +and began searching for passages to read aloud, and in a little time he +found a good one which he considered suitable. But there was nothing in +the world that bored Ridley more than being read aloud to, and he was +besides scrupulously fastidious as to the dress and behaviour of +ladies. In the space of fifteen minutes he had decided against Mrs. +Flushing on the ground that her orange plume did not suit her +complexion, that she spoke too loud, that she crossed her legs, and +finally, when he saw her accept a cigarette that Hewet offered her, he +jumped up, exclaiming something about “bar parlours,” and left them. +Mrs. Flushing was evidently relieved by his departure. She puffed her +cigarette, stuck her legs out, and examined Helen closely as to the +character and reputation of their common friend Mrs. Raymond Parry. By +a series of little strategems she drove her to define Mrs. Parry as +somewhat elderly, by no means beautiful, very much made up—an insolent +old harridan, in short, whose parties were amusing because one met odd +people; but Helen herself always pitied poor Mr. Parry, who was +understood to be shut up downstairs with cases full of gems, while his +wife enjoyed herself in the drawing-room. “Not that I believe what +people say against her—although she hints, of course—” Upon which Mrs. +Flushing cried out with delight: + +“She’s my first cousin! Go on—go on!” + +When Mrs. Flushing rose to go she was obviously delighted with her new +acquaintances. She made three or four different plans for meeting or +going on an expedition, or showing Helen the things they had bought, on +her way to the carriage. She included them all in a vague but +magnificent invitation. + +As Helen returned to the garden again, Ridley’s words of warning came +into her head, and she hesitated a moment and looked at Rachel sitting +between Hirst and Hewet. But she could draw no conclusions, for Hewet +was still reading Gibbon aloud, and Rachel, for all the expression she +had, might have been a shell, and his words water rubbing against her +ears, as water rubs a shell on the edge of a rock. + +Hewet’s voice was very pleasant. When he reached the end of the period +Hewet stopped, and no one volunteered any criticism. + +“I do adore the aristocracy!” Hirst exclaimed after a moment’s pause. +“They’re so amazingly unscrupulous. None of us would dare to behave as +that woman behaves.” + +“What I like about them,” said Helen as she sat down, “is that they’re +so well put together. Naked, Mrs. Flushing would be superb. Dressed as +she dresses, it’s absurd, of course.” + +“Yes,” said Hirst. A shade of depression crossed his face. “I’ve never +weighed more than ten stone in my life,” he said, “which is ridiculous, +considering my height, and I’ve actually gone down in weight since we +came here. I daresay that accounts for the rheumatism.” Again he jerked +his wrist back sharply, so that Helen might hear the grinding of the +chalk stones. She could not help smiling. + +“It’s no laughing matter for me, I assure you,” he protested. “My +mother’s a chronic invalid, and I’m always expecting to be told that +I’ve got heart disease myself. Rheumatism always goes to the heart in +the end.” + +“For goodness’ sake, Hirst,” Hewet protested; “one might think you were +an old cripple of eighty. If it comes to that, I had an aunt who died +of cancer myself, but I put a bold face on it—” He rose and began +tilting his chair backwards and forwards on its hind legs. “Is any one +here inclined for a walk?” he said. “There’s a magnificent walk, up +behind the house. You come out on to a cliff and look right down into +the sea. The rocks are all red; you can see them through the water. The +other day I saw a sight that fairly took my breath away—about twenty +jelly-fish, semi-transparent, pink, with long streamers, floating on +the top of the waves.” + +“Sure they weren’t mermaids?” said Hirst. “It’s much too hot to climb +uphill.” He looked at Helen, who showed no signs of moving. + +“Yes, it’s too hot,” Helen decided. + +There was a short silence. + +“I’d like to come,” said Rachel. + +“But she might have said that anyhow,” Helen thought to herself as +Hewet and Rachel went away together, and Helen was left alone with St. +John, to St. John’s obvious satisfaction. + +He may have been satisfied, but his usual difficulty in deciding that +one subject was more deserving of notice than another prevented him +from speaking for some time. He sat staring intently at the head of a +dead match, while Helen considered—so it seemed from the expression of +her eyes—something not closely connected with the present moment. + +At last St. John exclaimed, “Damn! Damn everything! Damn everybody!” he +added. “At Cambridge there are people to talk to.” + +“At Cambridge there are people to talk to,” Helen echoed him, +rhythmically and absent-mindedly. Then she woke up. “By the way, have +you settled what you’re going to do—is it to be Cambridge or the Bar?” + +He pursed his lips, but made no immediate answer, for Helen was still +slightly inattentive. She had been thinking about Rachel and which of +the two young men she was likely to fall in love with, and now sitting +opposite to Hirst she thought, “He’s ugly. It’s a pity they’re so +ugly.” + +She did not include Hewet in this criticism; she was thinking of the +clever, honest, interesting young men she knew, of whom Hirst was a +good example, and wondering whether it was necessary that thought and +scholarship should thus maltreat their bodies, and should thus elevate +their minds to a very high tower from which the human race appeared to +them like rats and mice squirming on the flat. + +“And the future?” she reflected, vaguely envisaging a race of men +becoming more and more like Hirst, and a race of women becoming more +and more like Rachel. “Oh no,” she concluded, glancing at him, “one +wouldn’t marry you. Well, then, the future of the race is in the hands +of Susan and Arthur; no—that’s dreadful. Of farm labourers; no—not of +the English at all, but of Russians and Chinese.” This train of thought +did not satisfy her, and was interrupted by St. John, who began again: + +“I wish you knew Bennett. He’s the greatest man in the world.” + +“Bennett?” she enquired. Becoming more at ease, St. John dropped the +concentrated abruptness of his manner, and explained that Bennett was a +man who lived in an old windmill six miles out of Cambridge. He lived +the perfect life, according to St. John, very lonely, very simple, +caring only for the truth of things, always ready to talk, and +extraordinarily modest, though his mind was of the greatest. + +“Don’t you think,” said St. John, when he had done describing him, +“that kind of thing makes this kind of thing rather flimsy? Did you +notice at tea how poor old Hewet had to change the conversation? How +they were all ready to pounce upon me because they thought I was going +to say something improper? It wasn’t anything, really. If Bennett had +been there he’d have said exactly what he meant to say, or he’d have +got up and gone. But there’s something rather bad for the character in +that—I mean if one hasn’t got Bennett’s character. It’s inclined to +make one bitter. Should you say that I was bitter?” + +Helen did not answer, and he continued: + +“Of course I am, disgustingly bitter, and it’s a beastly thing to be. +But the worst of me is that I’m so envious. I envy every one. I can’t +endure people who do things better than I do—perfectly absurd things +too—waiters balancing piles of plates—even Arthur, because Susan’s in +love with him. I want people to like me, and they don’t. It’s partly my +appearance, I expect,” he continued, “though it’s an absolute lie to +say I’ve Jewish blood in me—as a matter of fact we’ve been in Norfolk, +Hirst of Hirstbourne Hall, for three centuries at least. It must be +awfully soothing to be like you—every one liking one at once.” + +“I assure you they don’t,” Helen laughed. + +“They do,” said Hirst with conviction. “In the first place, you’re the +most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen; in the second, you have an +exceptionally nice nature.” + +If Hirst had looked at her instead of looking intently at his teacup he +would have seen Helen blush, partly with pleasure, partly with an +impulse of affection towards the young man who had seemed, and would +seem again, so ugly and so limited. She pitied him, for she suspected +that he suffered, and she was interested in him, for many of the things +he said seemed to her true; she admired the morality of youth, and yet +she felt imprisoned. As if her instinct were to escape to something +brightly coloured and impersonal, which she could hold in her hands, +she went into the house and returned with her embroidery. But he was +not interested in her embroidery; he did not even look at it. + +“About Miss Vinrace,” he began,—“oh, look here, do let’s be St. John +and Helen, and Rachel and Terence—what’s she like? Does she reason, +does she feel, or is she merely a kind of footstool?” + +“Oh no,” said Helen, with great decision. From her observations at tea +she was inclined to doubt whether Hirst was the person to educate +Rachel. She had gradually come to be interested in her niece, and fond +of her; she disliked some things about her very much, she was amused by +others; but she felt her, on the whole, a live if unformed human being, +experimental, and not always fortunate in her experiments, but with +powers of some kind, and a capacity for feeling. Somewhere in the +depths of her, too, she was bound to Rachel by the indestructible if +inexplicable ties of sex. “She seems vague, but she’s a will of her +own,” she said, as if in the interval she had run through her +qualities. + +The embroidery, which was a matter for thought, the design being +difficult and the colours wanting consideration, brought lapses into +the dialogue when she seemed to be engrossed in her skeins of silk, or, +with head a little drawn back and eyes narrowed, considered the effect +of the whole. Thus she merely said, “Um-m-m” to St. John’s next remark, +“I shall ask her to go for a walk with me.” + +Perhaps he resented this division of attention. He sat silent watching +Helen closely. + +“You’re absolutely happy,” he proclaimed at last. + +“Yes?” Helen enquired, sticking in her needle. + +“Marriage, I suppose,” said St. John. + +“Yes,” said Helen, gently drawing her needle out. + +“Children?” St. John enquired. + +“Yes,” said Helen, sticking her needle in again. “I don’t know why I’m +happy,” she suddenly laughed, looking him full in the face. There was a +considerable pause. + +“There’s an abyss between us,” said St. John. His voice sounded as if +it issued from the depths of a cavern in the rocks. “You’re infinitely +simpler than I am. Women always are, of course. That’s the difficulty. +One never knows how a woman gets there. Supposing all the time you’re +thinking, ‘Oh, what a morbid young man!’” + +Helen sat and looked at him with her needle in her hand. From her +position she saw his head in front of the dark pyramid of a +magnolia-tree. With one foot raised on the rung of a chair, and her +elbow out in the attitude for sewing, her own figure possessed the +sublimity of a woman’s of the early world, spinning the thread of +fate—the sublimity possessed by many women of the present day who fall +into the attitude required by scrubbing or sewing. St. John looked at +her. + +“I suppose you’ve never paid any a compliment in the course of your +life,” he said irrelevantly. + +“I spoil Ridley rather,” Helen considered. + +“I’m going to ask you point blank—do you like me?” + +After a certain pause, she replied, “Yes, certainly.” + +“Thank God!” he exclaimed. “That’s one mercy. You see,” he continued +with emotion, “I’d rather you liked me than any one I’ve ever met.” + +“What about the five philosophers?” said Helen, with a laugh, stitching +firmly and swiftly at her canvas. “I wish you’d describe them.” + +Hirst had no particular wish to describe them, but when he began to +consider them he found himself soothed and strengthened. Far away on +the other side of the world as they were, in smoky rooms, and grey +medieval courts, they appeared remarkable figures, free-spoken men with +whom one could be at ease; incomparably more subtle in emotion than the +people here. They gave him, certainly, what no woman could give him, +not Helen even. Warming at the thought of them, he went on to lay his +case before Mrs. Ambrose. Should he stay on at Cambridge or should he +go to the Bar? One day he thought one thing, another day another. Helen +listened attentively. At last, without any preface, she pronounced her +decision. + +“Leave Cambridge and go to the Bar,” she said. He pressed her for her +reasons. + +“I think you’d enjoy London more,” she said. It did not seem a very +subtle reason, but she appeared to think it sufficient. She looked at +him against the background of flowering magnolia. There was something +curious in the sight. Perhaps it was that the heavy wax-like flowers +were so smooth and inarticulate, and his face—he had thrown his hat +away, his hair was rumpled, he held his eye-glasses in his hand, so +that a red mark appeared on either side of his nose—was so worried and +garrulous. It was a beautiful bush, spreading very widely, and all the +time she had sat there talking she had been noticing the patches of +shade and the shape of the leaves, and the way the great white flowers +sat in the midst of the green. She had noticed it half-consciously, +nevertheless the pattern had become part of their talk. She laid down +her sewing, and began to walk up and down the garden, and Hirst rose +too and paced by her side. He was rather disturbed, uncomfortable, and +full of thought. Neither of them spoke. + +The sun was beginning to go down, and a change had come over the +mountains, as if they were robbed of their earthly substance, and +composed merely of intense blue mist. Long thin clouds of flamingo red, +with edges like the edges of curled ostrich feathers, lay up and down +the sky at different altitudes. The roofs of the town seemed to have +sunk lower than usual; the cypresses appeared very black between the +roofs, and the roofs themselves were brown and white. As usual in the +evening, single cries and single bells became audible rising from +beneath. + +St. John stopped suddenly. + +“Well, you must take the responsibility,” he said. “I’ve made up my +mind; I shall go to the Bar.” + +His words were very serious, almost emotional; they recalled Helen +after a second’s hesitation. + +“I’m sure you’re right,” she said warmly, and shook the hand he held +out. “You’ll be a great man, I’m certain.” + +Then, as if to make him look at the scene, she swept her hand round the +immense circumference of the view. From the sea, over the roofs of the +town, across the crests of the mountains, over the river and the plain, +and again across the crests of the mountains it swept until it reached +the villa, the garden, the magnolia-tree, and the figures of Hirst and +herself standing together, when it dropped to her side. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +Hewet and Rachel had long ago reached the particular place on the edge +of the cliff where, looking down into the sea, you might chance on +jelly-fish and dolphins. Looking the other way, the vast expanse of +land gave them a sensation which is given by no view, however extended, +in England; the villages and the hills there having names, and the +farthest horizon of hills as often as not dipping and showing a line of +mist which is the sea; here the view was one of infinite sun-dried +earth, earth pointed in pinnacles, heaped in vast barriers, earth +widening and spreading away and away like the immense floor of the sea, +earth chequered by day and by night, and partitioned into different +lands, where famous cities were founded, and the races of men changed +from dark savages to white civilised men, and back to dark savages +again. Perhaps their English blood made this prospect uncomfortably +impersonal and hostile to them, for having once turned their faces that +way they next turned them to the sea, and for the rest of the time sat +looking at the sea. The sea, though it was a thin and sparkling water +here, which seemed incapable of surge or anger, eventually narrowed +itself, clouded its pure tint with grey, and swirled through narrow +channels and dashed in a shiver of broken waters against massive +granite rocks. It was this sea that flowed up to the mouth of the +Thames; and the Thames washed the roots of the city of London. + +Hewet’s thoughts had followed some such course as this, for the first +thing he said as they stood on the edge of the cliff was— + +“I’d like to be in England!” + +Rachel lay down on her elbow, and parted the tall grasses which grew on +the edge, so that she might have a clear view. The water was very calm; +rocking up and down at the base of the cliff, and so clear that one +could see the red of the stones at the bottom of it. So it had been at +the birth of the world, and so it had remained ever since. Probably no +human being had ever broken that water with boat or with body. Obeying +some impulse, she determined to mar that eternity of peace, and threw +the largest pebble she could find. It struck the water, and the ripples +spread out and out. Hewet looked down too. + +“It’s wonderful,” he said, as they widened and ceased. The freshness +and the newness seemed to him wonderful. He threw a pebble next. There +was scarcely any sound. + +“But England,” Rachel murmured in the absorbed tone of one whose eyes +are concentrated upon some sight. “What d’you want with England?” + +“My friends chiefly,” he said, “and all the things one does.” + +He could look at Rachel without her noticing it. She was still absorbed +in the water and the exquisitely pleasant sensations which a little +depth of the sea washing over rocks suggests. He noticed that she was +wearing a dress of deep blue colour, made of a soft thin cotton stuff, +which clung to the shape of her body. It was a body with the angles and +hollows of a young woman’s body not yet developed, but in no way +distorted, and thus interesting and even lovable. Raising his eyes +Hewet observed her head; she had taken her hat off, and the face rested +on her hand. As she looked down into the sea, her lips were slightly +parted. The expression was one of childlike intentness, as if she were +watching for a fish to swim past over the clear red rocks. Nevertheless +her twenty-four years of life had given her a look of reserve. Her +hand, which lay on the ground, the fingers curling slightly in, was +well shaped and competent; the square-tipped and nervous fingers were +the fingers of a musician. With something like anguish Hewet realised +that, far from being unattractive, her body was very attractive to him. +She looked up suddenly. Her eyes were full of eagerness and interest. + +“You write novels?” she asked. + +For the moment he could not think what he was saying. He was overcome +with the desire to hold her in his arms. + +“Oh yes,” he said. “That is, I want to write them.” + +She would not take her large grey eyes off his face. + +“Novels,” she repeated. “Why do you write novels? You ought to write +music. Music, you see”—she shifted her eyes, and became less desirable +as her brain began to work, inflicting a certain change upon her +face—“music goes straight for things. It says all there is to say at +once. With writing it seems to me there’s so much”—she paused for an +expression, and rubbed her fingers in the earth—“scratching on the +matchbox. Most of the time when I was reading Gibbon this afternoon I +was horribly, oh infernally, damnably bored!” She gave a shake of +laughter, looking at Hewet, who laughed too. + +“_I_ shan’t lend you books,” he remarked. + +“Why is it,” Rachel continued, “that I can laugh at Mr. Hirst to you, +but not to his face? At tea I was completely overwhelmed, not by his +ugliness—by his mind.” She enclosed a circle in the air with her hands. +She realised with a great sense of comfort how easily she could talk to +Hewet, those thorns or ragged corners which tear the surface of some +relationships being smoothed away. + +“So I observed,” said Hewet. “That’s a thing that never ceases to amaze +me.” He had recovered his composure to such an extent that he could +light and smoke a cigarette, and feeling her ease, became happy and +easy himself. + +“The respect that women, even well-educated, very able women, have for +men,” he went on. “I believe we must have the sort of power over you +that we’re said to have over horses. They see us three times as big as +we are or they’d never obey us. For that very reason, I’m inclined to +doubt that you’ll ever do anything even when you have the vote.” He +looked at her reflectively. She appeared very smooth and sensitive and +young. “It’ll take at least six generations before you’re sufficiently +thick-skinned to go into law courts and business offices. Consider what +a bully the ordinary man is,” he continued, “the ordinary hard-working, +rather ambitious solicitor or man of business with a family to bring up +and a certain position to maintain. And then, of course, the daughters +have to give way to the sons; the sons have to be educated; they have +to bully and shove for their wives and families, and so it all comes +over again. And meanwhile there are the women in the background. . . . +Do you really think that the vote will do you any good?” + +“The vote?” Rachel repeated. She had to visualise it as a little bit of +paper which she dropped into a box before she understood his question, +and looking at each other they smiled at something absurd in the +question. + +“Not to me,” she said. “But I play the piano. . . . Are men really like +that?” she asked, returning to the question that interested her. “I’m +not afraid of you.” She looked at him easily. + +“Oh, I’m different,” Hewet replied. “I’ve got between six and seven +hundred a year of my own. And then no one takes a novelist seriously, +thank heavens. There’s no doubt it helps to make up for the drudgery of +a profession if a man’s taken very, very seriously by every one—if he +gets appointments, and has offices and a title, and lots of letters +after his name, and bits of ribbon and degrees. I don’t grudge it ’em, +though sometimes it comes over me—what an amazing concoction! What a +miracle the masculine conception of life is—judges, civil servants, +army, navy, Houses of Parliament, lord mayors—what a world we’ve made +of it! Look at Hirst now. I assure you,” he said, “not a day’s passed +since we came here without a discussion as to whether he’s to stay on +at Cambridge or to go to the Bar. It’s his career—his sacred career. +And if I’ve heard it twenty times, I’m sure his mother and sister have +heard it five hundred times. Can’t you imagine the family conclaves, +and the sister told to run out and feed the rabbits because St. John +must have the school-room to himself—‘St. John’s working,’ ‘St. John +wants his tea brought to him.’ Don’t you know the kind of thing? No +wonder that St. John thinks it a matter of considerable importance. It +is too. He has to earn his living. But St. John’s sister—” Hewet puffed +in silence. “No one takes her seriously, poor dear. She feeds the +rabbits.” + +“Yes,” said Rachel. “I’ve fed rabbits for twenty-four years; it seems +odd now.” She looked meditative, and Hewet, who had been talking much +at random and instinctively adopting the feminine point of view, saw +that she would now talk about herself, which was what he wanted, for so +they might come to know each other. + +She looked back meditatively upon her past life. + +“How do you spend your day?” he asked. + +She meditated still. When she thought of their day it seemed to her it +was cut into four pieces by their meals. These divisions were +absolutely rigid, the contents of the day having to accommodate +themselves within the four rigid bars. Looking back at her life, that +was what she saw. + +“Breakfast nine; luncheon one; tea five; dinner eight,” she said. + +“Well,” said Hewet, “what d’you do in the morning?” + +“I need to play the piano for hours and hours.” + +“And after luncheon?” + +“Then I went shopping with one of my aunts. Or we went to see some one, +or we took a message; or we did something that had to be done—the taps +might be leaking. They visit the poor a good deal—old char-women with +bad legs, women who want tickets for hospitals. Or I used to walk in +the park by myself. And after tea people sometimes called; or in summer +we sat in the garden or played croquet; in winter I read aloud, while +they worked; after dinner I played the piano and they wrote letters. If +father was at home we had friends of his to dinner, and about once a +month we went up to the play. Every now and then we dined out; +sometimes I went to a dance in London, but that was difficult because +of getting back. The people we saw were old family friends, and +relations, but we didn’t see many people. There was the clergyman, Mr. +Pepper, and the Hunts. Father generally wanted to be quiet when he came +home, because he works very hard at Hull. Also my aunts aren’t very +strong. A house takes up a lot of time if you do it properly. Our +servants were always bad, and so Aunt Lucy used to do a good deal in +the kitchen, and Aunt Clara, I think, spent most of the morning dusting +the drawing-room and going through the linen and silver. Then there +were the dogs. They had to be exercised, besides being washed and +brushed. Now Sandy’s dead, but Aunt Clara has a very old cockatoo that +came from India. Everything in our house,” she exclaimed, “comes from +somewhere! It’s full of old furniture, not really old, Victorian, +things mother’s family had or father’s family had, which they didn’t +like to get rid of, I suppose, though we’ve really no room for them. +It’s rather a nice house,” she continued, “except that it’s a little +dingy—dull I should say.” She called up before her eyes a vision of the +drawing-room at home; it was a large oblong room, with a square window +opening on the garden. Green plush chairs stood against the wall; there +was a heavy carved book-case, with glass doors, and a general +impression of faded sofa covers, large spaces of pale green, and +baskets with pieces of wool-work dropping out of them. Photographs from +old Italian masterpieces hung on the walls, and views of Venetian +bridges and Swedish waterfalls which members of the family had seen +years ago. There were also one or two portraits of fathers and +grandmothers, and an engraving of John Stuart Mill, after the picture +by Watts. It was a room without definite character, being neither +typically and openly hideous, nor strenuously artistic, nor really +comfortable. Rachel roused herself from the contemplation of this +familiar picture. + +“But this isn’t very interesting for you,” she said, looking up. + +“Good Lord!” Hewet exclaimed. “I’ve never been so much interested in my +life.” She then realised that while she had been thinking of Richmond, +his eyes had never left her face. The knowledge of this excited her. + +“Go on, please go on,” he urged. “Let’s imagine it’s a Wednesday. +You’re all at luncheon. You sit there, and Aunt Lucy there, and Aunt +Clara here”; he arranged three pebbles on the grass between them. + +“Aunt Clara carves the neck of lamb,” Rachel continued. She fixed her +gaze upon the pebbles. “There’s a very ugly yellow china stand in front +of me, called a dumb waiter, on which are three dishes, one for +biscuits, one for butter, and one for cheese. There’s a pot of ferns. +Then there’s Blanche the maid, who snuffles because of her nose. We +talk—oh yes, it’s Aunt Lucy’s afternoon at Walworth, so we’re rather +quick over luncheon. She goes off. She has a purple bag, and a black +notebook. Aunt Clara has what they call a G.F.S. meeting in the +drawing-room on Wednesday, so I take the dogs out. I go up Richmond +Hill, along the terrace, into the park. It’s the 18th of April—the same +day as it is here. It’s spring in England. The ground is rather damp. +However, I cross the road and get on to the grass and we walk along, +and I sing as I always do when I’m alone, until we come to the open +place where you can see the whole of London beneath you on a clear day. +Hampstead Church spire there, Westminster Cathedral over there, and +factory chimneys about here. There’s generally a haze over the low +parts of London; but it’s often blue over the park when London’s in a +mist. It’s the open place that the balloons cross going over to +Hurlingham. They’re pale yellow. Well, then, it smells very good, +particularly if they happen to be burning wood in the keeper’s lodge +which is there. I could tell you now how to get from place to place, +and exactly what trees you’d pass, and where you’d cross the roads. You +see, I played there when I was small. Spring is good, but it’s best in +the autumn when the deer are barking; then it gets dusky, and I go back +through the streets, and you can’t see people properly; they come past +very quick, you just see their faces and then they’re gone—that’s what +I like—and no one knows in the least what you’re doing—” + +“But you have to be back for tea, I suppose?” Hewet checked her. + +“Tea? Oh yes. Five o’clock. Then I say what I’ve done, and my aunts say +what they’ve done, and perhaps some one comes in: Mrs. Hunt, let’s +suppose. She’s an old lady with a lame leg. She has or she once had +eight children; so we ask after them. They’re all over the world; so we +ask where they are, and sometimes they’re ill, or they’re stationed in +a cholera district, or in some place where it only rains once in five +months. Mrs. Hunt,” she said with a smile, “had a son who was hugged to +death by a bear.” + +Here she stopped and looked at Hewet to see whether he was amused by +the same things that amused her. She was reassured. But she thought it +necessary to apologise again; she had been talking too much. + +“You can’t conceive how it interests me,” he said. Indeed, his +cigarette had gone out, and he had to light another. + +“Why does it interest you?” she asked. + +“Partly because you’re a woman,” he replied. When he said this, Rachel, +who had become oblivious of anything, and had reverted to a childlike +state of interest and pleasure, lost her freedom and became +self-conscious. She felt herself at once singular and under +observation, as she felt with St. John Hirst. She was about to launch +into an argument which would have made them both feel bitterly against +each other, and to define sensations which had no such importance as +words were bound to give them when Hewet led her thoughts in a +different direction. + +“I’ve often walked along the streets where people live all in a row, +and one house is exactly like another house, and wondered what on earth +the women were doing inside,” he said. “Just consider: it’s the +beginning of the twentieth century, and until a few years ago no woman +had ever come out by herself and said things at all. There it was going +on in the background, for all those thousands of years, this curious +silent unrepresented life. Of course we’re always writing about +women—abusing them, or jeering at them, or worshipping them; but it’s +never come from women themselves. I believe we still don’t know in the +least how they live, or what they feel, or what they do precisely. If +one’s a man, the only confidences one gets are from young women about +their love affairs. But the lives of women of forty, of unmarried +women, of working women, of women who keep shops and bring up children, +of women like your aunts or Mrs. Thornbury or Miss Allan—one knows +nothing whatever about them. They won’t tell you. Either they’re +afraid, or they’ve got a way of treating men. It’s the man’s view +that’s represented, you see. Think of a railway train: fifteen +carriages for men who want to smoke. Doesn’t it make your blood boil? +If I were a woman I’d blow some one’s brains out. Don’t you laugh at us +a great deal? Don’t you think it all a great humbug? You, I mean—how +does it all strike you?” + +His determination to know, while it gave meaning to their talk, +hampered her; he seemed to press further and further, and made it +appear so important. She took some time to answer, and during that time +she went over and over the course of her twenty-four years, lighting +now on one point, now on another—on her aunts, her mother, her father, +and at last her mind fixed upon her aunts and her father, and she tried +to describe them as at this distance they appeared to her. + +They were very much afraid of her father. He was a great dim force in +the house, by means of which they held on to the great world which is +represented every morning in the _Times_. But the real life of the +house was something quite different from this. It went on independently +of Mr. Vinrace, and tended to hide itself from him. He was +good-humoured towards them, but contemptuous. She had always taken it +for granted that his point of view was just, and founded upon an ideal +scale of things where the life of one person was absolutely more +important than the life of another, and that in that scale they were of +much less importance than he was. But did she really believe that? +Hewet’s words made her think. She always submitted to her father, just +as they did, but it was her aunts who influenced her really; her aunts +who built up the fine, closely woven substance of their life at home. +They were less splendid but more natural than her father was. All her +rages had been against them; it was their world with its four meals, +its punctuality, and servants on the stairs at half-past ten, that she +examined so closely and wanted so vehemently to smash to atoms. +Following these thoughts she looked up and said: + +“And there’s a sort of beauty in it—there they are at Richmond at this +very moment building things up. They’re all wrong, perhaps, but there’s +a sort of beauty in it,” she repeated. “It’s so unconscious, so modest. +And yet they feel things. They do mind if people die. Old spinsters are +always doing things. I don’t quite know what they do. Only that was +what I felt when I lived with them. It was very real.” + +She reviewed their little journeys to and fro, to Walworth, to +charwomen with bad legs, to meetings for this and that, their minute +acts of charity and unselfishness which flowered punctually from a +definite view of what they ought to do, their friendships, their tastes +and habits; she saw all these things like grains of sand falling, +falling through innumerable days, making an atmosphere and building up +a solid mass, a background. Hewet observed her as she considered this. + +“Were you happy?” he demanded. + +Again she had become absorbed in something else, and he called her back +to an unusually vivid consciousness of herself. + +“I was both,” she replied. “I was happy and I was miserable. You’ve no +conception what it’s like—to be a young woman.” She looked straight at +him. “There are terrors and agonies,” she said, keeping her eye on him +as if to detect the slightest hint of laughter. + +“I can believe it,” he said. He returned her look with perfect +sincerity. + +“Women one sees in the streets,” she said. + +“Prostitutes?” + +“Men kissing one.” + +He nodded his head. + +“You were never told?” + +She shook her head. + +“And then,” she began and stopped. Here came in the great space of life +into which no one had ever penetrated. All that she had been saying +about her father and her aunts and walks in Richmond Park, and what +they did from hour to hour, was merely on the surface. Hewet was +watching her. Did he demand that she should describe that also? Why did +he sit so near and keep his eye on her? Why did they not have done with +this searching and agony? Why did they not kiss each other simply? She +wished to kiss him. But all the time she went on spinning out words. + +“A girl is more lonely than a boy. No one cares in the least what she +does. Nothing’s expected of her. Unless one’s very pretty people don’t +listen to what you say. . . . And that is what I like,” she added +energetically, as if the memory were very happy. “I like walking in +Richmond Park and singing to myself and knowing it doesn’t matter a +damn to anybody. I like seeing things go on—as we saw you that night +when you didn’t see us—I love the freedom of it—it’s like being the +wind or the sea.” She turned with a curious fling of her hands and +looked at the sea. It was still very blue, dancing away as far as the +eye could reach, but the light on it was yellower, and the clouds were +turning flamingo red. + +A feeling of intense depression crossed Hewet’s mind as she spoke. It +seemed plain that she would never care for one person rather than +another; she was evidently quite indifferent to him; they seemed to +come very near, and then they were as far apart as ever again; and her +gesture as she turned away had been oddly beautiful. + +“Nonsense,” he said abruptly. “You like people. You like admiration. +Your real grudge against Hirst is that he doesn’t admire you.” + +She made no answer for some time. Then she said: + +“That’s probably true. Of course I like people—I like almost every one +I’ve ever met.” + +She turned her back on the sea and regarded Hewet with friendly if +critical eyes. He was good-looking in the sense that he had always had +a sufficiency of beef to eat and fresh air to breathe. His head was +big; the eyes were also large; though generally vague they could be +forcible; and the lips were sensitive. One might account him a man of +considerable passion and fitful energy, likely to be at the mercy of +moods which had little relation to facts; at once tolerant and +fastidious. The breadth of his forehead showed capacity for thought. +The interest with which Rachel looked at him was heard in her voice. + +“What novels do you write?” she asked. + +“I want to write a novel about Silence,” he said; “the things people +don’t say. But the difficulty is immense.” He sighed. “However, you +don’t care,” he continued. He looked at her almost severely. “Nobody +cares. All you read a novel for is to see what sort of person the +writer is, and, if you know him, which of his friends he’s put in. As +for the novel itself, the whole conception, the way one’s seen the +thing, felt about it, make it stand in relation to other things, not +one in a million cares for that. And yet I sometimes wonder whether +there’s anything else in the whole world worth doing. These other +people,” he indicated the hotel, “are always wanting something they +can’t get. But there’s an extraordinary satisfaction in writing, even +in the attempt to write. What you said just now is true: one doesn’t +want to be things; one wants merely to be allowed to see them.” + +Some of the satisfaction of which he spoke came into his face as he +gazed out to sea. + +It was Rachel’s turn now to feel depressed. As he talked of writing he +had become suddenly impersonal. He might never care for any one; all +that desire to know her and get at her, which she had felt pressing on +her almost painfully, had completely vanished. + +“Are you a good writer?” she asked. + +“Yes,” he said. “I’m not first-rate, of course; I’m good second-rate; +about as good as Thackeray, I should say.” + +Rachel was amazed. For one thing it amazed her to hear Thackeray called +second-rate; and then she could not widen her point of view to believe +that there could be great writers in existence at the present day, or +if there were, that any one she knew could be a great writer, and his +self-confidence astounded her, and he became more and more remote. + +“My other novel,” Hewet continued, “is about a young man who is +obsessed by an idea—the idea of being a gentleman. He manages to exist +at Cambridge on a hundred pounds a year. He has a coat; it was once a +very good coat. But the trousers—they’re not so good. Well, he goes up +to London, gets into good society, owing to an early-morning adventure +on the banks of the Serpentine. He is led into telling lies—my idea, +you see, is to show the gradual corruption of the soul—calls himself +the son of some great landed proprietor in Devonshire. Meanwhile the +coat becomes older and older, and he hardly dares to wear the trousers. +Can’t you imagine the wretched man, after some splendid evening of +debauchery, contemplating these garments—hanging them over the end of +the bed, arranging them now in full light, now in shade, and wondering +whether they will survive him, or he will survive them? Thoughts of +suicide cross his mind. He has a friend, too, a man who somehow +subsists upon selling small birds, for which he sets traps in the +fields near Uxbridge. They’re scholars, both of them. I know one or two +wretched starving creatures like that who quote Aristotle at you over a +fried herring and a pint of porter. Fashionable life, too, I have to +represent at some length, in order to show my hero under all +circumstances. Lady Theo Bingham Bingley, whose bay mare he had the +good fortune to stop, is the daughter of a very fine old Tory peer. I’m +going to describe the kind of parties I once went to—the fashionable +intellectuals, you know, who like to have the latest book on their +tables. They give parties, river parties, parties where you play games. +There’s no difficulty in conceiving incidents; the difficulty is to put +them into shape—not to get run away with, as Lady Theo was. It ended +disastrously for her, poor woman, for the book, as I planned it, was +going to end in profound and sordid respectability. Disowned by her +father, she marries my hero, and they live in a snug little villa +outside Croydon, in which town he is set up as a house agent. He never +succeeds in becoming a real gentleman after all. That’s the interesting +part of it. Does it seem to you the kind of book you’d like to read?” +he enquired; “or perhaps you’d like my Stuart tragedy better,” he +continued, without waiting for her to answer him. “My idea is that +there’s a certain quality of beauty in the past, which the ordinary +historical novelist completely ruins by his absurd conventions. The +moon becomes the Regent of the Skies. People clap spurs to their +horses, and so on. I’m going to treat people as though they were +exactly the same as we are. The advantage is that, detached from modern +conditions, one can make them more intense and more abstract than +people who live as we do.” + +Rachel had listened to all this with attention, but with a certain +amount of bewilderment. They both sat thinking their own thoughts. + +“I’m not like Hirst,” said Hewet, after a pause; he spoke meditatively; +“I don’t see circles of chalk between people’s feet. I sometimes wish I +did. It seems to me so tremendously complicated and confused. One can’t +come to any decision at all; one’s less and less capable of making +judgments. D’you find that? And then one never knows what any one +feels. We’re all in the dark. We try to find out, but can you imagine +anything more ludicrous than one person’s opinion of another person? +One goes along thinking one knows; but one really doesn’t know.” + +As he said this he was leaning on his elbow arranging and rearranging +in the grass the stones which had represented Rachel and her aunts at +luncheon. He was speaking as much to himself as to Rachel. He was +reasoning against the desire, which had returned with intensity, to +take her in his arms; to have done with indirectness; to explain +exactly what he felt. What he said was against his belief; all the +things that were important about her he knew; he felt them in the air +around them; but he said nothing; he went on arranging the stones. + +“I like you; d’you like me?” Rachel suddenly observed. + +“I like you immensely,” Hewet replied, speaking with the relief of a +person who is unexpectedly given an opportunity of saying what he wants +to say. He stopped moving the pebbles. + +“Mightn’t we call each other Rachel and Terence?” he asked. + +“Terence,” Rachel repeated. “Terence—that’s like the cry of an owl.” + +She looked up with a sudden rush of delight, and in looking at Terence +with eyes widened by pleasure she was struck by the change that had +come over the sky behind them. The substantial blue day had faded to a +paler and more ethereal blue; the clouds were pink, far away and +closely packed together; and the peace of evening had replaced the heat +of the southern afternoon, in which they had started on their walk. + +“It must be late!” she exclaimed. + +It was nearly eight o’clock. + +“But eight o’clock doesn’t count here, does it?” Terence asked, as they +got up and turned inland again. They began to walk rather quickly down +the hill on a little path between the olive trees. + +They felt more intimate because they shared the knowledge of what eight +o’clock in Richmond meant. Terence walked in front, for there was not +room for them side by side. + +“What I want to do in writing novels is very much what you want to do +when you play the piano, I expect,” he began, turning and speaking over +his shoulder. “We want to find out what’s behind things, don’t we?—Look +at the lights down there,” he continued, “scattered about anyhow. +Things I feel come to me like lights. . . . I want to combine them. . . +. Have you ever seen fireworks that make figures? . . . I want to make +figures. . . . Is that what you want to do?” + +Now they were out on the road and could walk side by side. + +“When I play the piano? Music is different. . . . But I see what you +mean.” They tried to invent theories and to make their theories agree. +As Hewet had no knowledge of music, Rachel took his stick and drew +figures in the thin white dust to explain how Bach wrote his fugues. + +“My musical gift was ruined,” he explained, as they walked on after one +of these demonstrations, “by the village organist at home, who had +invented a system of notation which he tried to teach me, with the +result that I never got to the tune-playing at all. My mother thought +music wasn’t manly for boys; she wanted me to kill rats and +birds—that’s the worst of living in the country. We live in Devonshire. +It’s the loveliest place in the world. Only—it’s always difficult at +home when one’s grown up. I’d like you to know one of my sisters. . . . +Oh, here’s your gate—” He pushed it open. They paused for a moment. She +could not ask him to come in. She could not say that she hoped they +would meet again; there was nothing to be said, and so without a word +she went through the gate, and was soon invisible. Directly Hewet lost +sight of her, he felt the old discomfort return, even more strongly +than before. Their talk had been interrupted in the middle, just as he +was beginning to say the things he wanted to say. After all, what had +they been able to say? He ran his mind over the things they had said, +the random, unnecessary things which had eddied round and round and +used up all the time, and drawn them so close together and flung them +so far apart, and left him in the end unsatisfied, ignorant still of +what she felt and of what she was like. What was the use of talking, +talking, merely talking? + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +It was now the height of the season, and every ship that came from +England left a few people on the shores of Santa Marina who drove up to +the hotel. The fact that the Ambroses had a house where one could +escape momentarily from the slightly inhuman atmosphere of an hotel was +a source of genuine pleasure not only to Hirst and Hewet, but to the +Elliots, the Thornburys, the Flushings, Miss Allan, Evelyn M., together +with other people whose identity was so little developed that the +Ambroses did not discover that they possessed names. By degrees there +was established a kind of correspondence between the two houses, the +big and the small, so that at most hours of the day one house could +guess what was going on in the other, and the words “the villa” and +“the hotel” called up the idea of two separate systems of life. +Acquaintances showed signs of developing into friends, for that one tie +to Mrs. Parry’s drawing-room had inevitably split into many other ties +attached to different parts of England, and sometimes these alliances +seemed cynically fragile, and sometimes painfully acute, lacking as +they did the supporting background of organised English life. One night +when the moon was round between the trees, Evelyn M. told Helen the +story of her life, and claimed her everlasting friendship; on another +occasion, merely because of a sigh, or a pause, or a word thoughtlessly +dropped, poor Mrs. Elliot left the villa half in tears, vowing never +again to meet the cold and scornful woman who had insulted her, and in +truth, meet again they never did. It did not seem worth while to piece +together so slight a friendship. + +Hewet, indeed, might have found excellent material at this time up at +the villa for some chapters in the novel which was to be called +“Silence, or the Things People don’t say.” Helen and Rachel had become +very silent. Having detected, as she thought, a secret, and judging +that Rachel meant to keep it from her, Mrs. Ambrose respected it +carefully, but from that cause, though unintentionally, a curious +atmosphere of reserve grew up between them. Instead of sharing their +views upon all subjects, and plunging after an idea wherever it might +lead, they spoke chiefly in comment upon the people they saw, and the +secret between them made itself felt in what they said even of +Thornburys and Elliots. Always calm and unemotional in her judgments, +Mrs. Ambrose was now inclined to be definitely pessimistic. She was not +severe upon individuals so much as incredulous of the kindness of +destiny, fate, what happens in the long run, and apt to insist that +this was generally adverse to people in proportion as they deserved +well. Even this theory she was ready to discard in favour of one which +made chaos triumphant, things happening for no reason at all, and every +one groping about in illusion and ignorance. With a certain pleasure +she developed these views to her niece, taking a letter from home as +her test: which gave good news, but might just as well have given bad. +How did she know that at this very moment both her children were not +lying dead, crushed by motor omnibuses? “It’s happening to somebody: +why shouldn’t it happen to me?” she would argue, her face taking on the +stoical expression of anticipated sorrow. However sincere these views +may have been, they were undoubtedly called forth by the irrational +state of her niece’s mind. It was so fluctuating, and went so quickly +from joy to despair, that it seemed necessary to confront it with some +stable opinion which naturally became dark as well as stable. Perhaps +Mrs. Ambrose had some idea that in leading the talk into these quarters +she might discover what was in Rachel’s mind, but it was difficult to +judge, for sometimes she would agree with the gloomiest thing that was +said, at other times she refused to listen, and rammed Helen’s theories +down her throat with laughter, chatter, ridicule of the wildest, and +fierce bursts of anger even at what she called the “croaking of a raven +in the mud.” + +“It’s hard enough without that,” she asserted. + +“What’s hard?” Helen demanded. + +“Life,” she replied, and then they both became silent. + +Helen might draw her own conclusions as to why life was hard, as to why +an hour later, perhaps, life was something so wonderful and vivid that +the eyes of Rachel beholding it were positively exhilarating to a +spectator. True to her creed, she did not attempt to interfere, +although there were enough of those weak moments of depression to make +it perfectly easy for a less scrupulous person to press through and +know all, and perhaps Rachel was sorry that she did not choose. All +these moods ran themselves into one general effect, which Helen +compared to the sliding of a river, quick, quicker, quicker still, as +it races to a waterfall. Her instinct was to cry out Stop! but even had +there been any use in crying Stop! she would have refrained, thinking +it best that things should take their way, the water racing because the +earth was shaped to make it race. + +It seemed that Rachel herself had no suspicion that she was watched, or +that there was anything in her manner likely to draw attention to her. +What had happened to her she did not know. Her mind was very much in +the condition of the racing water to which Helen compared it. She +wanted to see Terence; she was perpetually wishing to see him when he +was not there; it was an agony to miss seeing him; agonies were strewn +all about her day on account of him, but she never asked herself what +this force driving through her life arose from. She thought of no +result any more than a tree perpetually pressed downwards by the wind +considers the result of being pressed downwards by the wind. + +During the two or three weeks which had passed since their walk, half a +dozen notes from him had accumulated in her drawer. She would read +them, and spend the whole morning in a daze of happiness; the sunny +land outside the window being no less capable of analysing its own +colour and heat than she was of analysing hers. In these moods she +found it impossible to read or play the piano, even to move being +beyond her inclination. The time passed without her noticing it. When +it was dark she was drawn to the window by the lights of the hotel. A +light that went in and out was the light in Terence’s window: there he +sat, reading perhaps, or now he was walking up and down pulling out one +book after another; and now he was seated in his chair again, and she +tried to imagine what he was thinking about. The steady lights marked +the rooms where Terence sat with people moving round him. Every one who +stayed in the hotel had a peculiar romance and interest about them. +They were not ordinary people. She would attribute wisdom to Mrs. +Elliot, beauty to Susan Warrington, a splendid vitality to Evelyn M., +because Terence spoke to them. As unreflecting and pervasive were the +moods of depression. Her mind was as the landscape outside when dark +beneath clouds and straitly lashed by wind and hail. Again she would +sit passive in her chair exposed to pain, and Helen’s fantastical or +gloomy words were like so many darts goading her to cry out against the +hardness of life. Best of all were the moods when for no reason again +this stress of feeling slackened, and life went on as usual, only with +a joy and colour in its events that was unknown before; they had a +significance like that which she had seen in the tree: the nights were +black bars separating her from the days; she would have liked to run +all the days into one long continuity of sensation. Although these +moods were directly or indirectly caused by the presence of Terence or +the thought of him, she never said to herself that she was in love with +him, or considered what was to happen if she continued to feel such +things, so that Helen’s image of the river sliding on to the waterfall +had a great likeness to the facts, and the alarm which Helen sometimes +felt was justified. + +In her curious condition of unanalysed sensations she was incapable of +making a plan which should have any effect upon her state of mind. She +abandoned herself to the mercy of accidents, missing Terence one day, +meeting him the next, receiving his letters always with a start of +surprise. Any woman experienced in the progress of courtship would have +come by certain opinions from all this which would have given her at +least a theory to go upon; but no one had ever been in love with +Rachel, and she had never been in love with any one. Moreover, none of +the books she read, from _Wuthering Heights_ to _Man and Superman_, and +the plays of Ibsen, suggested from their analysis of love that what +their heroines felt was what she was feeling now. It seemed to her that +her sensations had no name. + +She met Terence frequently. When they did not meet, he was apt to send +a note with a book or about a book, for he had not been able after all +to neglect that approach to intimacy. But sometimes he did not come or +did not write for several days at a time. Again when they met their +meeting might be one of inspiriting joy or of harassing despair. Over +all their partings hung the sense of interruption, leaving them both +unsatisfied, though ignorant that the other shared the feeling. + +If Rachel was ignorant of her own feelings, she was even more +completely ignorant of his. At first he moved as a god; as she came to +know him better he was still the centre of light, but combined with +this beauty a wonderful power of making her daring and confident of +herself. She was conscious of emotions and powers which she had never +suspected in herself, and of a depth in the world hitherto unknown. +When she thought of their relationship she saw rather than reasoned, +representing her view of what Terence felt by a picture of him drawn +across the room to stand by her side. This passage across the room +amounted to a physical sensation, but what it meant she did not know. + +Thus the time went on, wearing a calm, bright look upon its surface. +Letters came from England, letters came from Willoughby, and the days +accumulated their small events which shaped the year. Superficially, +three odes of Pindar were mended, Helen covered about five inches of +her embroidery, and St. John completed the first two acts of a play. He +and Rachel being now very good friends, he read them aloud to her, and +she was so genuinely impressed by the skill of his rhythms and the +variety of his adjectives, as well as by the fact that he was Terence’s +friend, that he began to wonder whether he was not intended for +literature rather than for law. It was a time of profound thought and +sudden revelations for more than one couple, and several single people. + +A Sunday came, which no one in the villa with the exception of Rachel +and the Spanish maid proposed to recognise. Rachel still went to +church, because she had never, according to Helen, taken the trouble to +think about it. Since they had celebrated the service at the hotel she +went there expecting to get some pleasure from her passage across the +garden and through the hall of the hotel, although it was very doubtful +whether she would see Terence, or at any rate have the chance of +speaking to him. + +As the greater number of visitors at the hotel were English, there was +almost as much difference between Sunday and Wednesday as there is in +England, and Sunday appeared here as there, the mute black ghost or +penitent spirit of the busy weekday. The English could not pale the +sunshine, but they could in some miraculous way slow down the hours, +dull the incidents, lengthen the meals, and make even the servants and +page-boys wear a look of boredom and propriety. The best clothes which +every one put on helped the general effect; it seemed that no lady +could sit down without bending a clean starched petticoat, and no +gentleman could breathe without a sudden crackle from a stiff +shirt-front. As the hands of the clock neared eleven, on this +particular Sunday, various people tended to draw together in the hall, +clasping little red-leaved books in their hands. The clock marked a few +minutes to the hour when a stout black figure passed through the hall +with a preoccupied expression, as though he would rather not recognise +salutations, although aware of them, and disappeared down the corridor +which led from it. + +“Mr. Bax,” Mrs. Thornbury whispered. + +The little group of people then began to move off in the same direction +as the stout black figure. Looked at in an odd way by people who made +no effort to join them, they moved with one exception slowly and +consciously towards the stairs. Mrs. Flushing was the exception. She +came running downstairs, strode across the hall, joined the procession +much out of breath, demanding of Mrs. Thornbury in an agitated whisper, +“Where, where?” + +“We are all going,” said Mrs. Thornbury gently, and soon they were +descending the stairs two by two. Rachel was among the first to +descend. She did not see that Terence and Hirst came in at the rear +possessed of no black volume, but of one thin book bound in light-blue +cloth, which St. John carried under his arm. + +The chapel was the old chapel of the monks. It was a profound cool +place where they had said Mass for hundreds of years, and done penance +in the cold moonlight, and worshipped old brown pictures and carved +saints which stood with upraised hands of blessing in the hollows in +the walls. The transition from Catholic to Protestant worship had been +bridged by a time of disuse, when there were no services, and the place +was used for storing jars of oil, liqueur, and deck-chairs; the hotel +flourishing, some religious body had taken the place in hand, and it +was now fitted out with a number of glazed yellow benches, +claret-coloured footstools; it had a small pulpit, and a brass eagle +carrying the Bible on its back, while the piety of different women had +supplied ugly squares of carpet, and long strips of embroidery heavily +wrought with monograms in gold. + +As the congregation entered they were met by mild sweet chords issuing +from a harmonium, where Miss Willett, concealed from view by a baize +curtain, struck emphatic chords with uncertain fingers. The sound +spread through the chapel as the rings of water spread from a fallen +stone. The twenty or twenty-five people who composed the congregation +first bowed their heads and then sat up and looked about them. It was +very quiet, and the light down here seemed paler than the light above. +The usual bows and smiles were dispensed with, but they recognised each +other. The Lord’s Prayer was read over them. As the childlike battle of +voices rose, the congregation, many of whom had only met on the +staircase, felt themselves pathetically united and well-disposed +towards each other. As if the prayer were a torch applied to fuel, a +smoke seemed to rise automatically and fill the place with the ghosts +of innumerable services on innumerable Sunday mornings at home. Susan +Warrington in particular was conscious of the sweetest sense of +sisterhood, as she covered her face with her hands and saw slips of +bent backs through the chinks between her fingers. Her emotions rose +calmly and evenly, approving of herself and of life at the same time. +It was all so quiet and so good. But having created this peaceful +atmosphere Mr. Bax suddenly turned the page and read a psalm. Though he +read it with no change of voice the mood was broken. + +“Be merciful unto me, O God,” he read, “for man goeth about to devour +me: he is daily fighting and troubling me. . . . They daily mistake my +words: all that they imagine is to do me evil. They hold all together +and keep themselves close. . . . Break their teeth, O God, in their +mouths; smite the jaw-bones of the lions, O Lord: let them fall away +like water that runneth apace; and when they shoot their arrows let +them be rooted out.” + +Nothing in Susan’s experience at all corresponded with this, and as she +had no love of language she had long ceased to attend to such remarks, +although she followed them with the same kind of mechanical respect +with which she heard many of Lear’s speeches read aloud. Her mind was +still serene and really occupied with praise of her own nature and +praise of God, that is of the solemn and satisfactory order of the +world. + +But it could be seen from a glance at their faces that most of the +others, the men in particular, felt the inconvenience of the sudden +intrusion of this old savage. They looked more secular and critical as +they listened to the ravings of the old black man with a cloth round +his loins cursing with vehement gesture by a camp-fire in the desert. +After that there was a general sound of pages being turned as if they +were in class, and then they read a little bit of the Old Testament +about making a well, very much as school boys translate an easy passage +from the _Anabasis_ when they have shut up their French grammar. Then +they returned to the New Testament and the sad and beautiful figure of +Christ. While Christ spoke they made another effort to fit his +interpretation of life upon the lives they lived, but as they were all +very different, some practical, some ambitious, some stupid, some wild +and experimental, some in love, and others long past any feeling except +a feeling of comfort, they did very different things with the words of +Christ. + +From their faces it seemed that for the most part they made no effort +at all, and, recumbent as it were, accepted the ideas the words gave as +representing goodness, in the same way, no doubt, as one of those +industrious needlewomen had accepted the bright ugly pattern on her mat +as beauty. + +Whatever the reason might be, for the first time in her life, instead +of slipping at once into some curious pleasant cloud of emotion, too +familiar to be considered, Rachel listened critically to what was being +said. By the time they had swung in an irregular way from prayer to +psalm, from psalm to history, from history to poetry, and Mr. Bax was +giving out his text, she was in a state of acute discomfort. Such was +the discomfort she felt when forced to sit through an unsatisfactory +piece of music badly played. Tantalised, enraged by the clumsy +insensitiveness of the conductor, who put the stress on the wrong +places, and annoyed by the vast flock of the audience tamely praising +and acquiescing without knowing or caring, so she was now tantalised +and enraged, only here, with eyes half-shut and lips pursed together, +the atmosphere of forced solemnity increased her anger. All round her +were people pretending to feel what they did not feel, while somewhere +above her floated the idea which they could none of them grasp, which +they pretended to grasp, always escaping out of reach, a beautiful +idea, an idea like a butterfly. One after another, vast and hard and +cold, appeared to her the churches all over the world where this +blundering effort and misunderstanding were perpetually going on, great +buildings, filled with innumerable men and women, not seeing clearly, +who finally gave up the effort to see, and relapsed tamely into praise +and acquiescence, half-shutting their eyes and pursing up their lips. +The thought had the same sort of physical discomfort as is caused by a +film of mist always coming between the eyes and the printed page. She +did her best to brush away the film and to conceive something to be +worshipped as the service went on, but failed, always misled by the +voice of Mr. Bax saying things which misrepresented the idea, and by +the patter of baaing inexpressive human voices falling round her like +damp leaves. The effort was tiring and dispiriting. She ceased to +listen, and fixed her eyes on the face of a woman near her, a hospital +nurse, whose expression of devout attention seemed to prove that she +was at any rate receiving satisfaction. But looking at her carefully +she came to the conclusion that the hospital nurse was only slavishly +acquiescent, and that the look of satisfaction was produced by no +splendid conception of God within her. How, indeed, could she conceive +anything far outside her own experience, a woman with a commonplace +face like hers, a little round red face, upon which trivial duties and +trivial spites had drawn lines, whose weak blue eyes saw without +intensity or individuality, whose features were blurred, insensitive, +and callous? She was adoring something shallow and smug, clinging to +it, so the obstinate mouth witnessed, with the assiduity of a limpet; +nothing would tear her from her demure belief in her own virtue and the +virtues of her religion. She was a limpet, with the sensitive side of +her stuck to a rock, for ever dead to the rush of fresh and beautiful +things past her. The face of this single worshipper became printed on +Rachel’s mind with an impression of keen horror, and she had it +suddenly revealed to her what Helen meant and St. John meant when they +proclaimed their hatred of Christianity. With the violence that now +marked her feelings, she rejected all that she had implicitly believed. + +Meanwhile Mr. Bax was half-way through the second lesson. She looked at +him. He was a man of the world with supple lips and an agreeable +manner, he was indeed a man of much kindliness and simplicity, though +by no means clever, but she was not in the mood to give any one credit +for such qualities, and examined him as though he were an epitome of +all the vices of his service. + +Right at the back of the chapel Mrs. Flushing, Hirst, and Hewet sat in +a row in a very different frame of mind. Hewet was staring at the roof +with his legs stuck out in front of him, for as he had never tried to +make the service fit any feeling or idea of his, he was able to enjoy +the beauty of the language without hindrance. His mind was occupied +first with accidental things, such as the women’s hair in front of him, +the light on the faces, then with the words which seemed to him +magnificent, and then more vaguely with the characters of the other +worshippers. But when he suddenly perceived Rachel, all these thoughts +were driven out of his head, and he thought only of her. The psalms, +the prayers, the Litany, and the sermon were all reduced to one +chanting sound which paused, and then renewed itself, a little higher +or a little lower. He stared alternately at Rachel and at the ceiling, +but his expression was now produced not by what he saw but by something +in his mind. He was almost as painfully disturbed by his thoughts as +she was by hers. + +Early in the service Mrs. Flushing had discovered that she had taken up +a Bible instead of a prayer-book, and, as she was sitting next to +Hirst, she stole a glance over his shoulder. He was reading steadily in +the thin pale-blue volume. Unable to understand, she peered closer, +upon which Hirst politely laid the book before her, pointing to the +first line of a Greek poem and then to the translation opposite. + +“What’s that?” she whispered inquisitively. + +“Sappho,” he replied. “The one Swinburne did—the best thing that’s ever +been written.” + +Mrs. Flushing could not resist such an opportunity. She gulped down the +Ode to Aphrodite during the Litany, keeping herself with difficulty +from asking when Sappho lived, and what else she wrote worth reading, +and contriving to come in punctually at the end with “the forgiveness +of sins, the Resurrection of the body, and the life everlastin’. Amen.” + +Meanwhile Hirst took out an envelope and began scribbling on the back +of it. When Mr. Bax mounted the pulpit he shut up Sappho with his +envelope between the pages, settled his spectacles, and fixed his gaze +intently upon the clergyman. Standing in the pulpit he looked very +large and fat; the light coming through the greenish unstained +window-glass made his face appear smooth and white like a very large +egg. + +He looked round at all the faces looking mildly up at him, although +some of them were the faces of men and women old enough to be his +grandparents, and gave out his text with weighty significance. The +argument of the sermon was that visitors to this beautiful land, +although they were on a holiday, owed a duty to the natives. It did +not, in truth, differ very much from a leading article upon topics of +general interest in the weekly newspapers. It rambled with a kind of +amiable verbosity from one heading to another, suggesting that all +human beings are very much the same under their skins, illustrating +this by the resemblance of the games which little Spanish boys play to +the games little boys in London streets play, observing that very small +things do influence people, particularly natives; in fact, a very dear +friend of Mr. Bax’s had told him that the success of our rule in India, +that vast country, largely depended upon the strict code of politeness +which the English adopted towards the natives, which led to the remark +that small things were not necessarily small, and that somehow to the +virtue of sympathy, which was a virtue never more needed than to-day, +when we lived in a time of experiment and upheaval—witness the +aeroplane and wireless telegraph, and there were other problems which +hardly presented themselves to our fathers, but which no man who called +himself a man could leave unsettled. Here Mr. Bax became more +definitely clerical, if it were possible, he seemed to speak with a +certain innocent craftiness, as he pointed out that all this laid a +special duty upon earnest Christians. What men were inclined to say now +was, “Oh, that fellow—he’s a parson.” What we want them to say is, +“He’s a good fellow”—in other words, “He is my brother.” He exhorted +them to keep in touch with men of the modern type; they must sympathise +with their multifarious interests in order to keep before their eyes +that whatever discoveries were made there was one discovery which could +not be superseded, which was indeed as much of a necessity to the most +successful and most brilliant of them all as it had been to their +fathers. The humblest could help; the least important things had an +influence (here his manner became definitely priestly and his remarks +seemed to be directed to women, for indeed Mr. Bax’s congregations were +mainly composed of women, and he was used to assigning them their +duties in his innocent clerical campaigns). Leaving more definite +instruction, he passed on, and his theme broadened into a peroration +for which he drew a long breath and stood very upright,—“As a drop of +water, detached, alone, separate from others, falling from the cloud +and entering the great ocean, alters, so scientists tell us, not only +the immediate spot in the ocean where it falls, but all the myriad +drops which together compose the great universe of waters, and by this +means alters the configuration of the globe and the lives of millions +of sea creatures, and finally the lives of the men and women who seek +their living upon the shores—as all this is within the compass of a +single drop of water, such as any rain shower sends in millions to lose +themselves in the earth, to lose themselves we say, but we know very +well that the fruits of the earth could not flourish without them—so is +a marvel comparable to this within the reach of each one of us, who +dropping a little word or a little deed into the great universe alters +it; yea, it is a solemn thought, _alters_ it, for good or for evil, not +for one instant, or in one vicinity, but throughout the entire race, +and for all eternity.” Whipping round as though to avoid applause, he +continued with the same breath, but in a different tone of voice,—“And +now to God the Father . . .” + +He gave his blessing, and then, while the solemn chords again issued +from the harmonium behind the curtain, the different people began +scraping and fumbling and moving very awkwardly and consciously towards +the door. Half-way upstairs, at a point where the light and sounds of +the upper world conflicted with the dimness and the dying hymn-tune of +the under, Rachel felt a hand drop upon her shoulder. + +“Miss Vinrace,” Mrs. Flushing whispered peremptorily, “stay to +luncheon. It’s such a dismal day. They don’t even give one beef for +luncheon. Please stay.” + +Here they came out into the hall, where once more the little band was +greeted with curious respectful glances by the people who had not gone +to church, although their clothing made it clear that they approved of +Sunday to the very verge of going to church. Rachel felt unable to +stand any more of this particular atmosphere, and was about to say she +must go back, when Terence passed them, drawn along in talk with Evelyn +M. Rachel thereupon contented herself with saying that the people +looked very respectable, which negative remark Mrs. Flushing +interpreted to mean that she would stay. + +“English people abroad!” she returned with a vivid flash of malice. +“Ain’t they awful! But we won’t stay here,” she continued, plucking at +Rachel’s arm. “Come up to my room.” + +She bore her past Hewet and Evelyn and the Thornburys and the Elliots. +Hewet stepped forward. + +“Luncheon—” he began. + +“Miss Vinrace has promised to lunch with me,” said Mrs. Flushing, and +began to pound energetically up the staircase, as though the middle +classes of England were in pursuit. She did not stop until she had +slammed her bedroom door behind them. + +“Well, what did you think of it?” she demanded, panting slightly. + +All the disgust and horror which Rachel had been accumulating burst +forth beyond her control. + +“I thought it the most loathsome exhibition I’d ever seen!” she broke +out. “How can they—how dare they—what do you mean by it—Mr. Bax, +hospital nurses, old men, prostitutes, disgusting—” + +She hit off the points she remembered as fast as she could, but she was +too indignant to stop to analyse her feelings. Mrs. Flushing watched +her with keen gusto as she stood ejaculating with emphatic movements of +her head and hands in the middle of the room. + +“Go on, go on, do go on,” she laughed, clapping her hands. “It’s +delightful to hear you!” + +“But why do you go?” Rachel demanded. + +“I’ve been every Sunday of my life ever since I can remember,” Mrs. +Flushing chuckled, as though that were a reason by itself. + +Rachel turned abruptly to the window. She did not know what it was that +had put her into such a passion; the sight of Terence in the hall had +confused her thoughts, leaving her merely indignant. She looked +straight at their own villa, half-way up the side of the mountain. The +most familiar view seen framed through glass has a certain unfamiliar +distinction, and she grew calm as she gazed. Then she remembered that +she was in the presence of some one she did not know well, and she +turned and looked at Mrs. Flushing. Mrs. Flushing was still sitting on +the edge of the bed, looking up, with her lips parted, so that her +strong white teeth showed in two rows. + +“Tell me,” she said, “which d’you like best, Mr. Hewet or Mr. Hirst?” + +“Mr. Hewet,” Rachel replied, but her voice did not sound natural. + +“Which is the one who reads Greek in church?” Mrs. Flushing demanded. + +It might have been either of them and while Mrs. Flushing proceeded to +describe them both, and to say that both frightened her, but one +frightened her more than the other, Rachel looked for a chair. The +room, of course, was one of the largest and most luxurious in the +hotel. There were a great many arm-chairs and settees covered in brown +holland, but each of these was occupied by a large square piece of +yellow cardboard, and all the pieces of cardboard were dotted or lined +with spots or dashes of bright oil paint. + +“But you’re not to look at those,” said Mrs. Flushing as she saw +Rachel’s eye wander. She jumped up, and turned as many as she could, +face downwards, upon the floor. Rachel, however, managed to possess +herself of one of them, and, with the vanity of an artist, Mrs. +Flushing demanded anxiously, “Well, well?” + +“It’s a hill,” Rachel replied. There could be no doubt that Mrs. +Flushing had represented the vigorous and abrupt fling of the earth up +into the air; you could almost see the clods flying as it whirled. + +Rachel passed from one to another. They were all marked by something of +the jerk and decision of their maker; they were all perfectly untrained +onslaughts of the brush upon some half-realised idea suggested by hill +or tree; and they were all in some way characteristic of Mrs. Flushing. + +“I see things movin’,” Mrs. Flushing explained. “So”—she swept her hand +through a yard of the air. She then took up one of the cardboards which +Rachel had laid aside, seated herself on a stool, and began to flourish +a stump of charcoal. While she occupied herself in strokes which seemed +to serve her as speech serves others, Rachel, who was very restless, +looked about her. + +“Open the wardrobe,” said Mrs. Flushing after a pause, speaking +indistinctly because of a paint-brush in her mouth, “and look at the +things.” + +As Rachel hesitated, Mrs. Flushing came forward, still with a +paint-brush in her mouth, flung open the wings of her wardrobe, and +tossed a quantity of shawls, stuffs, cloaks, embroideries, on to the +bed. Rachel began to finger them. Mrs. Flushing came up once more, and +dropped a quantity of beads, brooches, earrings, bracelets, tassels, +and combs among the draperies. Then she went back to her stool and +began to paint in silence. The stuffs were coloured and dark and pale; +they made a curious swarm of lines and colours upon the counterpane, +with the reddish lumps of stone and peacocks’ feathers and clear pale +tortoise-shell combs lying among them. + +“The women wore them hundreds of years ago, they wear ’em still,” Mrs. +Flushing remarked. “My husband rides about and finds ’em; they don’t +know what they’re worth, so we get ’em cheap. And we shall sell ’em to +smart women in London,” she chuckled, as though the thought of these +ladies and their absurd appearance amused her. After painting for some +minutes, she suddenly laid down her brush and fixed her eyes upon +Rachel. + +“I tell you what I want to do,” she said. “I want to go up there and +see things for myself. It’s silly stayin’ here with a pack of old maids +as though we were at the seaside in England. I want to go up the river +and see the natives in their camps. It’s only a matter of ten days +under canvas. My husband’s done it. One would lie out under the trees +at night and be towed down the river by day, and if we saw anythin’ +nice we’d shout out and tell ’em to stop.” She rose and began piercing +the bed again and again with a long golden pin, as she watched to see +what effect her suggestion had upon Rachel. + +“We must make up a party,” she went on. “Ten people could hire a +launch. Now you’ll come, and Mrs. Ambrose’ll come, and will Mr. Hirst +and t’other gentleman come? Where’s a pencil?” + +She became more and more determined and excited as she evolved her +plan. She sat on the edge of the bed and wrote down a list of surnames, +which she invariably spelt wrong. Rachel was enthusiastic, for indeed +the idea was immeasurably delightful to her. She had always had a great +desire to see the river, and the name of Terence threw a lustre over +the prospect, which made it almost too good to come true. She did what +she could to help Mrs. Flushing by suggesting names, helping her to +spell them, and counting up the days of the week upon her fingers. As +Mrs. Flushing wanted to know all she could tell her about the birth and +pursuits of every person she suggested, and threw in wild stories of +her own as to the temperaments and habits of artists, and people of the +same name who used to come to Chillingley in the old days, but were +doubtless not the same, though they too were very clever men interested +in Egyptology, the business took some time. + +At last Mrs. Flushing sought her diary for help, the method of +reckoning dates on the fingers proving unsatisfactory. She opened and +shut every drawer in her writing-table, and then cried furiously, +“Yarmouth! Yarmouth! Drat the woman! She’s always out of the way when +she’s wanted!” + +At this moment the luncheon gong began to work itself into its midday +frenzy. Mrs. Flushing rang her bell violently. The door was opened by a +handsome maid who was almost as upright as her mistress. + +“Oh, Yarmouth,” said Mrs. Flushing, “just find my diary and see where +ten days from now would bring us to, and ask the hall porter how many +men ’ud be wanted to row eight people up the river for a week, and what +it ’ud cost, and put it on a slip of paper and leave it on my +dressing-table. Now—” she pointed at the door with a superb forefinger +so that Rachel had to lead the way. + +“Oh, and Yarmouth,” Mrs. Flushing called back over her shoulder. “Put +those things away and hang ’em in their right places, there’s a good +girl, or it fusses Mr. Flushin’.” + +To all of which Yarmouth merely replied, “Yes, ma’am.” + +As they entered the long dining-room it was obvious that the day was +still Sunday, although the mood was slightly abating. The Flushings’ +table was set by the side in the window, so that Mrs. Flushing could +scrutinise each figure as it entered, and her curiosity seemed to be +intense. + +“Old Mrs. Paley,” she whispered as the wheeled chair slowly made its +way through the door, Arthur pushing behind. “Thornburys” came next. +“That nice woman,” she nudged Rachel to look at Miss Allan. “What’s her +name?” The painted lady who always came in late, tripping into the room +with a prepared smile as though she came out upon a stage, might well +have quailed before Mrs. Flushing’s stare, which expressed her steely +hostility to the whole tribe of painted ladies. Next came the two young +men whom Mrs. Flushing called collectively the Hirsts. They sat down +opposite, across the gangway. + +Mr. Flushing treated his wife with a mixture of admiration and +indulgence, making up by the suavity and fluency of his speech for the +abruptness of hers. While she darted and ejaculated he gave Rachel a +sketch of the history of South American art. He would deal with one of +his wife’s exclamations, and then return as smoothly as ever to his +theme. He knew very well how to make a luncheon pass agreeably, without +being dull or intimate. He had formed the opinion, so he told Rachel, +that wonderful treasures lay hid in the depths of the land; the things +Rachel had seen were merely trifles picked up in the course of one +short journey. He thought there might be giant gods hewn out of stone +in the mountain-side; and colossal figures standing by themselves in +the middle of vast green pasture lands, where none but natives had ever +trod. Before the dawn of European art he believed that the primitive +huntsmen and priests had built temples of massive stone slabs, had +formed out of the dark rocks and the great cedar trees majestic figures +of gods and of beasts, and symbols of the great forces, water, air, and +forest among which they lived. There might be prehistoric towns, like +those in Greece and Asia, standing in open places among the trees, +filled with the works of this early race. Nobody had been there; +scarcely anything was known. Thus talking and displaying the most +picturesque of his theories, Rachel’s attention was fixed upon him. + +She did not see that Hewet kept looking at her across the gangway, +between the figures of waiters hurrying past with plates. He was +inattentive, and Hirst was finding him also very cross and +disagreeable. They had touched upon all the usual topics—upon politics +and literature, gossip and Christianity. They had quarrelled over the +service, which was every bit as fine as Sappho, according to Hewet; so +that Hirst’s paganism was mere ostentation. Why go to church, he +demanded, merely in order to read Sappho? Hirst observed that he had +listened to every word of the sermon, as he could prove if Hewet would +like a repetition of it; and he went to church in order to realise the +nature of his Creator, which he had done very vividly that morning, +thanks to Mr. Bax, who had inspired him to write three of the most +superb lines in English literature, an invocation to the Deity. + +“I wrote ’em on the back of the envelope of my aunt’s last letter,” he +said, and pulled it from between the pages of Sappho. + +“Well, let’s hear them,” said Hewet, slightly mollified by the prospect +of a literary discussion. + +“My dear Hewet, do you wish us both to be flung out of the hotel by an +enraged mob of Thornburys and Elliots?” Hirst enquired. “The merest +whisper would be sufficient to incriminate me for ever. God!” he broke +out, “what’s the use of attempting to write when the world’s peopled by +such damned fools? Seriously, Hewet, I advise you to give up +literature. What’s the good of it? There’s your audience.” + +He nodded his head at the tables where a very miscellaneous collection +of Europeans were now engaged in eating, in some cases in gnawing, the +stringy foreign fowls. Hewet looked, and grew more out of temper than +ever. Hirst looked too. His eyes fell upon Rachel, and he bowed to her. + +“I rather think Rachel’s in love with me,” he remarked, as his eyes +returned to his plate. “That’s the worst of friendships with young +women—they tend to fall in love with one.” + +To that Hewet made no answer whatever, and sat singularly still. Hirst +did not seem to mind getting no answer, for he returned to Mr. Bax +again, quoting the peroration about the drop of water; and when Hewet +scarcely replied to these remarks either, he merely pursed his lips, +chose a fig, and relapsed quite contentedly into his own thoughts, of +which he always had a very large supply. When luncheon was over they +separated, taking their cups of coffee to different parts of the hall. + +From his chair beneath the palm-tree Hewet saw Rachel come out of the +dining-room with the Flushings; he saw them look round for chairs, and +choose three in a corner where they could go on talking in private. Mr. +Flushing was now in the full tide of his discourse. He produced a sheet +of paper upon which he made drawings as he went on with his talk. He +saw Rachel lean over and look, pointing to this and that with her +finger. Hewet unkindly compared Mr. Flushing, who was extremely well +dressed for a hot climate, and rather elaborate in his manner, to a +very persuasive shop-keeper. Meanwhile, as he sat looking at them, he +was entangled in the Thornburys and Miss Allan, who, after hovering +about for a minute or two, settled in chairs round him, holding their +cups in their hands. They wanted to know whether he could tell them +anything about Mr. Bax. Mr. Thornbury as usual sat saying nothing, +looking vaguely ahead of him, occasionally raising his eye-glasses, as +if to put them on, but always thinking better of it at the last moment, +and letting them fall again. After some discussion, the ladies put it +beyond a doubt that Mr. Bax was not the son of Mr. William Bax. There +was a pause. Then Mrs. Thornbury remarked that she was still in the +habit of saying Queen instead of King in the National Anthem. There was +another pause. Then Miss Allan observed reflectively that going to +church abroad always made her feel as if she had been to a sailor’s +funeral. + +There was then a very long pause, which threatened to be final, when, +mercifully, a bird about the size of a magpie, but of a metallic blue +colour, appeared on the section of the terrace that could be seen from +where they sat. Mrs. Thornbury was led to enquire whether we should +like it if all our rooks were blue—“What do _you_ think, William?” she +asked, touching her husband on the knee. + +“If all our rooks were blue,” he said,—he raised his glasses; he +actually placed them on his nose—“they would not live long in +Wiltshire,” he concluded; he dropped his glasses to his side again. The +three elderly people now gazed meditatively at the bird, which was so +obliging as to stay in the middle of the view for a considerable space +of time, thus making it unnecessary for them to speak again. Hewet +began to wonder whether he might not cross over to the Flushings’ +corner, when Hirst appeared from the background, slipped into a chair +by Rachel’s side, and began to talk to her with every appearance of +familiarity. Hewet could stand it no longer. He rose, took his hat and +dashed out of doors. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +Everything he saw was distasteful to him. He hated the blue and white, +the intensity and definiteness, the hum and heat of the south; the +landscape seemed to him as hard and as romantic as a cardboard +background on the stage, and the mountain but a wooden screen against a +sheet painted blue. He walked fast in spite of the heat of the sun. + +Two roads led out of the town on the eastern side; one branched off +towards the Ambroses’ villa, the other struck into the country, +eventually reaching a village on the plain, but many footpaths, which +had been stamped in the earth when it was wet, led off from it, across +great dry fields, to scattered farm-houses, and the villas of rich +natives. Hewet stepped off the road on to one of these, in order to +avoid the hardness and heat of the main road, the dust of which was +always being raised in small clouds by carts and ramshackle flies which +carried parties of festive peasants, or turkeys swelling unevenly like +a bundle of air balls beneath a net, or the brass bedstead and black +wooden boxes of some newly wedded pair. + +The exercise indeed served to clear away the superficial irritations of +the morning, but he remained miserable. It seemed proved beyond a doubt +that Rachel was indifferent to him, for she had scarcely looked at him, +and she had talked to Mr. Flushing with just the same interest with +which she talked to him. Finally, Hirst’s odious words flicked his mind +like a whip, and he remembered that he had left her talking to Hirst. +She was at this moment talking to him, and it might be true, as he +said, that she was in love with him. He went over all the evidence for +this supposition—her sudden interest in Hirst’s writing, her way of +quoting his opinions respectfully, or with only half a laugh; her very +nickname for him, “the great Man,” might have some serious meaning in +it. Supposing that there were an understanding between them, what would +it mean to him? + +“Damn it all!” he demanded, “am I in love with her?” To that he could +only return himself one answer. He certainly was in love with her, if +he knew what love meant. Ever since he had first seen her he had been +interested and attracted, more and more interested and attracted, until +he was scarcely able to think of anything except Rachel. But just as he +was sliding into one of the long feasts of meditation about them both, +he checked himself by asking whether he wanted to marry her? That was +the real problem, for these miseries and agonies could not be endured, +and it was necessary that he should make up his mind. He instantly +decided that he did not want to marry any one. Partly because he was +irritated by Rachel the idea of marriage irritated him. It immediately +suggested the picture of two people sitting alone over the fire; the +man was reading, the woman sewing. There was a second picture. He saw a +man jump up, say good-night, leave the company and hasten away with the +quiet secret look of one who is stealing to certain happiness. Both +these pictures were very unpleasant, and even more so was a third +picture, of husband and wife and friend; and the married people +glancing at each other as though they were content to let something +pass unquestioned, being themselves possessed of the deeper truth. +Other pictures—he was walking very fast in his irritation, and they +came before him without any conscious effort, like pictures on a +sheet—succeeded these. Here were the worn husband and wife sitting with +their children round them, very patient, tolerant, and wise. But that +too, was an unpleasant picture. He tried all sorts of pictures, taking +them from the lives of friends of his, for he knew many different +married couples; but he saw them always, walled up in a warm firelit +room. When, on the other hand, he began to think of unmarried people, +he saw them active in an unlimited world; above all, standing on the +same ground as the rest, without shelter or advantage. All the most +individual and humane of his friends were bachelors and spinsters; +indeed he was surprised to find that the women he most admired and knew +best were unmarried women. Marriage seemed to be worse for them than it +was for men. Leaving these general pictures he considered the people +whom he had been observing lately at the hotel. He had often revolved +these questions in his mind, as he watched Susan and Arthur, or Mr. and +Mrs. Thornbury, or Mr. and Mrs. Elliot. He had observed how the shy +happiness and surprise of the engaged couple had gradually been +replaced by a comfortable, tolerant state of mind, as if they had +already done with the adventure of intimacy and were taking up their +parts. Susan used to pursue Arthur about with a sweater, because he had +one day let slip that a brother of his had died of pneumonia. The sight +amused him, but was not pleasant if you substituted Terence and Rachel +for Arthur and Susan; and Arthur was far less eager to get you in a +corner and talk about flying and the mechanics of aeroplanes. They +would settle down. He then looked at the couples who had been married +for several years. It was true that Mrs. Thornbury had a husband, and +that for the most part she was wonderfully successful in bringing him +into the conversation, but one could not imagine what they said to each +other when they were alone. There was the same difficulty with regard +to the Elliots, except that they probably bickered openly in private. +They sometimes bickered in public, though these disagreements were +painfully covered over by little insincerities on the part of the wife, +who was afraid of public opinion, because she was much stupider than +her husband, and had to make efforts to keep hold of him. There could +be no doubt, he decided, that it would have been far better for the +world if these couples had separated. Even the Ambroses, whom he +admired and respected profoundly—in spite of all the love between them, +was not their marriage too a compromise? She gave way to him; she +spoilt him; she arranged things for him; she who was all truth to +others was not true to her husband, was not true to her friends if they +came in conflict with her husband. It was a strange and piteous flaw in +her nature. Perhaps Rachel had been right, then, when she said that +night in the garden, “We bring out what’s worst in each other—we should +live separate.” + +No, Rachel had been utterly wrong! Every argument seemed to be against +undertaking the burden of marriage until he came to Rachel’s argument, +which was manifestly absurd. From having been the pursued, he turned +and became the pursuer. Allowing the case against marriage to lapse, he +began to consider the peculiarities of character which had led to her +saying that. Had she meant it? Surely one ought to know the character +of the person with whom one might spend all one’s life; being a +novelist, let him try to discover what sort of person she was. When he +was with her he could not analyse her qualities, because he seemed to +know them instinctively, but when he was away from her it sometimes +seemed to him that he did not know her at all. She was young, but she +was also old; she had little self-confidence, and yet she was a good +judge of people. She was happy; but what made her happy? If they were +alone and the excitement had worn off, and they had to deal with the +ordinary facts of the day, what would happen? Casting his eye upon his +own character, two things appeared to him: that he was very unpunctual, +and that he disliked answering notes. As far as he knew Rachel was +inclined to be punctual, but he could not remember that he had ever +seen her with a pen in her hand. Let him next imagine a dinner-party, +say at the Crooms, and Wilson, who had taken her down, talking about +the state of the Liberal party. She would say—of course she was +absolutely ignorant of politics. Nevertheless she was intelligent +certainly, and honest too. Her temper was uncertain—that he had +noticed—and she was not domestic, and she was not easy, and she was not +quiet, or beautiful, except in some dresses in some lights. But the +great gift she had was that she understood what was said to her; there +had never been any one like her for talking to. You could say +anything—you could say everything, and yet she was never servile. Here +he pulled himself up, for it seemed to him suddenly that he knew less +about her than about any one. All these thoughts had occurred to him +many times already; often had he tried to argue and reason; and again +he had reached the old state of doubt. He did not know her, and he did +not know what she felt, or whether they could live together, or whether +he wanted to marry her, and yet he was in love with her. + +Supposing he went to her and said (he slackened his pace and began to +speak aloud, as if he were speaking to Rachel): + +“I worship you, but I loathe marriage, I hate its smugness, its safety, +its compromise, and the thought of you interfering in my work, +hindering me; what would you answer?” + +He stopped, leant against the trunk of a tree, and gazed without seeing +them at some stones scattered on the bank of the dry river-bed. He saw +Rachel’s face distinctly, the grey eyes, the hair, the mouth; the face +that could look so many things—plain, vacant, almost insignificant, or +wild, passionate, almost beautiful, yet in his eyes was always the same +because of the extraordinary freedom with which she looked at him, and +spoke as she felt. What would she answer? What did she feel? Did she +love him, or did she feel nothing at all for him or for any other man, +being, as she had said that afternoon, free, like the wind or the sea? + +“Oh, you’re free!” he exclaimed, in exultation at the thought of her, +“and I’d keep you free. We’d be free together. We’d share everything +together. No happiness would be like ours. No lives would compare with +ours.” He opened his arms wide as if to hold her and the world in one +embrace. + +No longer able to consider marriage, or to weigh coolly what her nature +was, or how it would be if they lived together, he dropped to the +ground and sat absorbed in the thought of her, and soon tormented by +the desire to be in her presence again. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +But Hewet need not have increased his torments by imagining that Hirst +was still talking to Rachel. The party very soon broke up, the +Flushings going in one direction, Hirst in another, and Rachel +remaining in the hall, pulling the illustrated papers about, turning +from one to another, her movements expressing the unformed restless +desire in her mind. She did not know whether to go or to stay, though +Mrs. Flushing had commanded her to appear at tea. The hall was empty, +save for Miss Willett who was playing scales with her fingers upon a +sheet of sacred music, and the Carters, an opulent couple who disliked +the girl, because her shoe laces were untied, and she did not look +sufficiently cheery, which by some indirect process of thought led them +to think that she would not like them. Rachel certainly would not have +liked them, if she had seen them, for the excellent reason that Mr. +Carter waxed his moustache, and Mrs. Carter wore bracelets, and they +were evidently the kind of people who would not like her; but she was +too much absorbed by her own restlessness to think or to look. + +She was turning over the slippery pages of an American magazine, when +the hall door swung, a wedge of light fell upon the floor, and a small +white figure upon whom the light seemed focussed, made straight across +the room to her. + +“What! You here?” Evelyn exclaimed. “Just caught a glimpse of you at +lunch; but you wouldn’t condescend to look at _me_.” + +It was part of Evelyn’s character that in spite of many snubs which she +received or imagined, she never gave up the pursuit of people she +wanted to know, and in the long run generally succeeded in knowing them +and even in making them like her. + +She looked round her. “I hate this place. I hate these people,” she +said. “I wish you’d come up to my room with me. I do want to talk to +you.” + +As Rachel had no wish to go or to stay, Evelyn took her by the wrist +and drew her out of the hall and up the stairs. As they went upstairs +two steps at a time, Evelyn, who still kept hold of Rachel’s hand, +ejaculated broken sentences about not caring a hang what people said. +“Why should one, if one knows one’s right? And let ’em all go to +blazes! Them’s my opinions!” + +She was in a state of great excitement, and the muscles of her arms +were twitching nervously. It was evident that she was only waiting for +the door to shut to tell Rachel all about it. Indeed, directly they +were inside her room, she sat on the end of the bed and said, “I +suppose you think I’m mad?” + +Rachel was not in the mood to think clearly about any one’s state of +mind. She was however in the mood to say straight out whatever occurred +to her without fear of the consequences. + +“Somebody’s proposed to you,” she remarked. + +“How on earth did you guess that?” Evelyn exclaimed, some pleasure +mingling with her surprise. “Do as I look as if I’d just had a +proposal?” + +“You look as if you had them every day,” Rachel replied. + +“But I don’t suppose I’ve had more than you’ve had,” Evelyn laughed +rather insincerely. + +“I’ve never had one.” + +“But you will—lots—it’s the easiest thing in the world—But that’s not +what’s happened this afternoon exactly. It’s—Oh, it’s a muddle, a +detestable, horrible, disgusting muddle!” + +She went to the wash-stand and began sponging her cheeks with cold +water; for they were burning hot. Still sponging them and trembling +slightly she turned and explained in the high pitched voice of nervous +excitement: “Alfred Perrott says I’ve promised to marry him, and I say +I never did. Sinclair says he’ll shoot himself if I don’t marry him, +and I say, ‘Well, shoot yourself!’ But of course he doesn’t—they never +do. And Sinclair got hold of me this afternoon and began bothering me +to give an answer, and accusing me of flirting with Alfred Perrott, and +told me I’d no heart, and was merely a Siren, oh, and quantities of +pleasant things like that. So at last I said to him, ‘Well, Sinclair, +you’ve said enough now. You can just let me go.’ And then he caught me +and kissed me—the disgusting brute—I can still feel his nasty hairy +face just there—as if he’d any right to, after what he’d said!” + +She sponged a spot on her left cheek energetically. + +“I’ve never met a man that was fit to compare with a woman!” she cried; +“they’ve no dignity, they’ve no courage, they’ve nothing but their +beastly passions and their brute strength! Would any woman have behaved +like that—if a man had said he didn’t want her? We’ve too much +self-respect; we’re infinitely finer than they are.” + +She walked about the room, dabbing her wet cheeks with a towel. Tears +were now running down with the drops of cold water. + +“It makes me angry,” she explained, drying her eyes. + +Rachel sat watching her. She did not think of Evelyn’s position; she +only thought that the world was full of people in torment. + +“There’s only one man here I really like,” Evelyn continued; “Terence +Hewet. One feels as if one could trust him.” + +At these words Rachel suffered an indescribable chill; her heart seemed +to be pressed together by cold hands. + +“Why?” she asked. “Why can you trust him?” + +“I don’t know,” said Evelyn. “Don’t you have feelings about people? +Feelings you’re absolutely certain are right? I had a long talk with +Terence the other night. I felt we were really friends after that. +There’s something of a woman in him—” She paused as though she were +thinking of very intimate things that Terence had told her, so at least +Rachel interpreted her gaze. + +She tried to force herself to say, “Has he proposed to you?” but the +question was too tremendous, and in another moment Evelyn was saying +that the finest men were like women, and women were nobler than men—for +example, one couldn’t imagine a woman like Lillah Harrison thinking a +mean thing or having anything base about her. + +“How I’d like you to know her!” she exclaimed. + +She was becoming much calmer, and her cheeks were now quite dry. Her +eyes had regained their usual expression of keen vitality, and she +seemed to have forgotten Alfred and Sinclair and her emotion. “Lillah +runs a home for inebriate women in the Deptford Road,” she continued. +“She started it, managed it, did everything off her own bat, and it’s +now the biggest of its kind in England. You can’t think what those +women are like—and their homes. But she goes among them at all hours of +the day and night. I’ve often been with her. . . . That’s what’s the +matter with us. . . . We don’t _do_ things. What do you _do_?” she +demanded, looking at Rachel with a slightly ironical smile. Rachel had +scarcely listened to any of this, and her expression was vacant and +unhappy. She had conceived an equal dislike for Lillah Harrison and her +work in the Deptford Road, and for Evelyn M. and her profusion of love +affairs. + +“I play,” she said with an affection of stolid composure. + +“That’s about it!” Evelyn laughed. “We none of us do anything but play. +And that’s why women like Lillah Harrison, who’s worth twenty of you +and me, have to work themselves to the bone. But I’m tired of playing,” +she went on, lying flat on the bed, and raising her arms above her +head. Thus stretched out, she looked more diminutive than ever. + +“I’m going to do something. I’ve got a splendid idea. Look here, you +must join. I’m sure you’ve got any amount of stuff in you, though you +look—well, as if you’d lived all your life in a garden.” She sat up, +and began to explain with animation. “I belong to a club in London. It +meets every Saturday, so it’s called the Saturday Club. We’re supposed +to talk about art, but I’m sick of talking about art—what’s the good of +it? With all kinds of real things going on round one? It isn’t as if +they’d got anything to say about art, either. So what I’m going to tell +’em is that we’ve talked enough about art, and we’d better talk about +life for a change. Questions that really matter to people’s lives, the +White Slave Traffic, Women Suffrage, the Insurance Bill, and so on. And +when we’ve made up our mind what we want to do we could form ourselves +into a society for doing it. . . . I’m certain that if people like +ourselves were to take things in hand instead of leaving it to +policemen and magistrates, we could put a stop to—prostitution”—she +lowered her voice at the ugly word—“in six months. My idea is that men +and women ought to join in these matters. We ought to go into +Piccadilly and stop one of these poor wretches and say: ‘Now, look +here, I’m no better than you are, and I don’t pretend to be any better, +but you’re doing what you know to be beastly, and I won’t have you +doing beastly things, because we’re all the same under our skins, and +if you do a beastly thing it does matter to me.’ That’s what Mr. Bax +was saying this morning, and it’s true, though you clever people—you’re +clever too, aren’t you?—don’t believe it.” + +When Evelyn began talking—it was a fact she often regretted—her +thoughts came so quickly that she never had any time to listen to other +people’s thoughts. She continued without more pause than was needed for +taking breath. + +“I don’t see why the Saturday club people shouldn’t do a really great +work in that way,” she went on. “Of course it would want organisation, +some one to give their life to it, but I’m ready to do that. My +notion’s to think of the human beings first and let the abstract ideas +take care of themselves. What’s wrong with Lillah—if there is anything +wrong—is that she thinks of Temperance first and the women afterwards. +Now there’s one thing I’ll say to my credit,” she continued; “I’m not +intellectual or artistic or anything of that sort, but I’m jolly +human.” She slipped off the bed and sat on the floor, looking up at +Rachel. She searched up into her face as if she were trying to read +what kind of character was concealed behind the face. She put her hand +on Rachel’s knee. + +“It _is_ being human that counts, isn’t it?” she continued. “Being +real, whatever Mr. Hirst may say. Are you real?” + +Rachel felt much as Terence had felt that Evelyn was too close to her, +and that there was something exciting in this closeness, although it +was also disagreeable. She was spared the need of finding an answer to +the question, for Evelyn proceeded, “Do you _believe_ in anything?” + +In order to put an end to the scrutiny of these bright blue eyes, and +to relieve her own physical restlessness, Rachel pushed back her chair +and exclaimed, “In everything!” and began to finger different objects, +the books on the table, the photographs, the freshly leaved plant with +the stiff bristles, which stood in a large earthenware pot in the +window. + +“I believe in the bed, in the photographs, in the pot, in the balcony, +in the sun, in Mrs. Flushing,” she remarked, still speaking recklessly, +with something at the back of her mind forcing her to say the things +that one usually does not say. “But I don’t believe in God, I don’t +believe in Mr. Bax, I don’t believe in the hospital nurse. I don’t +believe—” She took up a photograph and, looking at it, did not finish +her sentence. + +“That’s my mother,” said Evelyn, who remained sitting on the floor +binding her knees together with her arms, and watching Rachel +curiously. + +Rachel considered the portrait. “Well, I don’t much believe in her,” +she remarked after a time in a low tone of voice. + +Mrs. Murgatroyd looked indeed as if the life had been crushed out of +her; she knelt on a chair, gazing piteously from behind the body of a +Pomeranian dog which she clasped to her cheek, as if for protection. + +“And that’s my dad,” said Evelyn, for there were two photographs in one +frame. The second photograph represented a handsome soldier with high +regular features and a heavy black moustache; his hand rested on the +hilt of his sword; there was a decided likeness between him and Evelyn. + +“And it’s because of them,” said Evelyn, “that I’m going to help the +other women. You’ve heard about me, I suppose? They weren’t married, +you see; I’m not anybody in particular. I’m not a bit ashamed of it. +They loved each other anyhow, and that’s more than most people can say +of their parents.” + +Rachel sat down on the bed, with the two pictures in her hands, and +compared them—the man and the woman who had, so Evelyn said, loved each +other. That fact interested her more than the campaign on behalf of +unfortunate women which Evelyn was once more beginning to describe. She +looked again from one to the other. + +“What d’you think it’s like,” she asked, as Evelyn paused for a minute, +“being in love?” + +“Have you never been in love?” Evelyn asked. “Oh no—one’s only got to +look at you to see that,” she added. She considered. “I really was in +love once,” she said. She fell into reflection, her eyes losing their +bright vitality and approaching something like an expression of +tenderness. “It was heavenly!—while it lasted. The worst of it is it +don’t last, not with me. That’s the bother.” + +She went on to consider the difficulty with Alfred and Sinclair about +which she had pretended to ask Rachel’s advice. But she did not want +advice; she wanted intimacy. When she looked at Rachel, who was still +looking at the photographs on the bed, she could not help seeing that +Rachel was not thinking about her. What was she thinking about, then? +Evelyn was tormented by the little spark of life in her which was +always trying to work through to other people, and was always being +rebuffed. Falling silent she looked at her visitor, her shoes, her +stockings, the combs in her hair, all the details of her dress in +short, as though by seizing every detail she might get closer to the +life within. + +Rachel at last put down the photographs, walked to the window and +remarked, “It’s odd. People talk as much about love as they do about +religion.” + +“I wish you’d sit down and talk,” said Evelyn impatiently. + +Instead Rachel opened the window, which was made in two long panes, and +looked down into the garden below. + +“That’s where we got lost the first night,” she said. “It must have +been in those bushes.” + +“They kill hens down there,” said Evelyn. “They cut their heads off +with a knife—disgusting! But tell me—what—” + +“I’d like to explore the hotel,” Rachel interrupted. She drew her head +in and looked at Evelyn, who still sat on the floor. + +“It’s just like other hotels,” said Evelyn. + +That might be, although every room and passage and chair in the place +had a character of its own in Rachel’s eyes; but she could not bring +herself to stay in one place any longer. She moved slowly towards the +door. + +“What is it you want?” said Evelyn. “You make me feel as if you were +always thinking of something you don’t say. . . . Do say it!” + +But Rachel made no response to this invitation either. She stopped with +her fingers on the handle of the door, as if she remembered that some +sort of pronouncement was due from her. + +“I suppose you’ll marry one of them,” she said, and then turned the +handle and shut the door behind her. She walked slowly down the +passage, running her hand along the wall beside her. She did not think +which way she was going, and therefore walked down a passage which only +led to a window and a balcony. She looked down at the kitchen premises, +the wrong side of the hotel life, which was cut off from the right side +by a maze of small bushes. The ground was bare, old tins were scattered +about, and the bushes wore towels and aprons upon their heads to dry. +Every now and then a waiter came out in a white apron and threw rubbish +on to a heap. Two large women in cotton dresses were sitting on a bench +with blood-smeared tin trays in front of them and yellow bodies across +their knees. They were plucking the birds, and talking as they plucked. +Suddenly a chicken came floundering, half flying, half running into the +space, pursued by a third woman whose age could hardly be under eighty. +Although wizened and unsteady on her legs she kept up the chase, egged +on by the laughter of the others; her face was expressive of furious +rage, and as she ran she swore in Spanish. Frightened by hand-clapping +here, a napkin there, the bird ran this way and that in sharp angles, +and finally fluttered straight at the old woman, who opened her scanty +grey skirts to enclose it, dropped upon it in a bundle, and then +holding it out cut its head off with an expression of vindictive energy +and triumph combined. The blood and the ugly wriggling fascinated +Rachel, so that although she knew that some one had come up behind and +was standing beside her, she did not turn round until the old woman had +settled down on the bench beside the others. Then she looked up +sharply, because of the ugliness of what she had seen. It was Miss +Allan who stood beside her. + +“Not a pretty sight,” said Miss Allan, “although I daresay it’s really +more humane than our method. . . . I don’t believe you’ve ever been in +my room,” she added, and turned away as if she meant Rachel to follow +her. Rachel followed, for it seemed possible that each new person might +remove the mystery which burdened her. + +The bedrooms at the hotel were all on the same pattern, save that some +were larger and some smaller; they had a floor of dark red tiles; they +had a high bed, draped in mosquito curtains; they had each a +writing-table and a dressing-table, and a couple of arm-chairs. But +directly a box was unpacked the rooms became very different, so that +Miss Allan’s room was very unlike Evelyn’s room. There were no +variously coloured hatpins on her dressing-table; no scent-bottles; no +narrow curved pairs of scissors; no great variety of shoes and boots; +no silk petticoats lying on the chairs. The room was extremely neat. +There seemed to be two pairs of everything. The writing-table, however, +was piled with manuscript, and a table was drawn out to stand by the +arm-chair on which were two separate heaps of dark library books, in +which there were many slips of paper sticking out at different degrees +of thickness. Miss Allan had asked Rachel to come in out of kindness, +thinking that she was waiting about with nothing to do. Moreover, she +liked young women, for she had taught many of them, and having received +so much hospitality from the Ambroses she was glad to be able to repay +a minute part of it. She looked about accordingly for something to show +her. The room did not provide much entertainment. She touched her +manuscript. “Age of Chaucer; Age of Elizabeth; Age of Dryden,” she +reflected; “I’m glad there aren’t many more ages. I’m still in the +middle of the eighteenth century. Won’t you sit down, Miss Vinrace? The +chair, though small, is firm. . . . Euphues. The germ of the English +novel,” she continued, glancing at another page. “Is that the kind of +thing that interests you?” + +She looked at Rachel with great kindness and simplicity, as though she +would do her utmost to provide anything she wished to have. This +expression had a remarkable charm in a face otherwise much lined with +care and thought. + +“Oh no, it’s music with you, isn’t it?” she continued, recollecting, +“and I generally find that they don’t go together. Sometimes of course +we have prodigies—” She was looking about her for something and now saw +a jar on the mantelpiece which she reached down and gave to Rachel. “If +you put your finger into this jar you may be able to extract a piece of +preserved ginger. Are you a prodigy?” + +But the ginger was deep and could not be reached. + +“Don’t bother,” she said, as Miss Allan looked about for some other +implement. “I daresay I shouldn’t like preserved ginger.” + +“You’ve never tried?” enquired Miss Allan. “Then I consider that it is +your duty to try now. Why, you may add a new pleasure to life, and as +you are still young—” She wondered whether a button-hook would do. “I +make it a rule to try everything,” she said. “Don’t you think it would +be very annoying if you tasted ginger for the first time on your +death-bed, and found you never liked anything so much? I should be so +exceedingly annoyed that I think I should get well on that account +alone.” + +She was now successful, and a lump of ginger emerged on the end of the +button-hook. While she went to wipe the button-hook, Rachel bit the +ginger and at once cried, “I must spit it out!” + +“Are you sure you have really tasted it?” Miss Allan demanded. + +For answer Rachel threw it out of the window. + +“An experience anyhow,” said Miss Allan calmly. “Let me see—I have +nothing else to offer you, unless you would like to taste this.” A +small cupboard hung above her bed, and she took out of it a slim +elegant jar filled with a bright green fluid. + +“Crême de Menthe,” she said. “Liqueur, you know. It looks as if I +drank, doesn’t it? As a matter of fact it goes to prove what an +exceptionally abstemious person I am. I’ve had that jar for +six-and-twenty years,” she added, looking at it with pride, as she +tipped it over, and from the height of the liquid it could be seen that +the bottle was still untouched. + +“Twenty-six years?” Rachel exclaimed. + +Miss Allan was gratified, for she had meant Rachel to be surprised. + +“When I went to Dresden six-and-twenty years ago,” she said, “a certain +friend of mine announced her intention of making me a present. She +thought that in the event of shipwreck or accident a stimulant might be +useful. However, as I had no occasion for it, I gave it back on my +return. On the eve of any foreign journey the same bottle always makes +its appearance, with the same note; on my return in safety it is always +handed back. I consider it a kind of charm against accidents. Though I +was once detained twenty-four hours by an accident to the train in +front of me, I have never met with any accident myself. Yes,” she +continued, now addressing the bottle, “we have seen many climes and +cupboards together, have we not? I intend one of these days to have a +silver label made with an inscription. It is a gentleman, as you may +observe, and his name is Oliver. . . . I do not think I could forgive +you, Miss Vinrace, if you broke my Oliver,” she said, firmly taking the +bottle out of Rachel’s hands and replacing it in the cupboard. + +Rachel was swinging the bottle by the neck. She was interested by Miss +Allan to the point of forgetting the bottle. + +“Well,” she exclaimed, “I do think that odd; to have had a friend for +twenty-six years, and a bottle, and—to have made all those journeys.” + +“Not at all; I call it the reverse of odd,” Miss Allan replied. “I +always consider myself the most ordinary person I know. It’s rather +distinguished to be as ordinary as I am. I forget—are you a prodigy, or +did you say you were not a prodigy?” + +She smiled at Rachel very kindly. She seemed to have known and +experienced so much, as she moved cumbrously about the room, that +surely there must be balm for all anguish in her words, could one +induce her to have recourse to them. But Miss Allan, who was now +locking the cupboard door, showed no signs of breaking the reticence +which had snowed her under for years. An uncomfortable sensation kept +Rachel silent; on the one hand, she wished to whirl high and strike a +spark out of the cool pink flesh; on the other she perceived there was +nothing to be done but to drift past each other in silence. + +“I’m not a prodigy. I find it very difficult to say what I mean—” she +observed at length. + +“It’s a matter of temperament, I believe,” Miss Allan helped her. +“There are some people who have no difficulty; for myself I find there +are a great many things I simply cannot say. But then I consider myself +very slow. One of my colleagues now, knows whether she likes you or +not—let me see, how does she do it?—by the way you say good-morning at +breakfast. It is sometimes a matter of years before I can make up my +mind. But most young people seem to find it easy?” + +“Oh no,” said Rachel. “It’s hard!” + +Miss Allan looked at Rachel quietly, saying nothing; she suspected that +there were difficulties of some kind. Then she put her hand to the back +of her head, and discovered that one of the grey coils of hair had come +loose. + +“I must ask you to be so kind as to excuse me,” she said, rising, “if I +do my hair. I have never yet found a satisfactory type of hairpin. I +must change my dress, too, for the matter of that; and I should be +particularly glad of your assistance, because there is a tiresome set +of hooks which I _can_ fasten for myself, but it takes from ten to +fifteen minutes; whereas with your help—” + +She slipped off her coat and skirt and blouse, and stood doing her hair +before the glass, a massive homely figure, her petticoat being so short +that she stood on a pair of thick slate-grey legs. + +“People say youth is pleasant; I myself find middle age far +pleasanter,” she remarked, removing hair pins and combs, and taking up +her brush. When it fell loose her hair only came down to her neck. + +“When one was young,” she continued, “things could seem so very serious +if one was made that way. . . . And now my dress.” + +In a wonderfully short space of time her hair had been reformed in its +usual loops. The upper half of her body now became dark green with +black stripes on it; the skirt, however, needed hooking at various +angles, and Rachel had to kneel on the floor, fitting the eyes to the +hooks. + +“Our Miss Johnson used to find life very unsatisfactory, I remember,” +Miss Allan continued. She turned her back to the light. “And then she +took to breeding guinea-pigs for their spots, and became absorbed in +that. I have just heard that the yellow guinea-pig has had a black +baby. We had a bet of sixpence on about it. She will be very +triumphant.” + +The skirt was fastened. She looked at herself in the glass with the +curious stiffening of her face generally caused by looking in the +glass. + +“Am I in a fit state to encounter my fellow-beings?” she asked. “I +forget which way it is—but they find black animals very rarely have +coloured babies—it may be the other way round. I have had it so often +explained to me that it is very stupid of me to have forgotten again.” + +She moved about the room acquiring small objects with quiet force, and +fixing them about her—a locket, a watch and chain, a heavy gold +bracelet, and the parti-coloured button of a suffrage society. Finally, +completely equipped for Sunday tea, she stood before Rachel, and smiled +at her kindly. She was not an impulsive woman, and her life had +schooled her to restrain her tongue. At the same time, she was +possessed of an amount of good-will towards others, and in particular +towards the young, which often made her regret that speech was so +difficult. + +“Shall we descend?” she said. + +She put one hand upon Rachel’s shoulder, and stooping, picked up a pair +of walking-shoes with the other, and placed them neatly side by side +outside her door. As they walked down the passage they passed many +pairs of boots and shoes, some black and some brown, all side by side, +and all different, even to the way in which they lay together. + +“I always think that people are so like their boots,” said Miss Allan. +“That is Mrs. Paley’s—” but as she spoke the door opened, and Mrs. +Paley rolled out in her chair, equipped also for tea. + +She greeted Miss Allan and Rachel. + +“I was just saying that people are so like their boots,” said Miss +Allan. Mrs. Paley did not hear. She repeated it more loudly still. Mrs. +Paley did not hear. She repeated it a third time. Mrs. Paley heard, but +she did not understand. She was apparently about to repeat it for the +fourth time, when Rachel suddenly said something inarticulate, and +disappeared down the corridor. This misunderstanding, which involved a +complete block in the passage, seemed to her unbearable. She walked +quickly and blindly in the opposite direction, and found herself at the +end of a _cul de sac_. There was a window, and a table and a chair in +the window, and upon the table stood a rusty inkstand, an ashtray, an +old copy of a French newspaper, and a pen with a broken nib. Rachel sat +down, as if to study the French newspaper, but a tear fell on the +blurred French print, raising a soft blot. She lifted her head sharply, +exclaiming aloud, “It’s intolerable!” Looking out of the window with +eyes that would have seen nothing even had they not been dazed by +tears, she indulged herself at last in violent abuse of the entire day. +It had been miserable from start to finish; first, the service in the +chapel; then luncheon; then Evelyn; then Miss Allan; then old Mrs. +Paley blocking up the passage. All day long she had been tantalized and +put off. She had now reached one of those eminences, the result of some +crisis, from which the world is finally displayed in its true +proportions. She disliked the look of it immensely—churches, +politicians, misfits, and huge impostures—men like Mr. Dalloway, men +like Mr. Bax, Evelyn and her chatter, Mrs. Paley blocking up the +passage. Meanwhile the steady beat of her own pulse represented the hot +current of feeling that ran down beneath; beating, struggling, +fretting. For the time, her own body was the source of all the life in +the world, which tried to burst forth here—there—and was repressed now +by Mr. Bax, now by Evelyn, now by the imposition of ponderous +stupidity, the weight of the entire world. Thus tormented, she would +twist her hands together, for all things were wrong, all people stupid. +Vaguely seeing that there were people down in the garden beneath she +represented them as aimless masses of matter, floating hither and +thither, without aim except to impede her. What were they doing, those +other people in the world? + +“Nobody knows,” she said. The force of her rage was beginning to spend +itself, and the vision of the world which had been so vivid became dim. + +“It’s a dream,” she murmured. She considered the rusty inkstand, the +pen, the ash-tray, and the old French newspaper. These small and +worthless objects seemed to her to represent human lives. + +“We’re asleep and dreaming,” she repeated. But the possibility which +now suggested itself that one of the shapes might be the shape of +Terence roused her from her melancholy lethargy. She became as restless +as she had been before she sat down. She was no longer able to see the +world as a town laid out beneath her. It was covered instead by a haze +of feverish red mist. She had returned to the state in which she had +been all day. Thinking was no escape. Physical movement was the only +refuge, in and out of rooms, in and out of people’s minds, seeking she +knew not what. Therefore she rose, pushed back the table, and went +downstairs. She went out of the hall door, and, turning the corner of +the hotel, found herself among the people whom she had seen from the +window. But owing to the broad sunshine after shaded passages, and to +the substance of living people after dreams, the group appeared with +startling intensity, as though the dusty surface had been peeled off +everything, leaving only the reality and the instant. It had the look +of a vision printed on the dark at night. White and grey and purple +figures were scattered on the green, round wicker tables, in the middle +the flame of the tea-urn made the air waver like a faulty sheet of +glass, a massive green tree stood over them as if it were a moving +force held at rest. As she approached, she could hear Evelyn’s voice +repeating monotonously, “Here then—here—good doggie, come here”; for a +moment nothing seemed to happen; it all stood still, and then she +realised that one of the figures was Helen Ambrose; and the dust again +began to settle. + +The group indeed had come together in a miscellaneous way; one +tea-table joining to another tea-table, and deck-chairs serving to +connect two groups. But even at a distance it could be seen that Mrs. +Flushing, upright and imperious, dominated the party. She was talking +vehemently to Helen across the table. + +“Ten days under canvas,” she was saying. “No comforts. If you want +comforts, don’t come. But I may tell you, if you don’t come you’ll +regret it all your life. You say yes?” + +At this moment Mrs. Flushing caught sight of Rachel. + +“Ah, there’s your niece. She’s promised. You’re coming, aren’t you?” +Having adopted the plan, she pursued it with the energy of a child. + +Rachel took her part with eagerness. + +“Of course I’m coming. So are you, Helen. And Mr. Pepper too.” As she +sat she realised that she was surrounded by people she knew, but that +Terence was not among them. From various angles people began saying +what they thought of the proposed expedition. According to some it +would be hot, but the nights would be cold; according to others, the +difficulties would lie rather in getting a boat, and in speaking the +language. Mrs. Flushing disposed of all objections, whether due to man +or due to nature, by announcing that her husband would settle all that. + +Meanwhile Mr. Flushing quietly explained to Helen that the expedition +was really a simple matter; it took five days at the outside; and the +place—a native village—was certainly well worth seeing before she +returned to England. Helen murmured ambiguously, and did not commit +herself to one answer rather than to another. + +The tea-party, however, included too many different kinds of people for +general conversation to flourish; and from Rachel’s point of view +possessed the great advantage that it was quite unnecessary for her to +talk. Over there Susan and Arthur were explaining to Mrs. Paley that an +expedition had been proposed; and Mrs. Paley having grasped the fact, +gave the advice of an old traveller that they should take nice canned +vegetables, fur cloaks, and insect powder. She leant over to Mrs. +Flushing and whispered something which from the twinkle in her eyes +probably had reference to bugs. Then Helen was reciting “Toll for the +Brave” to St. John Hirst, in order apparently to win a sixpence which +lay upon the table; while Mr. Hughling Elliot imposed silence upon his +section of the audience by his fascinating anecdote of Lord Curzon and +the undergraduate’s bicycle. Mrs. Thornbury was trying to remember the +name of a man who might have been another Garibaldi, and had written a +book which they ought to read; and Mr. Thornbury recollected that he +had a pair of binoculars at anybody’s service. Miss Allan meanwhile +murmured with the curious intimacy which a spinster often achieves with +dogs, to the fox-terrier which Evelyn had at last induced to come over +to them. Little particles of dust or blossom fell on the plates now and +then when the branches sighed above. Rachel seemed to see and hear a +little of everything, much as a river feels the twigs that fall into it +and sees the sky above, but her eyes were too vague for Evelyn’s +liking. She came across, and sat on the ground at Rachel’s feet. + +“Well?” she asked suddenly. “What are you thinking about?” + +“Miss Warrington,” Rachel replied rashly, because she had to say +something. She did indeed see Susan murmuring to Mrs. Elliot, while +Arthur stared at her with complete confidence in his own love. Both +Rachel and Evelyn then began to listen to what Susan was saying. + +“There’s the ordering and the dogs and the garden, and the children +coming to be taught,” her voice proceeded rhythmically as if checking +the list, “and my tennis, and the village, and letters to write for +father, and a thousand little things that don’t sound much; but I never +have a moment to myself, and when I go to bed, I’m so sleepy I’m off +before my head touches the pillow. Besides I like to be a great deal +with my Aunts—I’m a great bore, aren’t I, Aunt Emma?” (she smiled at +old Mrs. Paley, who with head slightly drooped was regarding the cake +with speculative affection), “and father has to be very careful about +chills in winter which means a great deal of running about, because he +won’t look after himself, any more than you will, Arthur! So it all +mounts up!” + +Her voice mounted too, in a mild ecstasy of satisfaction with her life +and her own nature. Rachel suddenly took a violent dislike to Susan, +ignoring all that was kindly, modest, and even pathetic about her. She +appeared insincere and cruel; she saw her grown stout and prolific, the +kind blue eyes now shallow and watery, the bloom of the cheeks +congealed to a network of dry red canals. + +Helen turned to her. “Did you go to church?” she asked. She had won her +sixpence and seemed making ready to go. + +“Yes,” said Rachel. “For the last time,” she added. + +In preparing to put on her gloves, Helen dropped one. + +“You’re not going?” Evelyn asked, taking hold of one glove as if to +keep them. + +“It’s high time we went,” said Helen. “Don’t you see how silent every +one’s getting—?” + +A silence had fallen upon them all, caused partly by one of the +accidents of talk, and partly because they saw some one approaching. +Helen could not see who it was, but keeping her eyes fixed upon Rachel +observed something which made her say to herself, “So it’s Hewet.” She +drew on her gloves with a curious sense of the significance of the +moment. Then she rose, for Mrs. Flushing had seen Hewet too, and was +demanding information about rivers and boats which showed that the +whole conversation would now come over again. + +Rachel followed her, and they walked in silence down the avenue. In +spite of what Helen had seen and understood, the feeling that was +uppermost in her mind was now curiously perverse; if she went on this +expedition, she would not be able to have a bath, the effort appeared +to her to be great and disagreeable. + +“It’s so unpleasant, being cooped up with people one hardly knows,” she +remarked. “People who mind being seen naked.” + +“You don’t mean to go?” Rachel asked. + +The intensity with which this was spoken irritated Mrs. Ambrose. + +“I don’t mean to go, and I don’t mean not to go,” she replied. She +became more and more casual and indifferent. + +“After all, I daresay we’ve seen all there is to be seen; and there’s +the bother of getting there, and whatever they may say it’s bound to be +vilely uncomfortable.” + +For some time Rachel made no reply; but every sentence Helen spoke +increased her bitterness. At last she broke out— + +“Thank God, Helen, I’m not like you! I sometimes think you don’t think +or feel or care to do anything but exist! You’re like Mr. Hirst. You +see that things are bad, and you pride yourself on saying so. It’s what +you call being honest; as a matter of fact it’s being lazy, being dull, +being nothing. You don’t help; you put an end to things.” + +Helen smiled as if she rather enjoyed the attack. + +“Well?” she enquired. + +“It seems to me bad—that’s all,” Rachel replied. + +“Quite likely,” said Helen. + +At any other time Rachel would probably have been silenced by her +Aunt’s candour; but this afternoon she was not in the mood to be +silenced by any one. A quarrel would be welcome. + +“You’re only half alive,” she continued. + +“Is that because I didn’t accept Mr. Flushing’s invitation?” Helen +asked, “or do you always think that?” + +At the moment it appeared to Rachel that she had always seen the same +faults in Helen, from the very first night on board the _Euphrosyne_, +in spite of her beauty, in spite of her magnanimity and their love. + +“Oh, it’s only what’s the matter with every one!” she exclaimed. “No +one feels—no one does anything but hurt. I tell you, Helen, the world’s +bad. It’s an agony, living, wanting—” + +Here she tore a handful of leaves from a bush and crushed them to +control herself. + +“The lives of these people,” she tried to explain, “the aimlessness, +the way they live. One goes from one to another, and it’s all the same. +One never gets what one wants out of any of them.” + +Her emotional state and her confusion would have made her an easy prey +if Helen had wished to argue or had wished to draw confidences. But +instead of talking she fell into a profound silence as they walked on. +Aimless, trivial, meaningless, oh no—what she had seen at tea made it +impossible for her to believe that. The little jokes, the chatter, the +inanities of the afternoon had shrivelled up before her eyes. +Underneath the likings and spites, the comings together and partings, +great things were happening—terrible things, because they were so +great. Her sense of safety was shaken, as if beneath twigs and dead +leaves she had seen the movement of a snake. It seemed to her that a +moment’s respite was allowed, a moment’s make-believe, and then again +the profound and reasonless law asserted itself, moulding them all to +its liking, making and destroying. + +She looked at Rachel walking beside her, still crushing the leaves in +her fingers and absorbed in her own thoughts. She was in love, and she +pitied her profoundly. But she roused herself from these thoughts and +apologised. “I’m very sorry,” she said, “but if I’m dull, it’s my +nature, and it can’t be helped.” If it was a natural defect, however, +she found an easy remedy, for she went on to say that she thought Mr. +Flushing’s scheme a very good one, only needing a little consideration, +which it appeared she had given it by the time they reached home. By +that time they had settled that if anything more was said, they would +accept the invitation. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +When considered in detail by Mr. Flushing and Mrs. Ambrose the +expedition proved neither dangerous nor difficult. They found also that +it was not even unusual. Every year at this season English people made +parties which steamed a short way up the river, landed, and looked at +the native village, bought a certain number of things from the natives, +and returned again without damage done to mind or body. When it was +discovered that six people really wished the same thing the +arrangements were soon carried out. + +Since the time of Elizabeth very few people had seen the river, and +nothing has been done to change its appearance from what it was to the +eyes of the Elizabethan voyagers. The time of Elizabeth was only +distant from the present time by a moment of space compared with the +ages which had passed since the water had run between those banks, and +the green thickets swarmed there, and the small trees had grown to huge +wrinkled trees in solitude. Changing only with the change of the sun +and the clouds, the waving green mass had stood there for century after +century, and the water had run between its banks ceaselessly, sometimes +washing away earth and sometimes the branches of trees, while in other +parts of the world one town had risen upon the ruins of another town, +and the men in the towns had become more and more articulate and unlike +each other. A few miles of this river were visible from the top of the +mountain where some weeks before the party from the hotel had +picnicked. Susan and Arthur had seen it as they kissed each other, and +Terence and Rachel as they sat talking about Richmond, and Evelyn and +Perrott as they strolled about, imagining that they were great captains +sent to colonise the world. They had seen the broad blue mark across +the sand where it flowed into the sea, and the green cloud of trees +mass themselves about it farther up, and finally hide its waters +altogether from sight. At intervals for the first twenty miles or so +houses were scattered on the bank; by degrees the houses became huts, +and, later still, there was neither hut nor house, but trees and grass, +which were seen only by hunters, explorers, or merchants, marching or +sailing, but making no settlement. + +By leaving Santa Marina early in the morning, driving twenty miles and +riding eight, the party, which was composed finally of six English +people, reached the river-side as the night fell. They came cantering +through the trees—Mr. and Mrs. Flushing, Helen Ambrose, Rachel, +Terence, and St. John. The tired little horses then stopped +automatically, and the English dismounted. Mrs. Flushing strode to the +river-bank in high spirits. The day had been long and hot, but she had +enjoyed the speed and the open air; she had left the hotel which she +hated, and she found the company to her liking. The river was swirling +past in the darkness; they could just distinguish the smooth moving +surface of the water, and the air was full of the sound of it. They +stood in an empty space in the midst of great tree-trunks, and out +there a little green light moving slightly up and down showed them +where the steamer lay in which they were to embark. + +When they all stood upon its deck they found that it was a very small +boat which throbbed gently beneath them for a few minutes, and then +shoved smoothly through the water. They seemed to be driving into the +heart of the night, for the trees closed in front of them, and they +could hear all round them the rustling of leaves. The great darkness +had the usual effect of taking away all desire for communication by +making their words sound thin and small; and, after walking round the +deck three or four times, they clustered together, yawning deeply, and +looking at the same spot of deep gloom on the banks. Murmuring very low +in the rhythmical tone of one oppressed by the air, Mrs. Flushing began +to wonder where they were to sleep, for they could not sleep +downstairs, they could not sleep in a doghole smelling of oil, they +could not sleep on deck, they could not sleep—She yawned profoundly. It +was as Helen had foreseen; the question of nakedness had risen already, +although they were half asleep, and almost invisible to each other. +With St. John’s help she stretched an awning, and persuaded Mrs. +Flushing that she could take off her clothes behind this, and that no +one would notice if by chance some part of her which had been concealed +for forty-five years was laid bare to the human eye. Mattresses were +thrown down, rugs provided, and the three women lay near each other in +the soft open air. + +The gentlemen, having smoked a certain number of cigarettes, dropped +the glowing ends into the river, and looked for a time at the ripples +wrinkling the black water beneath them, undressed too, and lay down at +the other end of the boat. They were very tired, and curtained from +each other by the darkness. The light from one lantern fell upon a few +ropes, a few planks of the deck, and the rail of the boat, but beyond +that there was unbroken darkness, no light reached their faces, or the +trees which were massed on the sides of the river. + +Soon Wilfrid Flushing slept, and Hirst slept. Hewet alone lay awake +looking straight up into the sky. The gentle motion and the black +shapes that were drawn ceaselessly across his eyes had the effect of +making it impossible for him to think. Rachel’s presence so near him +lulled thought asleep. Being so near him, only a few paces off at the +other end of the boat, she made it as impossible for him to think about +her as it would have been impossible to see her if she had stood quite +close to him, her forehead against his forehead. In some strange way +the boat became identified with himself, and just as it would have been +useless for him to get up and steer the boat, so was it useless for him +to struggle any longer with the irresistible force of his own feelings. +He was drawn on and on away from all he knew, slipping over barriers +and past landmarks into unknown waters as the boat glided over the +smooth surface of the river. In profound peace, enveloped in deeper +unconsciousness than had been his for many nights, he lay on deck +watching the tree-tops change their position slightly against the sky, +and arch themselves, and sink and tower huge, until he passed from +seeing them into dreams where he lay beneath the shadow of the vast +trees, looking up into the sky. + +When they woke next morning they had gone a considerable way up the +river; on the right was a high yellow bank of sand tufted with trees, +on the left a swamp quivering with long reeds and tall bamboos on the +top of which, swaying slightly, perched vivid green and yellow birds. +The morning was hot and still. After breakfast they drew chairs +together and sat in an irregular semicircle in the bow. An awning above +their heads protected them from the heat of the sun, and the breeze +which the boat made aired them softly. Mrs. Flushing was already +dotting and striping her canvas, her head jerking this way and that +with the action of a bird nervously picking up grain; the others had +books or pieces of paper or embroidery on their knees, at which they +looked fitfully and again looked at the river ahead. At one point Hewet +read part of a poem aloud, but the number of moving things entirely +vanquished his words. He ceased to read, and no one spoke. They moved +on under the shelter of the trees. There was now a covey of red birds +feeding on one of the little islets to the left, or again a blue-green +parrot flew shrieking from tree to tree. As they moved on the country +grew wilder and wilder. The trees and the undergrowth seemed to be +strangling each other near the ground in a multitudinous wrestle; while +here and there a splendid tree towered high above the swarm, shaking +its thin green umbrellas lightly in the upper air. Hewet looked at his +books again. The morning was peaceful as the night had been, only it +was very strange because he could see it was light, and he could see +Rachel and hear her voice and be near to her. He felt as if he were +waiting, as if somehow he were stationary among things that passed over +him and around him, voices, people’s bodies, birds, only Rachel too was +waiting with him. He looked at her sometimes as if she must know that +they were waiting together, and being drawn on together, without being +able to offer any resistance. Again he read from his book: + +Whoever you are holding me now in your hand, +Without one thing all will be useless. + + +A bird gave a wild laugh, a monkey chuckled a malicious question, and, +as fire fades in the hot sunshine, his words flickered and went out. + +By degrees as the river narrowed, and the high sandbanks fell to level +ground thickly grown with trees, the sounds of the forest could be +heard. It echoed like a hall. There were sudden cries; and then long +spaces of silence, such as there are in a cathedral when a boy’s voice +has ceased and the echo of it still seems to haunt about the remote +places of the roof. Once Mr. Flushing rose and spoke to a sailor, and +even announced that some time after luncheon the steamer would stop, +and they could walk a little way through the forest. + +“There are tracks all through the trees there,” he explained. “We’re no +distance from civilisation yet.” + +He scrutinised his wife’s painting. Too polite to praise it openly, he +contented himself with cutting off one half of the picture with one +hand, and giving a flourish in the air with the other. + +“God!” Hirst exclaimed, staring straight ahead. “Don’t you think it’s +amazingly beautiful?” + +“Beautiful?” Helen enquired. It seemed a strange little word, and Hirst +and herself both so small that she forgot to answer him. + +Hewet felt that he must speak. + +“That’s where the Elizabethans got their style,” he mused, staring into +the profusion of leaves and blossoms and prodigious fruits. + +“Shakespeare? I hate Shakespeare!” Mrs. Flushing exclaimed; and Wilfrid +returned admiringly, “I believe you’re the only person who dares to say +that, Alice.” But Mrs. Flushing went on painting. She did not appear to +attach much value to her husband’s compliment, and painted steadily, +sometimes muttering a half-audible word or groan. + +The morning was now very hot. + +“Look at Hirst!” Mr. Flushing whispered. His sheet of paper had slipped +on to the deck, his head lay back, and he drew a long snoring breath. + +Terence picked up the sheet of paper and spread it out before Rachel. +It was a continuation of the poem on God which he had begun in the +chapel, and it was so indecent that Rachel did not understand half of +it although she saw that it was indecent. Hewet began to fill in words +where Hirst had left spaces, but he soon ceased; his pencil rolled on +deck. Gradually they approached nearer and nearer to the bank on the +right-hand side, so that the light which covered them became definitely +green, falling through a shade of green leaves, and Mrs. Flushing set +aside her sketch and stared ahead of her in silence. Hirst woke up; +they were then called to luncheon, and while they ate it, the steamer +came to a standstill a little way out from the bank. The boat which was +towed behind them was brought to the side, and the ladies were helped +into it. + +For protection against boredom, Helen put a book of memoirs beneath her +arm, and Mrs. Flushing her paint-box, and, thus equipped, they allowed +themselves to be set on shore on the verge of the forest. + +They had not strolled more than a few hundred yards along the track +which ran parallel with the river before Helen professed to find it was +unbearably hot. The river breeze had ceased, and a hot steamy +atmosphere, thick with scents, came from the forest. + +“I shall sit down here,” she announced, pointing to the trunk of a tree +which had fallen long ago and was now laced across and across by +creepers and thong-like brambles. She seated herself, opened her +parasol, and looked at the river which was barred by the stems of +trees. She turned her back to the trees which disappeared in black +shadow behind her. + +“I quite agree,” said Mrs. Flushing, and proceeded to undo her +paint-box. Her husband strolled about to select an interesting point of +view for her. Hirst cleared a space on the ground by Helen’s side, and +seated himself with great deliberation, as if he did not mean to move +until he had talked to her for a long time. Terence and Rachel were +left standing by themselves without occupation. Terence saw that the +time had come as it was fated to come, but although he realised this he +was completely calm and master of himself. He chose to stand for a few +moments talking to Helen, and persuading her to leave her seat. Rachel +joined him too in advising her to come with them. + +“Of all the people I’ve ever met,” he said, “you’re the least +adventurous. You might be sitting on green chairs in Hyde Park. Are you +going to sit there the whole afternoon? Aren’t you going to walk?” + +“Oh, no,” said Helen, “one’s only got to use one’s eye. There’s +everything here—everything,” she repeated in a drowsy tone of voice. +“What will you gain by walking?” + +“You’ll be hot and disagreeable by tea-time, we shall be cool and +sweet,” put in Hirst. Into his eyes as he looked up at them had come +yellow and green reflections from the sky and the branches, robbing +them of their intentness, and he seemed to think what he did not say. +It was thus taken for granted by them both that Terence and Rachel +proposed to walk into the woods together; with one look at each other +they turned away. + +“Good-bye!” cried Rachel. + +“Good-by. Beware of snakes,” Hirst replied. He settled himself still +more comfortably under the shade of the fallen tree and Helen’s figure. +As they went, Mr. Flushing called after them, “We must start in an +hour. Hewet, please remember that. An hour.” + +Whether made by man, or for some reason preserved by nature, there was +a wide pathway striking through the forest at right angles to the +river. It resembled a drive in an English forest, save that tropical +bushes with their sword-like leaves grew at the side, and the ground +was covered with an unmarked springy moss instead of grass, starred +with little yellow flowers. As they passed into the depths of the +forest the light grew dimmer, and the noises of the ordinary world were +replaced by those creaking and sighing sounds which suggest to the +traveller in a forest that he is walking at the bottom of the sea. The +path narrowed and turned; it was hedged in by dense creepers which +knotted tree to tree, and burst here and there into star-shaped crimson +blossoms. The sighing and creaking up above were broken every now and +then by the jarring cry of some startled animal. The atmosphere was +close and the air came at them in languid puffs of scent. The vast +green light was broken here and there by a round of pure yellow +sunlight which fell through some gap in the immense umbrella of green +above, and in these yellow spaces crimson and black butterflies were +circling and settling. Terence and Rachel hardly spoke. + +Not only did the silence weigh upon them, but they were both unable to +frame any thoughts. There was something between them which had to be +spoken of. One of them had to begin, but which of them was it to be? +Then Hewet picked up a red fruit and threw it as high as he could. When +it dropped, he would speak. They heard the flapping of great wings; +they heard the fruit go pattering through the leaves and eventually +fall with a thud. The silence was again profound. + +“Does this frighten you?” Terence asked when the sound of the fruit +falling had completely died away. + +“No,” she answered. “I like it.” + +She repeated “I like it.” She was walking fast, and holding herself +more erect than usual. There was another pause. + +“You like being with me?” Terence asked. + +“Yes, with you,” she replied. + +He was silent for a moment. Silence seemed to have fallen upon the +world. + +“That is what I have felt ever since I knew you,” he replied. “We are +happy together.” He did not seem to be speaking, or she to be hearing. + +“Very happy,” she answered. + +They continued to walk for some time in silence. Their steps +unconsciously quickened. + +“We love each other,” Terence said. + +“We love each other,” she repeated. + +The silence was then broken by their voices which joined in tones of +strange unfamiliar sound which formed no words. Faster and faster they +walked; simultaneously they stopped, clasped each other in their arms, +then releasing themselves, dropped to the earth. They sat side by side. +Sounds stood out from the background making a bridge across their +silence; they heard the swish of the trees and some beast croaking in a +remote world. + +“We love each other,” Terence repeated, searching into her face. Their +faces were both very pale and quiet, and they said nothing. He was +afraid to kiss her again. By degrees she drew close to him, and rested +against him. In this position they sat for some time. She said +“Terence” once; he answered “Rachel.” + +“Terrible—terrible,” she murmured after another pause, but in saying +this she was thinking as much of the persistent churning of the water +as of her own feeling. On and on it went in the distance, the senseless +and cruel churning of the water. She observed that the tears were +running down Terence’s cheeks. + +The next movement was on his part. A very long time seemed to have +passed. He took out his watch. + +“Flushing said an hour. We’ve been gone more than half an hour.” + +“And it takes that to get back,” said Rachel. She raised herself very +slowly. When she was standing up she stretched her arms and drew a deep +breath, half a sigh, half a yawn. She appeared to be very tired. Her +cheeks were white. “Which way?” she asked. + +“There,” said Terence. + +They began to walk back down the mossy path again. The sighing and +creaking continued far overhead, and the jarring cries of animals. The +butterflies were circling still in the patches of yellow sunlight. At +first Terence was certain of his way, but as they walked he became +doubtful. They had to stop to consider, and then to return and start +once more, for although he was certain of the direction of the river he +was not certain of striking the point where they had left the others. +Rachel followed him, stopping where he stopped, turning where he +turned, ignorant of the way, ignorant why he stopped or why he turned. + +“I don’t want to be late,” he said, “because—” He put a flower into her +hand and her fingers closed upon it quietly. “We’re so late—so late—so +horribly late,” he repeated as if he were talking in his sleep. +“Ah—this is right. We turn here.” + +They found themselves again in the broad path, like the drive in the +English forest, where they had started when they left the others. They +walked on in silence as people walking in their sleep, and were oddly +conscious now and again of the mass of their bodies. Then Rachel +exclaimed suddenly, “Helen!” + +In the sunny space at the edge of the forest they saw Helen still +sitting on the tree-trunk, her dress showing very white in the sun, +with Hirst still propped on his elbow by her side. They stopped +instinctively. At the sight of other people they could not go on. They +stood hand in hand for a minute or two in silence. They could not bear +to face other people. + +“But we must go on,” Rachel insisted at last, in the curious dull tone +of voice in which they had both been speaking, and with a great effort +they forced themselves to cover the short distance which lay between +them and the pair sitting on the tree-trunk. + +As they approached, Helen turned round and looked at them. She looked +at them for some time without speaking, and when they were close to her +she said quietly: + +“Did you meet Mr. Flushing? He has gone to find you. He thought you +must be lost, though I told him you weren’t lost.” + +Hirst half turned round and threw his head back so that he looked at +the branches crossing themselves in the air above him. + +“Well, was it worth the effort?” he enquired dreamily. + +Hewet sat down on the grass by his side and began to fan himself. + +Rachel had balanced herself near Helen on the end of the tree trunk. + +“Very hot,” she said. + +“You look exhausted anyhow,” said Hirst. + +“It’s fearfully close in those trees,” Helen remarked, picking up her +book and shaking it free from the dried blades of grass which had +fallen between the leaves. Then they were all silent, looking at the +river swirling past in front of them between the trunks of the trees +until Mr. Flushing interrupted them. He broke out of the trees a +hundred yards to the left, exclaiming sharply: + +“Ah, so you found the way after all. But it’s late—much later than we +arranged, Hewet.” + +He was slightly annoyed, and in his capacity as leader of the +expedition, inclined to be dictatorial. He spoke quickly, using +curiously sharp, meaningless words. + +“Being late wouldn’t matter normally, of course,” he said, “but when +it’s a question of keeping the men up to time—” + +He gathered them together and made them come down to the river-bank, +where the boat was waiting to row them out to the steamer. + +The heat of the day was going down, and over their cups of tea the +Flushings tended to become communicative. It seemed to Terence as he +listened to them talking, that existence now went on in two different +layers. Here were the Flushings talking, talking somewhere high up in +the air above him, and he and Rachel had dropped to the bottom of the +world together. But with something of a child’s directness, Mrs. +Flushing had also the instinct which leads a child to suspect what its +elders wish to keep hidden. She fixed Terence with her vivid blue eyes +and addressed herself to him in particular. What would he do, she +wanted to know, if the boat ran upon a rock and sank. + +“Would you care for anythin’ but savin’ yourself? Should I? No, no,” +she laughed, “not one scrap—don’t tell me. There’s only two creatures +the ordinary woman cares about,” she continued, “her child and her dog; +and I don’t believe it’s even two with men. One reads a lot about +love—that’s why poetry’s so dull. But what happens in real life, eh? It +ain’t love!” she cried. + +Terence murmured something unintelligible. Mr. Flushing, however, had +recovered his urbanity. He was smoking a cigarette, and he now answered +his wife. + +“You must always remember, Alice,” he said, “that your upbringing was +very unnatural—unusual, I should say. They had no mother,” he +explained, dropping something of the formality of his tone; “and a +father—he was a very delightful man, I’ve no doubt, but he cared only +for racehorses and Greek statues. Tell them about the bath, Alice.” + +“In the stable-yard,” said Mrs. Flushing. “Covered with ice in winter. +We had to get in; if we didn’t, we were whipped. The strong ones +lived—the others died. What you call survival of the fittest—a most +excellent plan, I daresay, if you’ve thirteen children!” + +“And all this going on in the heart of England, in the nineteenth +century!” Mr. Flushing exclaimed, turning to Helen. + +“I’d treat my children just the same if I had any,” said Mrs. Flushing. + +Every word sounded quite distinctly in Terence’s ears; but what were +they saying, and who were they talking to, and who were they, these +fantastic people, detached somewhere high up in the air? Now that they +had drunk their tea, they rose and leant over the bow of the boat. The +sun was going down, and the water was dark and crimson. The river had +widened again, and they were passing a little island set like a dark +wedge in the middle of the stream. Two great white birds with red +lights on them stood there on stilt-like legs, and the beach of the +island was unmarked, save by the skeleton print of birds’ feet. The +branches of the trees on the bank looked more twisted and angular than +ever, and the green of the leaves was lurid and splashed with gold. +Then Hirst began to talk, leaning over the bow. + +“It makes one awfully queer, don’t you find?” he complained. “These +trees get on one’s nerves—it’s all so crazy. God’s undoubtedly mad. +What sane person could have conceived a wilderness like this, and +peopled it with apes and alligators? I should go mad if I lived +here—raving mad.” + +Terence attempted to answer him, but Mrs. Ambrose replied instead. She +bade him look at the way things massed themselves—look at the amazing +colours, look at the shapes of the trees. She seemed to be protecting +Terence from the approach of the others. + +“Yes,” said Mr. Flushing. “And in my opinion,” he continued, “the +absence of population to which Hirst objects is precisely the +significant touch. You must admit, Hirst, that a little Italian town +even would vulgarise the whole scene, would detract from the +vastness—the sense of elemental grandeur.” He swept his hands towards +the forest, and paused for a moment, looking at the great green mass, +which was now falling silent. “I own it makes us seem pretty small—us, +not them.” He nodded his head at a sailor who leant over the side +spitting into the river. “And that, I think, is what my wife feels, the +essential superiority of the peasant—” Under cover of Mr. Flushing’s +words, which continued now gently reasoning with St. John and +persuading him, Terence drew Rachel to the side, pointing ostensibly to +a great gnarled tree-trunk which had fallen and lay half in the water. +He wished, at any rate, to be near her, but he found that he could say +nothing. They could hear Mr. Flushing flowing on, now about his wife, +now about art, now about the future of the country, little meaningless +words floating high in air. As it was becoming cold he began to pace +the deck with Hirst. Fragments of their talk came out distinctly as +they passed—art, emotion, truth, reality. + +“Is it true, or is it a dream?” Rachel murmured, when they had passed. + +“It’s true, it’s true,” he replied. + +But the breeze freshened, and there was a general desire for movement. +When the party rearranged themselves under cover of rugs and cloaks, +Terence and Rachel were at opposite ends of the circle, and could not +speak to each other. But as the dark descended, the words of the others +seemed to curl up and vanish as the ashes of burnt paper, and left them +sitting perfectly silent at the bottom of the world. Occasional starts +of exquisite joy ran through them, and then they were peaceful again. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +Thanks to Mr. Flushing’s discipline, the right stages of the river were +reached at the right hours, and when next morning after breakfast the +chairs were again drawn out in a semicircle in the bow, the launch was +within a few miles of the native camp which was the limit of the +journey. Mr. Flushing, as he sat down, advised them to keep their eyes +fixed on the left bank, where they would soon pass a clearing, and in +that clearing, was a hut where Mackenzie, the famous explorer, had died +of fever some ten years ago, almost within reach of +civilisation—Mackenzie, he repeated, the man who went farther inland +than any one’s been yet. Their eyes turned that way obediently. The +eyes of Rachel saw nothing. Yellow and green shapes did, it is true, +pass before them, but she only knew that one was large and another +small; she did not know that they were trees. These directions to look +here and there irritated her, as interruptions irritate a person +absorbed in thought, although she was not thinking of anything. She was +annoyed with all that was said, and with the aimless movements of +people’s bodies, because they seemed to interfere with her and to +prevent her from speaking to Terence. Very soon Helen saw her staring +moodily at a coil of rope, and making no effort to listen. Mr. Flushing +and St. John were engaged in more or less continuous conversation about +the future of the country from a political point of view, and the +degree to which it had been explored; the others, with their legs +stretched out, or chins poised on the hands, gazed in silence. + +Mrs. Ambrose looked and listened obediently enough, but inwardly she +was prey to an uneasy mood not readily to be ascribed to any one cause. +Looking on shore as Mr. Flushing bade her, she thought the country very +beautiful, but also sultry and alarming. She did not like to feel +herself the victim of unclassified emotions, and certainly as the +launch slipped on and on, in the hot morning sun, she felt herself +unreasonably moved. Whether the unfamiliarity of the forest was the +cause of it, or something less definite, she could not determine. Her +mind left the scene and occupied itself with anxieties for Ridley, for +her children, for far-off things, such as old age and poverty and +death. Hirst, too, was depressed. He had been looking forward to this +expedition as to a holiday, for, once away from the hotel, surely +wonderful things would happen, instead of which nothing happened, and +here they were as uncomfortable, as restrained, as self-conscious as +ever. That, of course, was what came of looking forward to anything; +one was always disappointed. He blamed Wilfrid Flushing, who was so +well dressed and so formal; he blamed Hewet and Rachel. Why didn’t they +talk? He looked at them sitting silent and self-absorbed, and the sight +annoyed him. He supposed that they were engaged, or about to become +engaged, but instead of being in the least romantic or exciting, that +was as dull as everything else; it annoyed him, too, to think that they +were in love. He drew close to Helen and began to tell her how +uncomfortable his night had been, lying on the deck, sometimes too hot, +sometimes too cold, and the stars so bright that he couldn’t get to +sleep. He had lain awake all night thinking, and when it was light +enough to see, he had written twenty lines of his poem on God, and the +awful thing was that he’d practically proved the fact that God did not +exist. He did not see that he was teasing her, and he went on to wonder +what would happen if God did exist—“an old gentleman in a beard and a +long blue dressing gown, extremely testy and disagreeable as he’s bound +to be? Can you suggest a rhyme? God, rod, sod—all used; any others?” + +Although he spoke much as usual, Helen could have seen, had she looked, +that he was also impatient and disturbed. But she was not called upon +to answer, for Mr. Flushing now exclaimed “There!” They looked at the +hut on the bank, a desolate place with a large rent in the roof, and +the ground round it yellow, scarred with fires and scattered with rusty +open tins. + +“Did they find his dead body there?” Mrs. Flushing exclaimed, leaning +forward in her eagerness to see the spot where the explorer had died. + +“They found his body and his skins and a notebook,” her husband +replied. But the boat had soon carried them on and left the place +behind. + +It was so hot that they scarcely moved, except now to change a foot, +or, again, to strike a match. Their eyes, concentrated upon the bank, +were full of the same green reflections, and their lips were slightly +pressed together as though the sights they were passing gave rise to +thoughts, save that Hirst’s lips moved intermittently as half +consciously he sought rhymes for God. Whatever the thoughts of the +others, no one said anything for a considerable space. They had grown +so accustomed to the wall of trees on either side that they looked up +with a start when the light suddenly widened out and the trees came to +an end. + +“It almost reminds one of an English park,” said Mr. Flushing. + +Indeed no change could have been greater. On both banks of the river +lay an open lawn-like space, grass covered and planted, for the +gentleness and order of the place suggested human care, with graceful +trees on the top of little mounds. As far as they could gaze, this lawn +rose and sank with the undulating motion of an old English park. The +change of scene naturally suggested a change of position, grateful to +most of them. They rose and leant over the rail. + +“It might be Arundel or Windsor,” Mr. Flushing continued, “if you cut +down that bush with the yellow flowers; and, by Jove, look!” + +Rows of brown backs paused for a moment and then leapt with a motion as +if they were springing over waves out of sight. For a moment no one of +them could believe that they had really seen live animals in the open—a +herd of wild deer, and the sight aroused a childlike excitement in +them, dissipating their gloom. + +“I’ve never in my life seen anything bigger than a hare!” Hirst +exclaimed with genuine excitement. “What an ass I was not to bring my +Kodak!” + +Soon afterwards the launch came gradually to a standstill, and the +captain explained to Mr. Flushing that it would be pleasant for the +passengers if they now went for a stroll on shore; if they chose to +return within an hour, he would take them on to the village; if they +chose to walk—it was only a mile or two farther on—he would meet them +at the landing-place. + +The matter being settled, they were once more put on shore: the +sailors, producing raisins and tobacco, leant upon the rail and watched +the six English, whose coats and dresses looked so strange upon the +green, wander off. A joke that was by no means proper set them all +laughing, and then they turned round and lay at their ease upon the +deck. + +Directly they landed, Terence and Rachel drew together slightly in +advance of the others. + +“Thank God!” Terence exclaimed, drawing a long breath. “At last we’re +alone.” + +“And if we keep ahead we can talk,” said Rachel. + +Nevertheless, although their position some yards in advance of the +others made it possible for them to say anything they chose, they were +both silent. + +“You love me?” Terence asked at length, breaking the silence painfully. +To speak or to be silent was equally an effort, for when they were +silent they were keenly conscious of each other’s presence, and yet +words were either too trivial or too large. + +She murmured inarticulately, ending, “And you?” + +“Yes, yes,” he replied; but there were so many things to be said, and +now that they were alone it seemed necessary to bring themselves still +more near, and to surmount a barrier which had grown up since they had +last spoken. It was difficult, frightening even, oddly embarrassing. At +one moment he was clear-sighted, and, at the next, confused. + +“Now I’m going to begin at the beginning,” he said resolutely. “I’m +going to tell you what I ought to have told you before. In the first +place, I’ve never been in love with other women, but I’ve had other +women. Then I’ve great faults. I’m very lazy, I’m moody—” He persisted, +in spite of her exclamation, “You’ve got to know the worst of me. I’m +lustful. I’m overcome by a sense of futility—incompetence. I ought +never to have asked you to marry me, I expect. I’m a bit of a snob; I’m +ambitious—” + +“Oh, our faults!” she cried. “What do they matter?” Then she demanded, +“Am I in love—is this being in love—are we to marry each other?” + +Overcome by the charm of her voice and her presence, he exclaimed, “Oh, +you’re free, Rachel. To you, time will make no difference, or marriage +or—” + +The voices of the others behind them kept floating, now farther, now +nearer, and Mrs. Flushing’s laugh rose clearly by itself. + +“Marriage?” Rachel repeated. + +The shouts were renewed behind, warning them that they were bearing too +far to the left. Improving their course, he continued, “Yes, marriage.” +The feeling that they could not be united until she knew all about him +made him again endeavour to explain. + +“All that’s been bad in me, the things I’ve put up with—the second +best—” + +She murmured, considered her own life, but could not describe how it +looked to her now. + +“And the loneliness!” he continued. A vision of walking with her +through the streets of London came before his eyes. “We will go for +walks together,” he said. The simplicity of the idea relieved them, and +for the first time they laughed. They would have liked had they dared +to take each other by the hand, but the consciousness of eyes fixed on +them from behind had not yet deserted them. + +“Books, people, sights—Mrs. Nutt, Greeley, Hutchinson,” Hewet murmured. + +With every word the mist which had enveloped them, making them seem +unreal to each other, since the previous afternoon melted a little +further, and their contact became more and more natural. Up through the +sultry southern landscape they saw the world they knew appear clearer +and more vividly than it had ever appeared before. As upon that +occasion at the hotel when she had sat in the window, the world once +more arranged itself beneath her gaze very vividly and in its true +proportions. She glanced curiously at Terence from time to time, +observing his grey coat and his purple tie; observing the man with whom +she was to spend the rest of her life. + +After one of these glances she murmured, “Yes, I’m in love. There’s no +doubt; I’m in love with you.” + +Nevertheless, they remained uncomfortably apart; drawn so close +together, as she spoke, that there seemed no division between them, and +the next moment separate and far away again. Feeling this painfully, +she exclaimed, “It will be a fight.” + +But as she looked at him she perceived from the shape of his eyes, the +lines about his mouth, and other peculiarities that he pleased her, and +she added: + +“Where I want to fight, you have compassion. You’re finer than I am; +you’re much finer.” + +He returned her glance and smiled, perceiving, much as she had done, +the very small individual things about her which made her delightful to +him. She was his for ever. This barrier being surmounted, innumerable +delights lay before them both. + +“I’m not finer,” he answered. “I’m only older, lazier; a man, not a +woman.” + +“A man,” she repeated, and a curious sense of possession coming over +her, it struck her that she might now touch him; she put out her hand +and lightly touched his cheek. His fingers followed where hers had +been, and the touch of his hand upon his face brought back the +overpowering sense of unreality. This body of his was unreal; the whole +world was unreal. + +“What’s happened?” he began. “Why did I ask you to marry me? How did it +happen?” + +“Did you ask me to marry you?” she wondered. They faded far away from +each other, and neither of them could remember what had been said. + +“We sat upon the ground,” he recollected. + +“We sat upon the ground,” she confirmed him. The recollection of +sitting upon the ground, such as it was, seemed to unite them again, +and they walked on in silence, their minds sometimes working with +difficulty and sometimes ceasing to work, their eyes alone perceiving +the things round them. Now he would attempt again to tell her his +faults, and why he loved her; and she would describe what she had felt +at this time or at that time, and together they would interpret her +feeling. So beautiful was the sound of their voices that by degrees +they scarcely listened to the words they framed. Long silences came +between their words, which were no longer silences of struggle and +confusion but refreshing silences, in which trivial thoughts moved +easily. They began to speak naturally of ordinary things, of the +flowers and the trees, how they grew there so red, like garden flowers +at home, and there bent and crooked like the arm of a twisted old man. + +Very gently and quietly, almost as if it were the blood singing in her +veins, or the water of the stream running over stones, Rachel became +conscious of a new feeling within her. She wondered for a moment what +it was, and then said to herself, with a little surprise at recognising +in her own person so famous a thing: + +“This is happiness, I suppose.” And aloud to Terence she spoke, “This +is happiness.” + +On the heels of her words he answered, “This is happiness,” upon which +they guessed that the feeling had sprung in both of them the same time. +They began therefore to describe how this felt and that felt, how like +it was and yet how different; for they were very different. + +Voices crying behind them never reached through the waters in which +they were now sunk. The repetition of Hewet’s name in short, dissevered +syllables was to them the crack of a dry branch or the laughter of a +bird. The grasses and breezes sounding and murmuring all round them, +they never noticed that the swishing of the grasses grew louder and +louder, and did not cease with the lapse of the breeze. A hand dropped +abrupt as iron on Rachel’s shoulder; it might have been a bolt from +heaven. She fell beneath it, and the grass whipped across her eyes and +filled her mouth and ears. Through the waving stems she saw a figure, +large and shapeless against the sky. Helen was upon her. Rolled this +way and that, now seeing only forests of green, and now the high blue +heaven; she was speechless and almost without sense. At last she lay +still, all the grasses shaken round her and before her by her panting. +Over her loomed two great heads, the heads of a man and woman, of +Terence and Helen. + +Both were flushed, both laughing, and the lips were moving; they came +together and kissed in the air above her. Broken fragments of speech +came down to her on the ground. She thought she heard them speak of +love and then of marriage. Raising herself and sitting up, she too +realised Helen’s soft body, the strong and hospitable arms, and +happiness swelling and breaking in one vast wave. When this fell away, +and the grasses once more lay low, and the sky became horizontal, and +the earth rolled out flat on each side, and the trees stood upright, +she was the first to perceive a little row of human figures standing +patiently in the distance. For the moment she could not remember who +they were. + +“Who are they?” she asked, and then recollected. + +Falling into line behind Mr. Flushing, they were careful to leave at +least three yards’ distance between the toe of his boot and the rim of +her skirt. + +He led them across a stretch of green by the river-bank and then +through a grove of trees, and bade them remark the signs of human +habitation, the blackened grass, the charred tree-stumps, and there, +through the trees, strange wooden nests, drawn together in an arch +where the trees drew apart, the village which was the goal of their +journey. + +Stepping cautiously, they observed the women, who were squatting on the +ground in triangular shapes, moving their hands, either plaiting straw +or in kneading something in bowls. But when they had looked for a +moment undiscovered, they were seen, and Mr. Flushing, advancing into +the centre of the clearing, was engaged in talk with a lean majestic +man, whose bones and hollows at once made the shapes of the +Englishman’s body appear ugly and unnatural. The women took no notice +of the strangers, except that their hands paused for a moment and their +long narrow eyes slid round and fixed upon them with the motionless +inexpressive gaze of those removed from each other far far beyond the +plunge of speech. Their hands moved again, but the stare continued. It +followed them as they walked, as they peered into the huts where they +could distinguish guns leaning in the corner, and bowls upon the floor, +and stacks of rushes; in the dusk the solemn eyes of babies regarded +them, and old women stared out too. As they sauntered about, the stare +followed them, passing over their legs, their bodies, their heads, +curiously not without hostility, like the crawl of a winter fly. As she +drew apart her shawl and uncovered her breast to the lips of her baby, +the eyes of a woman never left their faces, although they moved +uneasily under her stare, and finally turned away, rather than stand +there looking at her any longer. When sweetmeats were offered them, +they put out great red hands to take them, and felt themselves treading +cumbrously like tight-coated soldiers among these soft instinctive +people. But soon the life of the village took no notice of them; they +had become absorbed in it. The women’s hands became busy again with the +straw; their eyes dropped. If they moved, it was to fetch something +from the hut, or to catch a straying child, or to cross the space with +a jar balanced on their heads; if they spoke, it was to cry some harsh +unintelligible cry. Voices rose when a child was beaten, and fell +again; voices rose in song, which slid up a little way and down a +little way, and settled again upon the same low and melancholy note. +Seeking each other, Terence and Rachel drew together under a tree. +Peaceful, and even beautiful at first, the sight of the women, who had +given up looking at them, made them now feel very cold and melancholy. + +“Well,” Terence sighed at length, “it makes us seem insignificant, +doesn’t it?” + +Rachel agreed. So it would go on for ever and ever, she said, those +women sitting under the trees, the trees and the river. They turned +away and began to walk through the trees, leaning, without fear of +discovery, upon each other’s arms. They had not gone far before they +began to assure each other once more that they were in love, were +happy, were content; but why was it so painful being in love, why was +there so much pain in happiness? + +The sight of the village indeed affected them all curiously though all +differently. St. John had left the others and was walking slowly down +to the river, absorbed in his own thoughts, which were bitter and +unhappy, for he felt himself alone; and Helen, standing by herself in +the sunny space among the native women, was exposed to presentiments of +disaster. The cries of the senseless beasts rang in her ears high and +low in the air, as they ran from tree-trunk to tree-top. How small the +little figures looked wandering through the trees! She became acutely +conscious of the little limbs, the thin veins, the delicate flesh of +men and women, which breaks so easily and lets the life escape compared +with these great trees and deep waters. A falling branch, a foot that +slips, and the earth has crushed them or the water drowned them. Thus +thinking, she kept her eyes anxiously fixed upon the lovers, as if by +doing so she could protect them from their fate. Turning, she found the +Flushings by her side. + +They were talking about the things they had bought and arguing whether +they were really old, and whether there were not signs here and there +of European influence. Helen was appealed to. She was made to look at a +brooch, and then at a pair of ear-rings. But all the time she blamed +them for having come on this expedition, for having ventured too far +and exposed themselves. Then she roused herself and tried to talk, but +in a few moments she caught herself seeing a picture of a boat upset on +the river in England, at midday. It was morbid, she knew, to imagine +such things; nevertheless she sought out the figures of the others +between the trees, and whenever she saw them she kept her eyes fixed on +them, so that she might be able to protect them from disaster. + +But when the sun went down and the steamer turned and began to steam +back towards civilisation, again her fears were calmed. In the +semi-darkness the chairs on deck and the people sitting in them were +angular shapes, the mouth being indicated by a tiny burning spot, and +the arm by the same spot moving up or down as the cigar or cigarette +was lifted to and from the lips. Words crossed the darkness, but, not +knowing where they fell, seemed to lack energy and substance. Deep +sighs proceeded regularly, although with some attempt at suppression, +from the large white mound which represented the person of Mrs. +Flushing. The day had been long and very hot, and now that all the +colours were blotted out the cool night air seemed to press soft +fingers upon the eyelids, sealing them down. Some philosophical remark +directed, apparently, at St. John Hirst missed its aim, and hung so +long suspended in the air until it was engulfed by a yawn, that it was +considered dead, and this gave the signal for stirring of legs and +murmurs about sleep. The white mound moved, finally lengthened itself +and disappeared, and after a few turns and paces St. John and Mr. +Flushing withdrew, leaving the three chairs still occupied by three +silent bodies. The light which came from a lamp high on the mast and a +sky pale with stars left them with shapes but without features; but +even in this darkness the withdrawal of the others made them feel each +other very near, for they were all thinking of the same thing. For some +time no one spoke, then Helen said with a sigh, “So you’re both very +happy?” + +As if washed by the air her voice sounded more spiritual and softer +than usual. Voices at a little distance answered her, “Yes.” + +Through the darkness she was looking at them both, and trying to +distinguish him. What was there for her to say? Rachel had passed +beyond her guardianship. A voice might reach her ears, but never again +would it carry as far as it had carried twenty-four hours ago. +Nevertheless, speech seemed to be due from her before she went to bed. +She wished to speak, but she felt strangely old and depressed. + +“D’you realise what you’re doing?” she demanded. “She’s young, you’re +both young; and marriage—” Here she ceased. They begged her, however, +to continue, with such earnestness in their voices, as if they only +craved advice, that she was led to add: + +“Marriage! well, it’s not easy.” + +“That’s what we want to know,” they answered, and she guessed that now +they were looking at each other. + +“It depends on both of you,” she stated. Her face was turned towards +Terence, and although he could hardly see her, he believed that her +words really covered a genuine desire to know more about him. He raised +himself from his semi-recumbent position and proceeded to tell her what +she wanted to know. He spoke as lightly as he could in order to take +away her depression. + +“I’m twenty-seven, and I’ve about seven hundred a year,” he began. “My +temper is good on the whole, and health excellent, though Hirst detects +a gouty tendency. Well, then, I think I’m very intelligent.” He paused +as if for confirmation. + +Helen agreed. + +“Though, unfortunately, rather lazy. I intend to allow Rachel to be a +fool if she wants to, and—Do you find me on the whole satisfactory in +other respects?” he asked shyly. + +“Yes, I like what I know of you,” Helen replied. “But then—one knows so +little.” + +“We shall live in London,” he continued, “and—” With one voice they +suddenly enquired whether she did not think them the happiest people +that she had ever known. + +“Hush,” she checked them, “Mrs. Flushing, remember. She’s behind us.” + +Then they fell silent, and Terence and Rachel felt instinctively that +their happiness had made her sad, and, while they were anxious to go on +talking about themselves, they did not like to. + +“We’ve talked too much about ourselves,” Terence said. “Tell us—” + +“Yes, tell us—” Rachel echoed. They were both in the mood to believe +that every one was capable of saying something very profound. + +“What can I tell you?” Helen reflected, speaking more to herself in a +rambling style than as a prophetess delivering a message. She forced +herself to speak. + +“After all, though I scold Rachel, I’m not much wiser myself. I’m +older, of course, I’m half-way through, and you’re just beginning. It’s +puzzling—sometimes, I think, disappointing; the great things aren’t as +great, perhaps, as one expects—but it’s interesting—Oh, yes, you’re +certain to find it interesting—And so it goes on,” they became +conscious here of the procession of dark trees into which, as far as +they could see, Helen was now looking, “and there are pleasures where +one doesn’t expect them (you must write to your father), and you’ll be +very happy, I’ve no doubt. But I must go to bed, and if you are +sensible you will follow in ten minutes, and so,” she rose and stood +before them, almost featureless and very large, “Good-night.” She +passed behind the curtain. + +After sitting in silence for the greater part of the ten minutes she +allowed them, they rose and hung over the rail. Beneath them the smooth +black water slipped away very fast and silently. The spark of a +cigarette vanished behind them. “A beautiful voice,” Terence murmured. + +Rachel assented. Helen had a beautiful voice. + +After a silence she asked, looking up into the sky, “Are we on the deck +of a steamer on a river in South America? Am I Rachel, are you +Terence?” + +The great black world lay round them. As they were drawn smoothly along +it seemed possessed of immense thickness and endurance. They could +discern pointed tree-tops and blunt rounded tree-tops. Raising their +eyes above the trees, they fixed them on the stars and the pale border +of sky above the trees. The little points of frosty light infinitely +far away drew their eyes and held them fixed, so that it seemed as if +they stayed a long time and fell a great distance when once more they +realised their hands grasping the rail and their separate bodies +standing side by side. + +“You’d forgotten completely about me,” Terence reproached her, taking +her arm and beginning to pace the deck, “and I never forget you.” + +“Oh, no,” she whispered, she had not forgotten, only the stars—the +night—the dark— + +“You’re like a bird half asleep in its nest, Rachel. You’re asleep. +You’re talking in your sleep.” + +Half asleep, and murmuring broken words, they stood in the angle made +by the bow of the boat. It slipped on down the river. Now a bell struck +on the bridge, and they heard the lapping of water as it rippled away +on either side, and once a bird startled in its sleep creaked, flew on +to the next tree, and was silent again. The darkness poured down +profusely, and left them with scarcely any feeling of life, except that +they were standing there together in the darkness. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +The darkness fell, but rose again, and as each day spread widely over +the earth and parted them from the strange day in the forest when they +had been forced to tell each other what they wanted, this wish of +theirs was revealed to other people, and in the process became slightly +strange to themselves. Apparently it was not anything unusual that had +happened; it was that they had become engaged to marry each other. The +world, which consisted for the most part of the hotel and the villa, +expressed itself glad on the whole that two people should marry, and +allowed them to see that they were not expected to take part in the +work which has to be done in order that the world shall go on, but +might absent themselves for a time. They were accordingly left alone +until they felt the silence as if, playing in a vast church, the door +had been shut on them. They were driven to walk alone, and sit alone, +to visit secret places where the flowers had never been picked and the +trees were solitary. In solitude they could express those beautiful but +too vast desires which were so oddly uncomfortable to the ears of other +men and women—desires for a world, such as their own world which +contained two people seemed to them to be, where people knew each other +intimately and thus judged each other by what was good, and never +quarrelled, because that was waste of time. + +They would talk of such questions among books, or out in the sun, or +sitting in the shade of a tree undisturbed. They were no longer +embarrassed, or half-choked with meaning which could not express +itself; they were not afraid of each other, or, like travellers down a +twisting river, dazzled with sudden beauties when the corner is turned; +the unexpected happened, but even the ordinary was lovable, and in many +ways preferable to the ecstatic and mysterious, for it was refreshingly +solid, and called out effort, and effort under such circumstances was +not effort but delight. + +While Rachel played the piano, Terence sat near her, engaged, as far as +the occasional writing of a word in pencil testified, in shaping the +world as it appeared to him now that he and Rachel were going to be +married. It was different certainly. The book called _Silence_ would +not now be the same book that it would have been. He would then put +down his pencil and stare in front of him, and wonder in what respects +the world was different—it had, perhaps, more solidity, more coherence, +more importance, greater depth. Why, even the earth sometimes seemed to +him very deep; not carved into hills and cities and fields, but heaped +in great masses. He would look out of the window for ten minutes at a +time; but no, he did not care for the earth swept of human beings. He +liked human beings—he liked them, he suspected, better than Rachel did. +There she was, swaying enthusiastically over her music, quite forgetful +of him,—but he liked that quality in her. He liked the impersonality +which it produced in her. At last, having written down a series of +little sentences, with notes of interrogation attached to them, he +observed aloud, “‘Women—under the heading Women I’ve written: + +“‘Not really vainer than men. Lack of self-confidence at the base of +most serious faults. Dislike of own sex traditional, or founded on +fact? Every woman not so much a rake at heart, as an optimist, because +they don’t think.’ What do you say, Rachel?” He paused with his pencil +in his hand and a sheet of paper on his knee. + +Rachel said nothing. Up and up the steep spiral of a very late +Beethoven sonata she climbed, like a person ascending a ruined +staircase, energetically at first, then more laboriously advancing her +feet with effort until she could go no higher and returned with a run +to begin at the very bottom again. + +“‘Again, it’s the fashion now to say that women are more practical and +less idealistic than men, also that they have considerable organising +ability but no sense of honour’—query, what is meant by masculine term, +honour?—what corresponds to it in your sex? Eh?” + +Attacking her staircase once more, Rachel again neglected this +opportunity of revealing the secrets of her sex. She had, indeed, +advanced so far in the pursuit of wisdom that she allowed these secrets +to rest undisturbed; it seemed to be reserved for a later generation to +discuss them philosophically. + +Crashing down a final chord with her left hand, she exclaimed at last, +swinging round upon him: + +“No, Terence, it’s no good; here am I, the best musician in South +America, not to speak of Europe and Asia, and I can’t play a note +because of you in the room interrupting me every other second.” + +“You don’t seem to realise that that’s what I’ve been aiming at for the +last half-hour,” he remarked. “I’ve no objection to nice simple +tunes—indeed, I find them very helpful to my literary composition, but +that kind of thing is merely like an unfortunate old dog going round on +its hind legs in the rain.” + +He began turning over the little sheets of note-paper which were +scattered on the table, conveying the congratulations of their friends. + +“‘—all possible wishes for all possible happiness,’” he read; “correct, +but not very vivid, are they?” + +“They’re sheer nonsense!” Rachel exclaimed. “Think of words compared +with sounds!” she continued. “Think of novels and plays and histories—” +Perched on the edge of the table, she stirred the red and yellow +volumes contemptuously. She seemed to herself to be in a position where +she could despise all human learning. Terence looked at them too. + +“God, Rachel, you do read trash!” he exclaimed. “And you’re behind the +times too, my dear. No one dreams of reading this kind of thing +now—antiquated problem plays, harrowing descriptions of life in the +east end—oh, no, we’ve exploded all that. Read poetry, Rachel, poetry, +poetry, poetry!” + +Picking up one of the books, he began to read aloud, his intention +being to satirise the short sharp bark of the writer’s English; but she +paid no attention, and after an interval of meditation exclaimed: + +“Does it ever seem to you, Terence, that the world is composed entirely +of vast blocks of matter, and that we’re nothing but patches of light—” +she looked at the soft spots of sun wavering over the carpet and up the +wall—“like that?” + +“No,” said Terence, “I feel solid; immensely solid; the legs of my +chair might be rooted in the bowels of the earth. But at Cambridge, I +can remember, there were times when one fell into ridiculous states of +semi-coma about five o’clock in the morning. Hirst does now, I +expect—oh, no, Hirst wouldn’t.” + +Rachel continued, “The day your note came, asking us to go on the +picnic, I was sitting where you’re sitting now, thinking that; I wonder +if I could think that again? I wonder if the world’s changed? and if +so, when it’ll stop changing, and which is the real world?” + +“When I first saw you,” he began, “I thought you were like a creature +who’d lived all its life among pearls and old bones. Your hands were +wet, d’you remember, and you never said a word until I gave you a bit +of bread, and then you said, ‘Human Beings!’” + +“And I thought you—a prig,” she recollected. “No; that’s not quite it. +There were the ants who stole the tongue, and I thought you and St. +John were like those ants—very big, very ugly, very energetic, with all +your virtues on your backs. However, when I talked to you I liked you—” + +“You fell in love with me,” he corrected her. “You were in love with me +all the time, only you didn’t know it.” + +“No, I never fell in love with you,” she asserted. + +“Rachel—what a lie—didn’t you sit here looking at my window—didn’t you +wander about the hotel like an owl in the sun—?” + +“No,” she repeated, “I never fell in love, if falling in love is what +people say it is, and it’s the world that tells the lies and I tell the +truth. Oh, what lies—what lies!” + +She crumpled together a handful of letters from Evelyn M., from Mr. +Pepper, from Mrs. Thornbury and Miss Allan, and Susan Warrington. It +was strange, considering how very different these people were, that +they used almost the same sentences when they wrote to congratulate her +upon her engagement. + +That any one of these people had ever felt what she felt, or could ever +feel it, or had even the right to pretend for a single second that they +were capable of feeling it, appalled her much as the church service had +done, much as the face of the hospital nurse had done; and if they +didn’t feel a thing why did they go and pretend to? The simplicity and +arrogance and hardness of her youth, now concentrated into a single +spark as it was by her love of him, puzzled Terence; being engaged had +not that effect on him; the world was different, but not in that way; +he still wanted the things he had always wanted, and in particular he +wanted the companionship of other people more than ever perhaps. He +took the letters out of her hand, and protested: + +“Of course they’re absurd, Rachel; of course they say things just +because other people say them, but even so, what a nice woman Miss +Allan is; you can’t deny that; and Mrs. Thornbury too; she’s got too +many children I grant you, but if half-a-dozen of them had gone to the +bad instead of rising infallibly to the tops of their trees—hasn’t she +a kind of beauty—of elemental simplicity as Flushing would say? Isn’t +she rather like a large old tree murmuring in the moonlight, or a river +going on and on and on? By the way, Ralph’s been made governor of the +Carroway Islands—the youngest governor in the service; very good, isn’t +it?” + +But Rachel was at present unable to conceive that the vast majority of +the affairs of the world went on unconnected by a single thread with +her own destiny. + +“I won’t have eleven children,” she asserted; “I won’t have the eyes of +an old woman. She looks at one up and down, up and down, as if one were +a horse.” + +“We must have a son and we must have a daughter,” said Terence, putting +down the letters, “because, let alone the inestimable advantage of +being our children, they’d be so well brought up.” They went on to +sketch an outline of the ideal education—how their daughter should be +required from infancy to gaze at a large square of cardboard painted +blue, to suggest thoughts of infinity, for women were grown too +practical; and their son—he should be taught to laugh at great men, +that is, at distinguished successful men, at men who wore ribands and +rose to the tops of their trees. He should in no way resemble (Rachel +added) St. John Hirst. + +At this Terence professed the greatest admiration for St. John Hirst. +Dwelling upon his good qualities he became seriously convinced of them; +he had a mind like a torpedo, he declared, aimed at falsehood. Where +should we all be without him and his like? Choked in weeds; Christians, +bigots,—why, Rachel herself, would be a slave with a fan to sing songs +to men when they felt drowsy. + +“But you’ll never see it!” he exclaimed; “because with all your virtues +you don’t, and you never will, care with every fibre of your being for +the pursuit of truth! You’ve no respect for facts, Rachel; you’re +essentially feminine.” She did not trouble to deny it, nor did she +think good to produce the one unanswerable argument against the merits +which Terence admired. St. John Hirst said that she was in love with +him; she would never forgive that; but the argument was not one to +appeal to a man. + +“But I like him,” she said, and she thought to herself that she also +pitied him, as one pities those unfortunate people who are outside the +warm mysterious globe full of changes and miracles in which we +ourselves move about; she thought that it must be very dull to be St. +John Hirst. + +She summed up what she felt about him by saying that she would not kiss +him supposing he wished it, which was not likely. + +As if some apology were due to Hirst for the kiss which she then +bestowed upon him, Terence protested: + +“And compared with Hirst I’m a perfect Zany.” + +The clock here struck twelve instead of eleven. + +“We’re wasting the morning—I ought to be writing my book, and you ought +to be answering these.” + +“We’ve only got twenty-one whole mornings left,” said Rachel. “And my +father’ll be here in a day or two.” + +However, she drew a pen and paper towards her and began to write +laboriously, + +“My dear Evelyn—” + +Terence, meanwhile, read a novel which some one else had written, a +process which he found essential to the composition of his own. For a +considerable time nothing was to be heard but the ticking of the clock +and the fitful scratch of Rachel’s pen, as she produced phrases which +bore a considerable likeness to those which she had condemned. She was +struck by it herself, for she stopped writing and looked up; looked at +Terence deep in the arm-chair, looked at the different pieces of +furniture, at her bed in the corner, at the window-pane which showed +the branches of a tree filled in with sky, heard the clock ticking, and +was amazed at the gulf which lay between all that and her sheet of +paper. Would there ever be a time when the world was one and +indivisible? Even with Terence himself—how far apart they could be, how +little she knew what was passing in his brain now! She then finished +her sentence, which was awkward and ugly, and stated that they were +“both very happy, and going to be married in the autumn probably and +hope to live in London, where we hope you will come and see us when we +get back.” Choosing “affectionately,” after some further speculation, +rather than sincerely, she signed the letter and was doggedly beginning +on another when Terence remarked, quoting from his book: + +“Listen to this, Rachel. ‘It is probable that Hugh’ (he’s the hero, a +literary man), ‘had not realised at the time of his marriage, any more +than the young man of parts and imagination usually does realise, the +nature of the gulf which separates the needs and desires of the male +from the needs and desires of the female. . . . At first they had been +very happy. The walking tour in Switzerland had been a time of jolly +companionship and stimulating revelations for both of them. Betty had +proved herself the ideal comrade. . . . They had shouted _Love in the +Valley_ to each other across the snowy slopes of the Riffelhorn’ (and +so on, and so on—I’ll skip the descriptions). . . . ‘But in London, +after the boy’s birth, all was changed. Betty was an admirable mother; +but it did not take her long to find out that motherhood, as that +function is understood by the mother of the upper middle classes, did +not absorb the whole of her energies. She was young and strong, with +healthy limbs and a body and brain that called urgently for exercise. . +. .’ (In short she began to give tea-parties.) . . . ‘Coming in late +from this singular talk with old Bob Murphy in his smoky, book-lined +room, where the two men had each unloosened his soul to the other, with +the sound of the traffic humming in his ears, and the foggy London sky +slung tragically across his mind . . . he found women’s hats dotted +about among his papers. Women’s wraps and absurd little feminine shoes +and umbrellas were in the hall. . . . Then the bills began to come in. +. . . He tried to speak frankly to her. He found her lying on the great +polar-bear skin in their bedroom, half-undressed, for they were dining +with the Greens in Wilton Crescent, the ruddy firelight making the +diamonds wink and twinkle on her bare arms and in the delicious curve +of her breast—a vision of adorable femininity. He forgave her all.’ +(Well, this goes from bad to worse, and finally about fifty pages +later, Hugh takes a week-end ticket to Swanage and ‘has it out with +himself on the downs above Corfe.’ . . . Here there’s fifteen pages or +so which we’ll skip. The conclusion is . . .) ‘They were different. +Perhaps, in the far future, when generations of men had struggled and +failed as he must now struggle and fail, woman would be, indeed, what +she now made a pretence of being—the friend and companion—not the enemy +and parasite of man.’ + +“The end of it is, you see, Hugh went back to his wife, poor fellow. It +was his duty, as a married man. Lord, Rachel,” he concluded, “will it +be like that when we’re married?” + +Instead of answering him she asked, + +“Why don’t people write about the things they do feel?” + +“Ah, that’s the difficulty!” he sighed, tossing the book away. + +“Well, then, what will it be like when we’re married? What are the +things people do feel?” + +She seemed doubtful. + +“Sit on the floor and let me look at you,” he commanded. Resting her +chin on his knee, she looked straight at him. + +He examined her curiously. + +“You’re not beautiful,” he began, “but I like your face. I like the way +your hair grows down in a point, and your eyes too—they never see +anything. Your mouth’s too big, and your cheeks would be better if they +had more colour in them. But what I like about your face is that it +makes one wonder what the devil you’re thinking about—it makes me want +to do that—” He clenched his fist and shook it so near her that she +started back, “because now you look as if you’d blow my brains out. +There are moments,” he continued, “when, if we stood on a rock +together, you’d throw me into the sea.” + +Hypnotised by the force of his eyes in hers, she repeated, “If we stood +on a rock together—” + +To be flung into the sea, to be washed hither and thither, and driven +about the roots of the world—the idea was incoherently delightful. She +sprang up, and began moving about the room, bending and thrusting aside +the chairs and tables as if she were indeed striking through the +waters. He watched her with pleasure; she seemed to be cleaving a +passage for herself, and dealing triumphantly with the obstacles which +would hinder their passage through life. + +“It does seem possible!” he exclaimed, “though I’ve always thought it +the most unlikely thing in the world—I shall be in love with you all my +life, and our marriage will be the most exciting thing that’s ever been +done! We’ll never have a moment’s peace—” He caught her in his arms as +she passed him, and they fought for mastery, imagining a rock, and the +sea heaving beneath them. At last she was thrown to the floor, where +she lay gasping, and crying for mercy. + +“I’m a mermaid! I can swim,” she cried, “so the game’s up.” Her dress +was torn across, and peace being established, she fetched a needle and +thread and began to mend the tear. + +“And now,” she said, “be quiet and tell me about the world; tell me +about everything that’s ever happened, and I’ll tell you—let me see, +what can I tell you?—I’ll tell you about Miss Montgomerie and the river +party. She was left, you see, with one foot in the boat, and the other +on shore.” + +They had spent much time already in thus filling out for the other the +course of their past lives, and the characters of their friends and +relations, so that very soon Terence knew not only what Rachel’s aunts +might be expected to say upon every occasion, but also how their +bedrooms were furnished, and what kind of bonnets they wore. He could +sustain a conversation between Mrs. Hunt and Rachel, and carry on a +tea-party including the Rev. William Johnson and Miss Macquoid, the +Christian Scientists, with remarkable likeness to the truth. But he had +known many more people, and was far more highly skilled in the art of +narrative than Rachel was, whose experiences were, for the most part, +of a curiously childlike and humorous kind, so that it generally fell +to her lot to listen and ask questions. + +He told her not only what had happened, but what he had thought and +felt, and sketched for her portraits which fascinated her of what other +men and women might be supposed to be thinking and feeling, so that she +became very anxious to go back to England, which was full of people, +where she could merely stand in the streets and look at them. According +to him, too, there was an order, a pattern which made life reasonable, +or if that word was foolish, made it of deep interest anyhow, for +sometimes it seemed possible to understand why things happened as they +did. Nor were people so solitary and uncommunicative as she believed. +She should look for vanity—for vanity was a common quality—first in +herself, and then in Helen, in Ridley, in St. John, they all had their +share of it—and she would find it in ten people out of every twelve she +met; and once linked together by one such tie she would find them not +separate and formidable, but practically indistinguishable, and she +would come to love them when she found that they were like herself. + +If she denied this, she must defend her belief that human beings were +as various as the beasts at the Zoo, which had stripes and manes, and +horns and humps; and so, wrestling over the entire list of their +acquaintances, and diverging into anecdote and theory and speculation, +they came to know each other. The hours passed quickly, and seemed to +them full to leaking-point. After a night’s solitude they were always +ready to begin again. + +The virtues which Mrs. Ambrose had once believed to exist in free talk +between men and women did in truth exist for both of them, although not +quite in the measure she prescribed. Far more than upon the nature of +sex they dwelt upon the nature of poetry, but it was true that talk +which had no boundaries deepened and enlarged the strangely small +bright view of a girl. In return for what he could tell her she brought +him such curiosity and sensitiveness of perception, that he was led to +doubt whether any gift bestowed by much reading and living was quite +the equal of that for pleasure and pain. What would experience give her +after all, except a kind of ridiculous formal balance, like that of a +drilled dog in the street? He looked at her face and wondered how it +would look in twenty years’ time, when the eyes had dulled, and the +forehead wore those little persistent wrinkles which seem to show that +the middle-aged are facing something hard which the young do not see? +What would the hard thing be for them, he wondered? Then his thoughts +turned to their life in England. + +The thought of England was delightful, for together they would see the +old things freshly; it would be England in June, and there would be +June nights in the country; and the nightingales singing in the lanes, +into which they could steal when the room grew hot; and there would be +English meadows gleaming with water and set with stolid cows, and +clouds dipping low and trailing across the green hills. As he sat in +the room with her, he wished very often to be back again in the thick +of life, doing things with Rachel. + +He crossed to the window and exclaimed, “Lord, how good it is to think +of lanes, muddy lanes, with brambles and nettles, you know, and real +grass fields, and farmyards with pigs and cows, and men walking beside +carts with pitchforks—there’s nothing to compare with that here—look at +the stony red earth, and the bright blue sea, and the glaring white +houses—how tired one gets of it! And the air, without a stain or a +wrinkle. I’d give anything for a sea mist.” + +Rachel, too, had been thinking of the English country: the flat land +rolling away to the sea, and the woods and the long straight roads, +where one can walk for miles without seeing any one, and the great +church towers and the curious houses clustered in the valleys, and the +birds, and the dusk, and the rain falling against the windows. + +“But London, London’s the place,” Terence continued. They looked +together at the carpet, as though London itself were to be seen there +lying on the floor, with all its spires and pinnacles pricking through +the smoke. + +“On the whole, what I should like best at this moment,” Terence +pondered, “would be to find myself walking down Kingsway, by those big +placards, you know, and turning into the Strand. Perhaps I might go and +look over Waterloo Bridge for a moment. Then I’d go along the Strand +past the shops with all the new books in them, and through the little +archway into the Temple. I always like the quiet after the uproar. You +hear your own footsteps suddenly quite loud. The Temple’s very +pleasant. I think I should go and see if I could find dear old +Hodgkin—the man who writes books about Van Eyck, you know. When I left +England he was very sad about his tame magpie. He suspected that a man +had poisoned it. And then Russell lives on the next staircase. I think +you’d like him. He’s a passion for Handel. Well, Rachel,” he concluded, +dismissing the vision of London, “we shall be doing that together in +six weeks’ time, and it’ll be the middle of June then—and June in +London—my God! how pleasant it all is!” + +“And we’re certain to have it too,” she said. “It isn’t as if we were +expecting a great deal—only to walk about and look at things.” + +“Only a thousand a year and perfect freedom,” he replied. “How many +people in London d’you think have that?” + +“And now you’ve spoilt it,” she complained. “Now we’ve got to think of +the horrors.” She looked grudgingly at the novel which had once caused +her perhaps an hour’s discomfort, so that she had never opened it +again, but kept it on her table, and looked at it occasionally, as some +medieval monk kept a skull, or a crucifix to remind him of the frailty +of the body. + +“Is it true, Terence,” she demanded, “that women die with bugs crawling +across their faces?” + +“I think it’s very probable,” he said. “But you must admit, Rachel, +that we so seldom think of anything but ourselves that an occasional +twinge is really rather pleasant.” + +Accusing him of an affection of cynicism which was just as bad as +sentimentality itself, she left her position by his side and knelt upon +the window sill, twisting the curtain tassels between her fingers. A +vague sense of dissatisfaction filled her. + +“What’s so detestable in this country,” she exclaimed, “is the +blue—always blue sky and blue sea. It’s like a curtain—all the things +one wants are on the other side of that. I want to know what’s going on +behind it. I hate these divisions, don’t you, Terence? One person all +in the dark about another person. Now I liked the Dalloways,” she +continued, “and they’re gone. I shall never see them again. Just by +going on a ship we cut ourselves off entirely from the rest of the +world. I want to see England there—London there—all sorts of people—why +shouldn’t one? why should one be shut up all by oneself in a room?” + +While she spoke thus half to herself and with increasing vagueness, +because her eye was caught by a ship that had just come into the bay, +she did not see that Terence had ceased to stare contentedly in front +of him, and was looking at her keenly and with dissatisfaction. She +seemed to be able to cut herself adrift from him, and to pass away to +unknown places where she had no need of him. The thought roused his +jealousy. + +“I sometimes think you’re not in love with me and never will be,” he +said energetically. She started and turned round at his words. + +“I don’t satisfy you in the way you satisfy me,” he continued. “There’s +something I can’t get hold of in you. You don’t want me as I want +you—you’re always wanting something else.” + +He began pacing up and down the room. + +“Perhaps I ask too much,” he went on. “Perhaps it isn’t really possible +to have what I want. Men and women are too different. You can’t +understand—you don’t understand—” + +He came up to where she stood looking at him in silence. + +It seemed to her now that what he was saying was perfectly true, and +that she wanted many more things than the love of one human being—the +sea, the sky. She turned again and looked at the distant blue, which +was so smooth and serene where the sky met the sea; she could not +possibly want only one human being. + +“Or is it only this damnable engagement?” he continued. “Let’s be +married here, before we go back—or is it too great a risk? Are we sure +we want to marry each other?” + +They began pacing up and down the room, but although they came very +near each other in their pacing, they took care not to touch each +other. The hopelessness of their position overcame them both. They were +impotent; they could never love each other sufficiently to overcome all +these barriers, and they could never be satisfied with less. Realising +this with intolerable keenness she stopped in front of him and +exclaimed: + +“Let’s break it off, then.” + +The words did more to unite them than any amount of argument. As if +they stood on the edge of a precipice they clung together. They knew +that they could not separate; painful and terrible it might be, but +they were joined for ever. They lapsed into silence, and after a time +crept together in silence. Merely to be so close soothed them, and +sitting side by side the divisions disappeared, and it seemed as if the +world were once more solid and entire, and as if, in some strange way, +they had grown larger and stronger. + +It was long before they moved, and when they moved it was with great +reluctance. They stood together in front of the looking-glass, and with +a brush tried to make themselves look as if they had been feeling +nothing all the morning, neither pain nor happiness. But it chilled +them to see themselves in the glass, for instead of being vast and +indivisible they were really very small and separate, the size of the +glass leaving a large space for the reflection of other things. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +But no brush was able to efface completely the expression of happiness, +so that Mrs. Ambrose could not treat them when they came downstairs as +if they had spent the morning in a way that could be discussed +naturally. This being so, she joined in the world’s conspiracy to +consider them for the time incapacitated from the business of life, +struck by their intensity of feeling into enmity against life, and +almost succeeded in dismissing them from her thoughts. + +She reflected that she had done all that it was necessary to do in +practical matters. She had written a great many letters, and had +obtained Willoughby’s consent. She had dwelt so often upon Mr. Hewet’s +prospects, his profession, his birth, appearance, and temperament, that +she had almost forgotten what he was really like. When she refreshed +herself by a look at him, she used to wonder again what he was like, +and then, concluding that they were happy at any rate, thought no more +about it. + +She might more profitably consider what would happen in three years’ +time, or what might have happened if Rachel had been left to explore +the world under her father’s guidance. The result, she was honest +enough to own, might have been better—who knows? She did not disguise +from herself that Terence had faults. She was inclined to think him too +easy and tolerant, just as he was inclined to think her perhaps a +trifle hard—no, it was rather that she was uncompromising. In some ways +she found St. John preferable; but then, of course, he would never have +suited Rachel. Her friendship with St. John was established, for +although she fluctuated between irritation and interest in a way that +did credit to the candour of her disposition, she liked his company on +the whole. He took her outside this little world of love and emotion. +He had a grasp of facts. Supposing, for instance, that England made a +sudden move towards some unknown port on the coast of Morocco, St. John +knew what was at the back of it, and to hear him engaged with her +husband in argument about finance and the balance of power, gave her an +odd sense of stability. She respected their arguments without always +listening to them, much as she respected a solid brick wall, or one of +those immense municipal buildings which, although they compose the +greater part of our cities, have been built day after day and year +after year by unknown hands. She liked to sit and listen, and even felt +a little elated when the engaged couple, after showing their profound +lack of interest, slipped from the room, and were seen pulling flowers +to pieces in the garden. It was not that she was jealous of them, but +she did undoubtedly envy them their great unknown future that lay +before them. Slipping from one such thought to another, she was at the +dining-room with fruit in her hands. Sometimes she stopped to +straighten a candle stooping with the heat, or disturbed some too rigid +arrangement of the chairs. She had reason to suspect that Chailey had +been balancing herself on the top of a ladder with a wet duster during +their absence, and the room had never been quite like itself since. +Returning from the dining-room for the third time, she perceived that +one of the arm-chairs was now occupied by St. John. He lay back in it, +with his eyes half shut, looking, as he always did, curiously buttoned +up in a neat grey suit and fenced against the exuberance of a foreign +climate which might at any moment proceed to take liberties with him. +Her eyes rested on him gently and then passed on over his head. Finally +she took the chair opposite. + +“I didn’t want to come here,” he said at last, “but I was positively +driven to it. . . . Evelyn M.,” he groaned. + +He sat up, and began to explain with mock solemnity how the detestable +woman was set upon marrying him. + +“She pursues me about the place. This morning she appeared in the +smoking-room. All I could do was to seize my hat and fly. I didn’t want +to come, but I couldn’t stay and face another meal with her.” + +“Well, we must make the best of it,” Helen replied philosophically. It +was very hot, and they were indifferent to any amount of silence, so +that they lay back in their chairs waiting for something to happen. The +bell rang for luncheon, but there was no sound of movement in the +house. Was there any news? Helen asked; anything in the papers? St. +John shook his head. O yes, he had a letter from home, a letter from +his mother, describing the suicide of the parlour-maid. She was called +Susan Jane, and she came into the kitchen one afternoon, and said that +she wanted cook to keep her money for her; she had twenty pounds in +gold. Then she went out to buy herself a hat. She came in at half-past +five and said that she had taken poison. They had only just time to get +her into bed and call a doctor before she died. + +“Well?” Helen enquired. + +“There’ll have to be an inquest,” said St. John. + +Why had she done it? He shrugged his shoulders. Why do people kill +themselves? Why do the lower orders do any of the things they do do? +Nobody knows. They sat in silence. + +“The bell’s run fifteen minutes and they’re not down,” said Helen at +length. + +When they appeared, St. John explained why it had been necessary for +him to come to luncheon. He imitated Evelyn’s enthusiastic tone as she +confronted him in the smoking-room. “She thinks there can be nothing +_quite_ so thrilling as mathematics, so I’ve lent her a large work in +two volumes. It’ll be interesting to see what she makes of it.” + +Rachel could now afford to laugh at him. She reminded him of Gibbon; +she had the first volume somewhere still; if he were undertaking the +education of Evelyn, that surely was the test; or she had heard that +Burke, upon the American Rebellion—Evelyn ought to read them both +simultaneously. When St. John had disposed of her argument and had +satisfied his hunger, he proceeded to tell them that the hotel was +seething with scandals, some of the most appalling kind, which had +happened in their absence; he was indeed much given to the study of his +kind. + +“Evelyn M., for example—but that was told me in confidence.” + +“Nonsense!” Terence interposed. + +“You’ve heard about poor Sinclair, too?” + +“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about Sinclair. He’s retired to his mine with a +revolver. He writes to Evelyn daily that he’s thinking of committing +suicide. I’ve assured her that he’s never been so happy in his life, +and, on the whole, she’s inclined to agree with me.” + +“But then she’s entangled herself with Perrott,” St. John continued; +“and I have reason to think, from something I saw in the passage, that +everything isn’t as it should be between Arthur and Susan. There’s a +young female lately arrived from Manchester. A very good thing if it +were broken off, in my opinion. Their married life is something too +horrible to contemplate. Oh, and I distinctly heard old Mrs. Paley +rapping out the most fearful oaths as I passed her bedroom door. It’s +supposed that she tortures her maid in private—it’s practically certain +she does. One can tell it from the look in her eyes.” + +“When you’re eighty and the gout tweezes you, you’ll be swearing like a +trooper,” Terence remarked. “You’ll be very fat, very testy, very +disagreeable. Can’t you imagine him—bald as a coot, with a pair of +sponge-bag trousers, a little spotted tie, and a corporation?” + +After a pause Hirst remarked that the worst infamy had still to be +told. He addressed himself to Helen. + +“They’ve hoofed out the prostitute. One night while we were away that +old numskull Thornbury was doddering about the passages very late. +(Nobody seems to have asked him what _he_ was up to.) He saw the +Signora Lola Mendoza, as she calls herself, cross the passage in her +nightgown. He communicated his suspicions next morning to Elliot, with +the result that Rodriguez went to the woman and gave her twenty-four +hours in which to clear out of the place. No one seems to have enquired +into the truth of the story, or to have asked Thornbury and Elliot what +business it was of theirs; they had it entirely their own way. I +propose that we should all sign a Round Robin, go to Rodriguez in a +body, and insist upon a full enquiry. Something’s got to be done, don’t +you agree?” + +Hewet remarked that there could be no doubt as to the lady’s +profession. + +“Still,” he added, “it’s a great shame, poor woman; only I don’t see +what’s to be done—” + +“I quite agree with you, St. John,” Helen burst out. “It’s monstrous. +The hypocritical smugness of the English makes my blood boil. A man +who’s made a fortune in trade as Mr. Thornbury has is bound to be twice +as bad as any prostitute.” + +She respected St. John’s morality, which she took far more seriously +than any one else did, and now entered into a discussion with him as to +the steps that were to be taken to enforce their peculiar view of what +was right. The argument led to some profoundly gloomy statements of a +general nature. Who were they, after all—what authority had they—what +power against the mass of superstition and ignorance? It was the +English, of course; there must be something wrong in the English blood. +Directly you met an English person, of the middle classes, you were +conscious of an indefinable sensation of loathing; directly you saw the +brown crescent of houses above Dover, the same thing came over you. But +unfortunately St. John added, you couldn’t trust these foreigners— + +They were interrupted by sounds of strife at the further end of the +table. Rachel appealed to her aunt. + +“Terence says we must go to tea with Mrs. Thornbury because she’s been +so kind, but I don’t see it; in fact, I’d rather have my right hand +sawn in pieces—just imagine! the eyes of all those women!” + +“Fiddlesticks, Rachel,” Terence replied. “Who wants to look at you? +You’re consumed with vanity! You’re a monster of conceit! Surely, +Helen, you ought to have taught her by this time that she’s a person of +no conceivable importance whatever—not beautiful, or well dressed, or +conspicuous for elegance or intellect, or deportment. A more ordinary +sight than you are,” he concluded, “except for the tear across your +dress has never been seen. However, stay at home if you want to. I’m +going.” + +She appealed again to her aunt. It wasn’t the being looked at, she +explained, but the things people were sure to say. The women in +particular. She liked women, but where emotion was concerned they were +as flies on a lump of sugar. They would be certain to ask her +questions. Evelyn M. would say: “Are you in love? Is it nice being in +love?” And Mrs. Thornbury—her eyes would go up and down, up and +down—she shuddered at the thought of it. Indeed, the retirement of +their life since their engagement had made her so sensitive, that she +was not exaggerating her case. + +She found an ally in Helen, who proceeded to expound her views of the +human race, as she regarded with complacency the pyramid of variegated +fruits in the centre of the table. It wasn’t that they were cruel, or +meant to hurt, or even stupid exactly; but she had always found that +the ordinary person had so little emotion in his own life that the +scent of it in the lives of others was like the scent of blood in the +nostrils of a bloodhound. Warming to the theme, she continued: + +“Directly anything happens—it may be a marriage, or a birth, or a +death—on the whole they prefer it to be a death—every one wants to see +you. They insist upon seeing you. They’ve got nothing to say; they +don’t care a rap for you; but you’ve got to go to lunch or to tea or to +dinner, and if you don’t you’re damned. It’s the smell of blood,” she +continued; “I don’t blame ’em; only they shan’t have mine if I know +it!” + +She looked about her as if she had called up a legion of human beings, +all hostile and all disagreeable, who encircled the table, with mouths +gaping for blood, and made it appear a little island of neutral country +in the midst of the enemy’s country. + +Her words roused her husband, who had been muttering rhythmically to +himself, surveying his guests and his food and his wife with eyes that +were now melancholy and now fierce, according to the fortunes of the +lady in his ballad. He cut Helen short with a protest. He hated even +the semblance of cynicism in women. “Nonsense, nonsense,” he remarked +abruptly. + +Terence and Rachel glanced at each other across the table, which meant +that when they were married they would not behave like that. The +entrance of Ridley into the conversation had a strange effect. It +became at once more formal and more polite. It would have been +impossible to talk quite easily of anything that came into their heads, +and to say the word prostitute as simply as any other word. The talk +now turned upon literature and politics, and Ridley told stories of the +distinguished people he had known in his youth. Such talk was of the +nature of an art, and the personalities and informalities of the young +were silenced. As they rose to go, Helen stopped for a moment, leaning +her elbows on the table. + +“You’ve all been sitting here,” she said, “for almost an hour, and you +haven’t noticed my figs, or my flowers, or the way the light comes +through, or anything. I haven’t been listening, because I’ve been +looking at you. You looked very beautiful; I wish you’d go on sitting +for ever.” + +She led the way to the drawing-room, where she took up her embroidery, +and began again to dissuade Terence from walking down to the hotel in +this heat. But the more she dissuaded, the more he was determined to +go. He became irritated and obstinate. There were moments when they +almost disliked each other. He wanted other people; he wanted Rachel, +to see them with him. He suspected that Mrs. Ambrose would now try to +dissuade her from going. He was annoyed by all this space and shade and +beauty, and Hirst, recumbent, drooping a magazine from his wrist. + +“I’m going,” he repeated. “Rachel needn’t come unless she wants to.” + +“If you go, Hewet, I wish you’d make enquiries about the prostitute,” +said Hirst. “Look here,” he added, “I’ll walk half the way with you.” + +Greatly to their surprise he raised himself, looked at his watch, and +remarked that, as it was now half an hour since luncheon, the gastric +juices had had sufficient time to secrete; he was trying a system, he +explained, which involved short spells of exercise interspaced by +longer intervals of rest. + +“I shall be back at four,” he remarked to Helen, “when I shall lie down +on the sofa and relax all my muscles completely.” + +“So you’re going, Rachel?” Helen asked. “You won’t stay with me?” + +She smiled, but she might have been sad. + +Was she sad, or was she really laughing? Rachel could not tell, and she +felt for the moment very uncomfortable between Helen and Terence. Then +she turned away, saying merely that she would go with Terence, on +condition that he did all the talking. + +A narrow border of shadow ran along the road, which was broad enough +for two, but not broad enough for three. St. John therefore dropped a +little behind the pair, and the distance between them increased by +degrees. Walking with a view to digestion, and with one eye upon his +watch, he looked from time to time at the pair in front of him. They +seemed to be so happy, so intimate, although they were walking side by +side much as other people walk. They turned slightly toward each other +now and then, and said something which he thought must be something +very private. They were really disputing about Helen’s character, and +Terence was trying to explain why it was that she annoyed him so much +sometimes. But St. John thought that they were saying things which they +did not want him to hear, and was led to think of his own isolation. +These people were happy, and in some ways he despised them for being +made happy so simply, and in other ways he envied them. He was much +more remarkable than they were, but he was not happy. People never +liked him; he doubted sometimes whether even Helen liked him. To be +simple, to be able to say simply what one felt, without the terrific +self-consciousness which possessed him, and showed him his own face and +words perpetually in a mirror, that would be worth almost any other +gift, for it made one happy. Happiness, happiness, what was happiness? +He was never happy. He saw too clearly the little vices and deceits and +flaws of life, and, seeing them, it seemed to him honest to take notice +of them. That was the reason, no doubt, why people generally disliked +him, and complained that he was heartless and bitter. Certainly they +never told him the things he wanted to be told, that he was nice and +kind, and that they liked him. But it was true that half the sharp +things that he said about them were said because he was unhappy or hurt +himself. But he admitted that he had very seldom told any one that he +cared for them, and when he had been demonstrative, he had generally +regretted it afterwards. His feelings about Terence and Rachel were so +complicated that he had never yet been able to bring himself to say +that he was glad that they were going to be married. He saw their +faults so clearly, and the inferior nature of a great deal of their +feeling for each other, and he expected that their love would not last. +He looked at them again, and, very strangely, for he was so used to +thinking that he seldom saw anything, the look of them filled him with +a simple emotion of affection in which there were some traces of pity +also. What, after all, did people’s faults matter in comparison with +what was good in them? He resolved that he would now tell them what he +felt. He quickened his pace and came up with them just as they reached +the corner where the lane joined the main road. They stood still and +began to laugh at him, and to ask him whether the gastric juices—but he +stopped them and began to speak very quickly and stiffly. + +“D’you remember the morning after the dance?” he demanded. “It was here +we sat, and you talked nonsense, and Rachel made little heaps of +stones. I, on the other hand, had the whole meaning of life revealed to +me in a flash.” He paused for a second, and drew his lips together in a +tight little purse. “Love,” he said. “It seems to me to explain +everything. So, on the whole, I’m very glad that you two are going to +be married.” He then turned round abruptly, without looking at them, +and walked back to the villa. He felt both exalted and ashamed of +himself for having thus said what he felt. Probably they were laughing +at him, probably they thought him a fool, and, after all, had he really +said what he felt? + +It was true that they laughed when he was gone; but the dispute about +Helen which had become rather sharp, ceased, and they became peaceful +and friendly. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +They reached the hotel rather early in the afternoon, so that most +people were still lying down, or sitting speechless in their bedrooms, +and Mrs. Thornbury, although she had asked them to tea, was nowhere to +be seen. They sat down, therefore, in the shady hall, which was almost +empty, and full of the light swishing sounds of air going to and fro in +a large empty space. Yes, this arm-chair was the same arm-chair in +which Rachel had sat that afternoon when Evelyn came up, and this was +the magazine she had been looking at, and this the very picture, a +picture of New York by lamplight. How odd it seemed—nothing had +changed. + +By degrees a certain number of people began to come down the stairs and +to pass through the hall, and in this dim light their figures possessed +a sort of grace and beauty, although they were all unknown people. +Sometimes they went straight through and out into the garden by the +swing door, sometimes they stopped for a few minutes and bent over the +tables and began turning over the newspapers. Terence and Rachel sat +watching them through their half-closed eyelids—the Johnsons, the +Parkers, the Baileys, the Simmons’, the Lees, the Morleys, the +Campbells, the Gardiners. Some were dressed in white flannels and were +carrying racquets under their arms, some were short, some tall, some +were only children, and some perhaps were servants, but they all had +their standing, their reason for following each other through the hall, +their money, their position, whatever it might be. Terence soon gave up +looking at them, for he was tired; and, closing his eyes, he fell half +asleep in his chair. Rachel watched the people for some time longer; +she was fascinated by the certainty and the grace of their movements, +and by the inevitable way in which they seemed to follow each other, +and loiter and pass on and disappear. But after a time her thoughts +wandered, and she began to think of the dance, which had been held in +this room, only then the room itself looked quite different. Glancing +round, she could hardly believe that it was the same room. It had +looked so bare and so bright and formal on that night when they came +into it out of the darkness; it had been filled, too, with little red, +excited faces, always moving, and people so brightly dressed and so +animated that they did not seem in the least like real people, nor did +you feel that you could talk to them. And now the room was dim and +quiet, and beautiful silent people passed through it, to whom you could +go and say anything you liked. She felt herself amazingly secure as she +sat in her arm-chair, and able to review not only the night of the +dance, but the entire past, tenderly and humorously, as if she had been +turning in a fog for a long time, and could now see exactly where she +had turned. For the methods by which she had reached her present +position, seemed to her very strange, and the strangest thing about +them was that she had not known where they were leading her. That was +the strange thing, that one did not know where one was going, or what +one wanted, and followed blindly, suffering so much in secret, always +unprepared and amazed and knowing nothing; but one thing led to another +and by degrees something had formed itself out of nothing, and so one +reached at last this calm, this quiet, this certainty, and it was this +process that people called living. Perhaps, then, every one really knew +as she knew now where they were going; and things formed themselves +into a pattern not only for her, but for them, and in that pattern lay +satisfaction and meaning. When she looked back she could see that a +meaning of some kind was apparent in the lives of her aunts, and in the +brief visit of the Dalloways whom she would never see again, and in the +life of her father. + +The sound of Terence, breathing deep in his slumber, confirmed her in +her calm. She was not sleepy although she did not see anything very +distinctly, but although the figures passing through the hall became +vaguer and vaguer, she believed that they all knew exactly where they +were going, and the sense of their certainty filled her with comfort. +For the moment she was as detached and disinterested as if she had no +longer any lot in life, and she thought that she could now accept +anything that came to her without being perplexed by the form in which +it appeared. What was there to frighten or to perplex in the prospect +of life? Why should this insight ever again desert her? The world was +in truth so large, so hospitable, and after all it was so simple. +“Love,” St. John had said, “that seems to explain it all.” Yes, but it +was not the love of man for woman, of Terence for Rachel. Although they +sat so close together, they had ceased to be little separate bodies; +they had ceased to struggle and desire one another. There seemed to be +peace between them. It might be love, but it was not the love of man +for woman. + +Through her half-closed eyelids she watched Terence lying back in his +chair, and she smiled as she saw how big his mouth was, and his chin so +small, and his nose curved like a switchback with a knob at the end. +Naturally, looking like that he was lazy, and ambitious, and full of +moods and faults. She remembered their quarrels, and in particular how +they had been quarreling about Helen that very afternoon, and she +thought how often they would quarrel in the thirty, or forty, or fifty +years in which they would be living in the same house together, +catching trains together, and getting annoyed because they were so +different. But all this was superficial, and had nothing to do with the +life that went on beneath the eyes and the mouth and the chin, for that +life was independent of her, and independent of everything else. So +too, although she was going to marry him and to live with him for +thirty, or forty, or fifty years, and to quarrel, and to be so close to +him, she was independent of him; she was independent of everything +else. Nevertheless, as St. John said, it was love that made her +understand this, for she had never felt this independence, this calm, +and this certainty until she fell in love with him, and perhaps this +too was love. She wanted nothing else. + +For perhaps two minutes Miss Allan had been standing at a little +distance looking at the couple lying back so peacefully in their +arm-chairs. She could not make up her mind whether to disturb them or +not, and then, seeming to recollect something, she came across the +hall. The sound of her approach woke Terence, who sat up and rubbed his +eyes. He heard Miss Allan talking to Rachel. + +“Well,” she was saying, “this is very nice. It is very nice indeed. +Getting engaged seems to be quite the fashion. It cannot often happen +that two couples who have never seen each other before meet in the same +hotel and decide to get married.” Then she paused and smiled, and +seemed to have nothing more to say, so that Terence rose and asked her +whether it was true that she had finished her book. Some one had said +that she had really finished it. Her face lit up; she turned to him +with a livelier expression than usual. + +“Yes, I think I can fairly say I have finished it,” she said. “That is, +omitting Swinburne—Beowulf to Browning—I rather like the two B’s +myself. Beowulf to Browning,” she repeated, “I think that is the kind +of title which might catch one’s eye on a railway book-stall.” + +She was indeed very proud that she had finished her book, for no one +knew what an amount of determination had gone to the making of it. Also +she thought that it was a good piece of work, and, considering what +anxiety she had been in about her brother while she wrote it, she could +not resist telling them a little more about it. + +“I must confess,” she continued, “that if I had known how many classics +there are in English literature, and how verbose the best of them +contrive to be, I should never have undertaken the work. They only +allow one seventy thousand words, you see.” + +“Only seventy thousand words!” Terence exclaimed. + +“Yes, and one has to say something about everybody,” Miss Allan added. +“That is what I find so difficult, saying something different about +everybody.” Then she thought that she had said enough about herself, +and she asked whether they had come down to join the tennis tournament. +“The young people are very keen about it. It begins again in half an +hour.” + +Her gaze rested benevolently upon them both, and, after a momentary +pause, she remarked, looking at Rachel as if she had remembered +something that would serve to keep her distinct from other people. + +“You’re the remarkable person who doesn’t like ginger.” But the +kindness of the smile in her rather worn and courageous face made them +feel that although she would scarcely remember them as individuals, she +had laid upon them the burden of the new generation. + +“And in that I quite agree with her,” said a voice behind; Mrs. +Thornbury had overheard the last few words about not liking ginger. +“It’s associated in my mind with a horrid old aunt of ours (poor thing, +she suffered dreadfully, so it isn’t fair to call her horrid) who used +to give it to us when we were small, and we never had the courage to +tell her we didn’t like it. We just had to put it out in the +shrubbery—she had a big house near Bath.” + +They began moving slowly across the hall, when they were stopped by the +impact of Evelyn, who dashed into them, as though in running downstairs +to catch them her legs had got beyond her control. + +“Well,” she exclaimed, with her usual enthusiasm, seizing Rachel by the +arm, “I call this splendid! I guessed it was going to happen from the +very beginning! I saw you two were made for each other. Now you’ve just +got to tell me all about it—when’s it to be, where are you going to +live—are you both tremendously happy?” + +But the attention of the group was diverted to Mrs. Elliot, who was +passing them with her eager but uncertain movement, carrying in her +hands a plate and an empty hot-water bottle. She would have passed +them, but Mrs. Thornbury went up and stopped her. + +“Thank you, Hughling’s better,” she replied, in answer to Mrs. +Thornbury’s enquiry, “but he’s not an easy patient. He wants to know +what his temperature is, and if I tell him he gets anxious, and if I +don’t tell him he suspects. You know what men are when they’re ill! And +of course there are none of the proper appliances, and, though he seems +very willing and anxious to help” (here she lowered her voice +mysteriously), “one can’t feel that Dr. Rodriguez is the same as a +proper doctor. If you would come and see him, Mr. Hewet,” she added, “I +know it would cheer him up—lying there in bed all day—and the flies—But +I must go and find Angelo—the food here—of course, with an invalid, one +wants things particularly nice.” And she hurried past them in search of +the head waiter. The worry of nursing her husband had fixed a plaintive +frown upon her forehead; she was pale and looked unhappy and more than +usually inefficient, and her eyes wandered more vaguely than ever from +point to point. + +“Poor thing!” Mrs. Thornbury exclaimed. She told them that for some +days Hughling Elliot had been ill, and the only doctor available was +the brother of the proprietor, or so the proprietor said, whose right +to the title of doctor was not above suspicion. + +“I know how wretched it is to be ill in a hotel,” Mrs. Thornbury +remarked, once more leading the way with Rachel to the garden. “I spent +six weeks on my honeymoon in having typhoid at Venice,” she continued. +“But even so, I look back upon them as some of the happiest weeks in my +life. Ah, yes,” she said, taking Rachel’s arm, “you think yourself +happy now, but it’s nothing to the happiness that comes afterwards. And +I assure you I could find it in my heart to envy you young people! +You’ve a much better time than we had, I may tell you. When I look back +upon it, I can hardly believe how things have changed. When we were +engaged I wasn’t allowed to go for walks with William alone—some one +had always to be in the room with us—I really believe I had to show my +parents all his letters!—though they were very fond of him too. Indeed, +I may say they looked upon him as their own son. It amuses me,” she +continued, “to think how strict they were to us, when I see how they +spoil their grand-children!” + +The table was laid under the tree again, and taking her place before +the teacups, Mrs. Thornbury beckoned and nodded until she had collected +quite a number of people, Susan and Arthur and Mr. Pepper, who were +strolling about, waiting for the tournament to begin. A murmuring tree, +a river brimming in the moonlight, Terence’s words came back to Rachel +as she sat drinking the tea and listening to the words which flowed on +so lightly, so kindly, and with such silvery smoothness. This long life +and all these children had left her very smooth; they seemed to have +rubbed away the marks of individuality, and to have left only what was +old and maternal. + +“And the things you young people are going to see!” Mrs. Thornbury +continued. She included them all in her forecast, she included them all +in her maternity, although the party comprised William Pepper and Miss +Allan, both of whom might have been supposed to have seen a fair share +of the panorama. “When I see how the world has changed in my lifetime,” +she went on, “I can set no limit to what may happen in the next fifty +years. Ah, no, Mr. Pepper, I don’t agree with you in the least,” she +laughed, interrupting his gloomy remark about things going steadily +from bad to worse. “I know I ought to feel that, but I don’t, I’m +afraid. They’re going to be much better people than we were. Surely +everything goes to prove that. All round me I see women, young women, +women with household cares of every sort, going out and doing things +that we should not have thought it possible to do.” + +Mr. Pepper thought her sentimental and irrational like all old women, +but her manner of treating him as if he were a cross old baby baffled +him and charmed him, and he could only reply to her with a curious +grimace which was more a smile than a frown. + +“And they remain women,” Mrs. Thornbury added. “They give a great deal +to their children.” + +As she said this she smiled slightly in the direction of Susan and +Rachel. They did not like to be included in the same lot, but they both +smiled a little self-consciously, and Arthur and Terence glanced at +each other too. She made them feel that they were all in the same boat +together, and they looked at the women they were going to marry and +compared them. It was inexplicable how any one could wish to marry +Rachel, incredible that any one should be ready to spend his life with +Susan; but singular though the other’s taste must be, they bore each +other no ill-will on account of it; indeed, they liked each other +rather the better for the eccentricity of their choice. + +“I really must congratulate you,” Susan remarked, as she leant across +the table for the jam. + +There seemed to be no foundation for St. John’s gossip about Arthur and +Susan. Sunburnt and vigorous they sat side by side, with their racquets +across their knees, not saying much but smiling slightly all the time. +Through the thin white clothes which they wore, it was possible to see +the lines of their bodies and legs, the beautiful curves of their +muscles, his leanness and her flesh, and it was natural to think of the +firm-fleshed sturdy children that would be theirs. Their faces had too +little shape in them to be beautiful, but they had clear eyes and an +appearance of great health and power of endurance, for it seemed as if +the blood would never cease to run in his veins, or to lie deeply and +calmly in her cheeks. Their eyes at the present moment were brighter +than usual, and wore the peculiar expression of pleasure and +self-confidence which is seen in the eyes of athletes, for they had +been playing tennis, and they were both first-rate at the game. + +Evelyn had not spoken, but she had been looking from Susan to Rachel. +Well—they had both made up their minds very easily, they had done in a +very few weeks what it sometimes seemed to her that she would never be +able to do. Although they were so different, she thought that she could +see in each the same look of satisfaction and completion, the same +calmness of manner, and the same slowness of movement. It was that +slowness, that confidence, that content which she hated, she thought to +herself. They moved so slowly because they were not single but double, +and Susan was attached to Arthur, and Rachel to Terence, and for the +sake of this one man they had renounced all other men, and movement, +and the real things of life. Love was all very well, and those snug +domestic houses, with the kitchen below and the nursery above, which +were so secluded and self-contained, like little islands in the +torrents of the world; but the real things were surely the things that +happened, the causes, the wars, the ideals, which happened in the great +world outside, and went so independently of these women, turning so +quietly and beautifully towards the men. She looked at them sharply. Of +course they were happy and content, but there must be better things +than that. Surely one could get nearer to life, one could get more out +of life, one could enjoy more and feel more than they would ever do. +Rachel in particular looked so young—what could she know of life? She +became restless, and getting up, crossed over to sit beside Rachel. She +reminded her that she had promised to join her club. + +“The bother is,” she went on, “that I mayn’t be able to start work +seriously till October. I’ve just had a letter from a friend of mine +whose brother is in business in Moscow. They want me to stay with them, +and as they’re in the thick of all the conspiracies and anarchists, +I’ve a good mind to stop on my way home. It sounds too thrilling.” She +wanted to make Rachel see how thrilling it was. “My friend knows a girl +of fifteen who’s been sent to Siberia for life merely because they +caught her addressing a letter to an anarchist. And the letter wasn’t +from her, either. I’d give all I have in the world to help on a +revolution against the Russian government, and it’s bound to come.” + +She looked from Rachel to Terence. They were both a little touched by +the sight of her remembering how lately they had been listening to evil +words about her, and Terence asked her what her scheme was, and she +explained that she was going to found a club—a club for doing things, +really doing them. She became very animated, as she talked on and on, +for she professed herself certain that if once twenty people—no, ten +would be enough if they were keen—set about doing things instead of +talking about doing them, they could abolish almost every evil that +exists. It was brains that were needed. If only people with brains—of +course they would want a room, a nice room, in Bloomsbury preferably, +where they could meet once a week. . . . + +As she talked Terence could see the traces of fading youth in her face, +the lines that were being drawn by talk and excitement round her mouth +and eyes, but he did not pity her; looking into those bright, rather +hard, and very courageous eyes, he saw that she did not pity herself, +or feel any desire to exchange her own life for the more refined and +orderly lives of people like himself and St. John, although, as the +years went by, the fight would become harder and harder. Perhaps, +though, she would settle down; perhaps, after all, she would marry +Perrott. While his mind was half occupied with what she was saying, he +thought of her probable destiny, the light clouds of tobacco smoke +serving to obscure his face from her eyes. + +Terence smoked and Arthur smoked and Evelyn smoked, so that the air was +full of the mist and fragrance of good tobacco. In the intervals when +no one spoke, they heard far off the low murmur of the sea, as the +waves quietly broke and spread the beach with a film of water, and +withdrew to break again. The cool green light fell through the leaves +of the tree, and there were soft crescents and diamonds of sunshine +upon the plates and the tablecloth. Mrs. Thornbury, after watching them +all for a time in silence, began to ask Rachel kindly questions—When +did they all go back? Oh, they expected her father. She must want to +see her father—there would be a great deal to tell him, and (she looked +sympathetically at Terence) he would be so happy, she felt sure. Years +ago, she continued, it might have been ten or twenty years ago, she +remembered meeting Mr. Vinrace at a party, and, being so much struck by +his face, which was so unlike the ordinary face one sees at a party, +that she had asked who he was, and she was told that it was Mr. +Vinrace, and she had always remembered the name,—an uncommon name,—and +he had a lady with him, a very sweet-looking woman, but it was one of +those dreadful London crushes, where you don’t talk,—you only look at +each other,—and although she had shaken hands with Mr. Vinrace, she +didn’t think they had said anything. She sighed very slightly, +remembering the past. + +Then she turned to Mr. Pepper, who had become very dependent on her, so +that he always chose a seat near her, and attended to what she was +saying, although he did not often make any remark of his own. + +“You who know everything, Mr. Pepper,” she said, “tell us how did those +wonderful French ladies manage their salons? Did we ever do anything of +the same kind in England, or do you think that there is some reason why +we cannot do it in England?” + +Mr. Pepper was pleased to explain very accurately why there has never +been an English salon. There were three reasons, and they were very +good ones, he said. As for himself, when he went to a party, as one was +sometimes obliged to, from a wish not to give offence—his niece, for +example, had been married the other day—he walked into the middle of +the room, said “Ha! ha!” as loud as ever he could, considered that he +had done his duty, and walked away again. Mrs. Thornbury protested. She +was going to give a party directly she got back, and they were all to +be invited, and she should set people to watch Mr. Pepper, and if she +heard that he had been caught saying “Ha! ha!” she would—she would do +something very dreadful indeed to him. Arthur Venning suggested that +what she must do was to rig up something in the nature of a surprise—a +portrait, for example, of a nice old lady in a lace cap, concealing a +bath of cold water, which at a signal could be sprung on Pepper’s head; +or they’d have a chair which shot him twenty feet high directly he sat +on it. + +Susan laughed. She had done her tea; she was feeling very well +contented, partly because she had been playing tennis brilliantly, and +then every one was so nice; she was beginning to find it so much easier +to talk, and to hold her own even with quite clever people, for somehow +clever people did not frighten her any more. Even Mr. Hirst, whom she +had disliked when she first met him, really wasn’t disagreeable; and, +poor man, he always looked so ill; perhaps he was in love; perhaps he +had been in love with Rachel—she really shouldn’t wonder; or perhaps it +was Evelyn—she was of course very attractive to men. Leaning forward, +she went on with the conversation. She said that she thought that the +reason why parties were so dull was mainly because gentlemen will not +dress: even in London, she stated, it struck her very much how people +don’t think it necessary to dress in the evening, and of course if they +don’t dress in London they won’t dress in the country. It was really +quite a treat at Christmas-time when there were the Hunt balls, and the +gentlemen wore nice red coats, but Arthur didn’t care for dancing, so +she supposed that they wouldn’t go even to the ball in their little +country town. She didn’t think that people who were fond of one sport +often care for another, although her father was an exception. But then +he was an exception in every way—such a gardener, and he knew all about +birds and animals, and of course he was simply adored by all the old +women in the village, and at the same time what he really liked best +was a book. You always knew where to find him if he were wanted; he +would be in his study with a book. Very likely it would be an old, old +book, some fusty old thing that no one else would dream of reading. She +used to tell him that he would have made a first-rate old bookworm if +only he hadn’t had a family of six to support, and six children, she +added, charmingly confident of universal sympathy, didn’t leave one +much time for being a bookworm. + +Still talking about her father, of whom she was very proud, she rose, +for Arthur upon looking at his watch found that it was time they went +back again to the tennis court. The others did not move. + +“They’re very happy!” said Mrs. Thornbury, looking benignantly after +them. Rachel agreed; they seemed to be so certain of themselves; they +seemed to know exactly what they wanted. + +“D’you think they _are_ happy?” Evelyn murmured to Terence in an +undertone, and she hoped that he would say that he did not think them +happy; but, instead, he said that they must go too—go home, for they +were always being late for meals, and Mrs. Ambrose, who was very stern +and particular, didn’t like that. Evelyn laid hold of Rachel’s skirt +and protested. Why should they go? It was still early, and she had so +many things to say to them. “No,” said Terence, “we must go, because we +walk so slowly. We stop and look at things, and we talk.” + +“What d’you talk about?” Evelyn enquired, upon which he laughed and +said that they talked about everything. + +Mrs. Thornbury went with them to the gate, trailing very slowly and +gracefully across the grass and the gravel, and talking all the time +about flowers and birds. She told them that she had taken up the study +of botany since her daughter married, and it was wonderful what a +number of flowers there were which she had never seen, although she had +lived in the country all her life and she was now seventy-two. It was a +good thing to have some occupation which was quite independent of other +people, she said, when one got old. But the odd thing was that one +never felt old. She always felt that she was twenty-five, not a day +more or a day less, but, of course, one couldn’t expect other people to +agree to that. + +“It must be very wonderful to be twenty-five, and not merely to imagine +that you’re twenty-five,” she said, looking from one to the other with +her smooth, bright glance. “It must be very wonderful, very wonderful +indeed.” She stood talking to them at the gate for a long time; she +seemed reluctant that they should go. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +The afternoon was very hot, so hot that the breaking of the waves on +the shore sounded like the repeated sigh of some exhausted creature, +and even on the terrace under an awning the bricks were hot, and the +air danced perpetually over the short dry grass. The red flowers in the +stone basins were drooping with the heat, and the white blossoms which +had been so smooth and thick only a few weeks ago were now dry, and +their edges were curled and yellow. Only the stiff and hostile plants +of the south, whose fleshy leaves seemed to be grown upon spines, still +remained standing upright and defied the sun to beat them down. It was +too hot to talk, and it was not easy to find any book that would +withstand the power of the sun. Many books had been tried and then let +fall, and now Terence was reading Milton aloud, because he said the +words of Milton had substance and shape, so that it was not necessary +to understand what he was saying; one could merely listen to his words; +one could almost handle them. + +There is a gentle nymph not far from hence, + + +he read, + +That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream. +Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure; +Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine, +That had the sceptre from his father Brute. + + +The words, in spite of what Terence had said, seemed to be laden with +meaning, and perhaps it was for this reason that it was painful to +listen to them; they sounded strange; they meant different things from +what they usually meant. Rachel at any rate could not keep her +attention fixed upon them, but went off upon curious trains of thought +suggested by words such as “curb” and “Locrine” and “Brute,” which +brought unpleasant sights before her eyes, independently of their +meaning. Owing to the heat and the dancing air the garden too looked +strange—the trees were either too near or too far, and her head almost +certainly ached. She was not quite certain, and therefore she did not +know, whether to tell Terence now, or to let him go on reading. She +decided that she would wait until he came to the end of a stanza, and +if by that time she had turned her head this way and that, and it ached +in every position undoubtedly, she would say very calmly that her head +ached. + +Sabrina fair, + Listen where thou art sitting +Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, + In twisted braids of lilies knitting +The loose train of thy amber dropping hair, +Listen for dear honour’s sake, + Goddess of the silver lake, + Listen and save! + + +But her head ached; it ached whichever way she turned it. + +She sat up and said as she had determined, “My head aches so that I +shall go indoors.” He was half-way through the next verse, but he +dropped the book instantly. + +“Your head aches?” he repeated. + +For a few moments they sat looking at one another in silence, holding +each other’s hands. During this time his sense of dismay and +catastrophe were almost physically painful; all round him he seemed to +hear the shiver of broken glass which, as it fell to earth, left him +sitting in the open air. But at the end of two minutes, noticing that +she was not sharing his dismay, but was only rather more languid and +heavy-eyed than usual, he recovered, fetched Helen, and asked her to +tell him what they had better do, for Rachel had a headache. + +Mrs. Ambrose was not discomposed, but advised that she should go to +bed, and added that she must expect her head to ache if she sat up to +all hours and went out in the heat, but a few hours in bed would cure +it completely. Terence was unreasonably reassured by her words, as he +had been unreasonably depressed the moment before. Helen’s sense seemed +to have much in common with the ruthless good sense of nature, which +avenged rashness by a headache, and, like nature’s good sense, might be +depended upon. + +Rachel went to bed; she lay in the dark, it seemed to her, for a very +long time, but at length, waking from a transparent kind of sleep, she +saw the windows white in front of her, and recollected that some time +before she had gone to bed with a headache, and that Helen had said it +would be gone when she woke. She supposed, therefore, that she was now +quite well again. At the same time the wall of her room was painfully +white, and curved slightly, instead of being straight and flat. Turning +her eyes to the window, she was not reassured by what she saw there. +The movement of the blind as it filled with air and blew slowly out, +drawing the cord with a little trailing sound along the floor, seemed +to her terrifying, as if it were the movement of an animal in the room. +She shut her eyes, and the pulse in her head beat so strongly that each +thump seemed to tread upon a nerve, piercing her forehead with a little +stab of pain. It might not be the same headache, but she certainly had +a headache. She turned from side to side, in the hope that the coolness +of the sheets would cure her, and that when she next opened her eyes to +look the room would be as usual. After a considerable number of vain +experiments, she resolved to put the matter beyond a doubt. She got out +of bed and stood upright, holding on to the brass ball at the end of +the bedstead. Ice-cold at first, it soon became as hot as the palm of +her hand, and as the pains in her head and body and the instability of +the floor proved that it would be far more intolerable to stand and +walk than to lie in bed, she got into bed again; but though the change +was refreshing at first, the discomfort of bed was soon as great as the +discomfort of standing up. She accepted the idea that she would have to +stay in bed all day long, and as she laid her head on the pillow, +relinquished the happiness of the day. + +When Helen came in an hour or two later, suddenly stopped her cheerful +words, looked startled for a second and then unnaturally calm, the fact +that she was ill was put beyond a doubt. It was confirmed when the +whole household knew of it, when the song that some one was singing in +the garden stopped suddenly, and when Maria, as she brought water, +slipped past the bed with averted eyes. There was all the morning to +get through, and then all the afternoon, and at intervals she made an +effort to cross over into the ordinary world, but she found that her +heat and discomfort had put a gulf between her world and the ordinary +world which she could not bridge. At one point the door opened, and +Helen came in with a little dark man who had—it was the chief thing she +noticed about him—very hairy hands. She was drowsy and intolerably hot, +and as he seemed shy and obsequious she scarcely troubled to answer +him, although she understood that he was a doctor. At another point the +door opened and Terence came in very gently, smiling too steadily, as +she realised, for it to be natural. He sat down and talked to her, +stroking her hands until it became irksome to her to lie any more in +the same position and she turned round, and when she looked up again +Helen was beside her and Terence had gone. It did not matter; she would +see him to-morrow when things would be ordinary again. Her chief +occupation during the day was to try to remember how the lines went: + +Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, +In twisted braids of lilies knitting +The loose train of thy amber dropping hair; + + +and the effort worried her because the adjectives persisted in getting +into the wrong places. + +The second day did not differ very much from the first day, except that +her bed had become very important, and the world outside, when she +tried to think of it, appeared distinctly further off. The glassy, +cool, translucent wave was almost visible before her, curling up at the +end of the bed, and as it was refreshingly cool she tried to keep her +mind fixed upon it. Helen was here, and Helen was there all day long; +sometimes she said that it was lunchtime, and sometimes that it was +teatime; but by the next day all landmarks were obliterated, and the +outer world was so far away that the different sounds, such as the +sounds of people moving overhead, could only be ascribed to their cause +by a great effort of memory. The recollection of what she had felt, or +of what she had been doing and thinking three days before, had faded +entirely. On the other hand, every object in the room, and the bed +itself, and her own body with its various limbs and their different +sensations were more and more important each day. She was completely +cut off, and unable to communicate with the rest of the world, isolated +alone with her body. + +Hours and hours would pass thus, without getting any further through +the morning, or again a few minutes would lead from broad daylight to +the depths of the night. One evening when the room appeared very dim, +either because it was evening or because the blinds were drawn, Helen +said to her, “Some one is going to sit here to-night. You won’t mind?” + +Opening her eyes, Rachel saw not only Helen but a nurse in spectacles, +whose face vaguely recalled something that she had once seen. She had +seen her in the chapel. “Nurse McInnis,” said Helen, and the nurse +smiled steadily as they all did, and said that she did not find many +people who were frightened of her. After waiting for a moment they both +disappeared, and having turned on her pillow Rachel woke to find +herself in the midst of one of those interminable nights which do not +end at twelve, but go on into the double figures—thirteen, fourteen, +and so on until they reach the twenties, and then the thirties, and +then the forties. She realised that there is nothing to prevent nights +from doing this if they choose. At a great distance an elderly woman +sat with her head bent down; Rachel raised herself slightly and saw +with dismay that she was playing cards by the light of a candle which +stood in the hollow of a newspaper. The sight had something +inexplicably sinister about it, and she was terrified and cried out, +upon which the woman laid down her cards and came across the room, +shading the candle with her hands. Coming nearer and nearer across the +great space of the room, she stood at last above Rachel’s head and +said, “Not asleep? Let me make you comfortable.” + +She put down the candle and began to arrange the bedclothes. It struck +Rachel that a woman who sat playing cards in a cavern all night long +would have very cold hands, and she shrunk from the touch of them. + +“Why, there’s a toe all the way down there!” the woman said, proceeding +to tuck in the bedclothes. Rachel did not realise that the toe was +hers. + +“You must try and lie still,” she proceeded, “because if you lie still +you will be less hot, and if you toss about you will make yourself more +hot, and we don’t want you to be any hotter than you are.” She stood +looking down upon Rachel for an enormous length of time. + +“And the quieter you lie the sooner you will be well,” she repeated. + +Rachel kept her eyes fixed upon the peaked shadow on the ceiling, and +all her energy was concentrated upon the desire that this shadow should +move. But the shadow and the woman seemed to be eternally fixed above +her. She shut her eyes. When she opened them again several more hours +had passed, but the night still lasted interminably. The woman was +still playing cards, only she sat now in a tunnel under a river, and +the light stood in a little archway in the wall above her. She cried +“Terence!” and the peaked shadow again moved across the ceiling, as the +woman with an enormous slow movement rose, and they both stood still +above her. + +“It’s just as difficult to keep you in bed as it was to keep Mr. +Forrest in bed,” the woman said, “and he was such a tall gentleman.” + +In order to get rid of this terrible stationary sight Rachel again shut +her eyes, and found herself walking through a tunnel under the Thames, +where there were little deformed women sitting in archways playing +cards, while the bricks of which the wall was made oozed with damp, +which collected into drops and slid down the wall. But the little old +women became Helen and Nurse McInnis after a time, standing in the +window together whispering, whispering incessantly. + +Meanwhile outside her room the sounds, the movements, and the lives of +the other people in the house went on in the ordinary light of the sun, +throughout the usual succession of hours. When, on the first day of her +illness, it became clear that she would not be absolutely well, for her +temperature was very high, until Friday, that day being Tuesday, +Terence was filled with resentment, not against her, but against the +force outside them which was separating them. He counted up the number +of days that would almost certainly be spoilt for them. He realised, +with an odd mixture of pleasure and annoyance, that, for the first time +in his life, he was so dependent upon another person that his happiness +was in her keeping. The days were completely wasted upon trifling, +immaterial things, for after three weeks of such intimacy and intensity +all the usual occupations were unbearably flat and beside the point. +The least intolerable occupation was to talk to St. John about Rachel’s +illness, and to discuss every symptom and its meaning, and, when this +subject was exhausted, to discuss illness of all kinds, and what caused +them, and what cured them. + +Twice every day he went in to sit with Rachel, and twice every day the +same thing happened. On going into her room, which was not very dark, +where the music was lying about as usual, and her books and letters, +his spirits rose instantly. When he saw her he felt completely +reassured. She did not look very ill. Sitting by her side he would tell +her what he had been doing, using his natural voice to speak to her, +only a few tones lower down than usual; but by the time he had sat +there for five minutes he was plunged into the deepest gloom. She was +not the same; he could not bring them back to their old relationship; +but although he knew that it was foolish he could not prevent himself +from endeavouring to bring her back, to make her remember, and when +this failed he was in despair. He always concluded as he left her room +that it was worse to see her than not to see her, but by degrees, as +the day wore on, the desire to see her returned and became almost too +great to be borne. + +On Thursday morning when Terence went into her room he felt the usual +increase of confidence. She turned round and made an effort to remember +certain facts from the world that was so many millions of miles away. + +“You have come up from the hotel?” she asked. + +“No; I’m staying here for the present,” he said. “We’ve just had +luncheon,” he continued, “and the mail has come in. There’s a bundle of +letters for you—letters from England.” + +Instead of saying, as he meant her to say, that she wished to see them, +she said nothing for some time. + +“You see, there they go, rolling off the edge of the hill,” she said +suddenly. + +“Rolling, Rachel? What do you see rolling? There’s nothing rolling.” + +“The old woman with the knife,” she replied, not speaking to Terence in +particular, and looking past him. As she appeared to be looking at a +vase on the shelf opposite, he rose and took it down. + +“Now they can’t roll any more,” he said cheerfully. Nevertheless she +lay gazing at the same spot, and paid him no further attention although +he spoke to her. He became so profoundly wretched that he could not +endure to sit with her, but wandered about until he found St. John, who +was reading _The Times_ in the verandah. He laid it aside patiently, +and heard all that Terence had to say about delirium. He was very +patient with Terence. He treated him like a child. + +By Friday it could not be denied that the illness was no longer an +attack that would pass off in a day or two; it was a real illness that +required a good deal of organisation, and engrossed the attention of at +least five people, but there was no reason to be anxious. Instead of +lasting five days it was going to last ten days. Rodriguez was +understood to say that there were well-known varieties of this illness. +Rodriguez appeared to think that they were treating the illness with +undue anxiety. His visits were always marked by the same show of +confidence, and in his interviews with Terence he always waved aside +his anxious and minute questions with a kind of flourish which seemed +to indicate that they were all taking it much too seriously. He seemed +curiously unwilling to sit down. + +“A high temperature,” he said, looking furtively about the room, and +appearing to be more interested in the furniture and in Helen’s +embroidery than in anything else. “In this climate you must expect a +high temperature. You need not be alarmed by that. It is the pulse we +go by” (he tapped his own hairy wrist), “and the pulse continues +excellent.” + +Thereupon he bowed and slipped out. The interview was conducted +laboriously upon both sides in French, and this, together with the fact +that he was optimistic, and that Terence respected the medical +profession from hearsay, made him less critical than he would have been +had he encountered the doctor in any other capacity. Unconsciously he +took Rodriguez’ side against Helen, who seemed to have taken an +unreasonable prejudice against him. + +When Saturday came it was evident that the hours of the day must be +more strictly organised than they had been. St. John offered his +services; he said that he had nothing to do, and that he might as well +spend the day at the villa if he could be of use. As if they were +starting on a difficult expedition together, they parcelled out their +duties between them, writing out an elaborate scheme of hours upon a +large sheet of paper which was pinned to the drawing-room door. Their +distance from the town, and the difficulty of procuring rare things +with unknown names from the most unexpected places, made it necessary +to think very carefully, and they found it unexpectedly difficult to do +the simple but practical things that were required of them, as if they, +being very tall, were asked to stoop down and arrange minute grains of +sand in a pattern on the ground. + +It was St. John’s duty to fetch what was needed from the town, so that +Terence would sit all through the long hot hours alone in the +drawing-room, near the open door, listening for any movement upstairs, +or call from Helen. He always forgot to pull down the blinds, so that +he sat in bright sunshine, which worried him without his knowing what +was the cause of it. The room was terribly stiff and uncomfortable. +There were hats in the chairs, and medicine bottles among the books. He +tried to read, but good books were too good, and bad books were too +bad, and the only thing he could tolerate was the newspaper, which with +its news of London, and the movements of real people who were giving +dinner-parties and making speeches, seemed to give a little background +of reality to what was otherwise mere nightmare. Then, just as his +attention was fixed on the print, a soft call would come from Helen, or +Mrs. Chailey would bring in something which was wanted upstairs, and he +would run up very quietly in his socks, and put the jug on the little +table which stood crowded with jugs and cups outside the bedroom door; +or if he could catch Helen for a moment he would ask, “How is she?” + +“Rather restless. . . . On the whole, quieter, I think.” + +The answer would be one or the other. + +As usual she seemed to reserve something which she did not say, and +Terence was conscious that they disagreed, and, without saying it +aloud, were arguing against each other. But she was too hurried and +pre-occupied to talk. + +The strain of listening and the effort of making practical arrangements +and seeing that things worked smoothly, absorbed all Terence’s power. +Involved in this long dreary nightmare, he did not attempt to think +what it amounted to. Rachel was ill; that was all; he must see that +there was medicine and milk, and that things were ready when they were +wanted. Thought had ceased; life itself had come to a standstill. +Sunday was rather worse than Saturday had been, simply because the +strain was a little greater every day, although nothing else had +changed. The separate feelings of pleasure, interest, and pain, which +combine to make up the ordinary day, were merged in one long-drawn +sensation of sordid misery and profound boredom. He had never been so +bored since he was shut up in the nursery alone as a child. The vision +of Rachel as she was now, confused and heedless, had almost obliterated +the vision of her as she had been once long ago; he could hardly +believe that they had ever been happy, or engaged to be married, for +what were feelings, what was there to be felt? Confusion covered every +sight and person, and he seemed to see St. John, Ridley, and the stray +people who came up now and then from the hotel to enquire, through a +mist; the only people who were not hidden in this mist were Helen and +Rodriguez, because they could tell him something definite about Rachel. + +Nevertheless the day followed the usual forms. At certain hours they +went into the dining-room, and when they sat round the table they +talked about indifferent things. St. John usually made it his business +to start the talk and to keep it from dying out. + +“I’ve discovered the way to get Sancho past the white house,” said St. +John on Sunday at luncheon. “You crackle a piece of paper in his ear, +then he bolts for about a hundred yards, but he goes on quite well +after that.” + +“Yes, but he wants corn. You should see that he has corn.” + +“I don’t think much of the stuff they give him; and Angelo seems a +dirty little rascal.” + +There was then a long silence. Ridley murmured a few lines of poetry +under his breath, and remarked, as if to conceal the fact that he had +done so, “Very hot to-day.” + +“Two degrees higher than it was yesterday,” said St. John. “I wonder +where these nuts come from,” he observed, taking a nut out of the +plate, turning it over in his fingers, and looking at it curiously. + +“London, I should think,” said Terence, looking at the nut too. + +“A competent man of business could make a fortune here in no time,” St. +John continued. “I suppose the heat does something funny to people’s +brains. Even the English go a little queer. Anyhow they’re hopeless +people to deal with. They kept me three-quarters of an hour waiting at +the chemist’s this morning, for no reason whatever.” + +There was another long pause. Then Ridley enquired, “Rodriguez seems +satisfied?” + +“Quite,” said Terence with decision. “It’s just got to run its course.” +Whereupon Ridley heaved a deep sigh. He was genuinely sorry for every +one, but at the same time he missed Helen considerably, and was a +little aggrieved by the constant presence of the two young men. + +They moved back into the drawing-room. + +“Look here, Hirst,” said Terence, “there’s nothing to be done for two +hours.” He consulted the sheet pinned to the door. “You go and lie +down. I’ll wait here. Chailey sits with Rachel while Helen has her +luncheon.” + +It was asking a good deal of Hirst to tell him to go without waiting +for a sight of Helen. These little glimpses of Helen were the only +respites from strain and boredom, and very often they seemed to make up +for the discomfort of the day, although she might not have anything to +tell them. However, as they were on an expedition together, he had made +up his mind to obey. + +Helen was very late in coming down. She looked like a person who has +been sitting for a long time in the dark. She was pale and thinner, and +the expression of her eyes was harassed but determined. She ate her +luncheon quickly, and seemed indifferent to what she was doing. She +brushed aside Terence’s enquiries, and at last, as if he had not +spoken, she looked at him with a slight frown and said: + +“We can’t go on like this, Terence. Either you’ve got to find another +doctor, or you must tell Rodriguez to stop coming, and I’ll manage for +myself. It’s no use for him to say that Rachel’s better; she’s not +better; she’s worse.” + +Terence suffered a terrific shock, like that which he had suffered when +Rachel said, “My head aches.” He stilled it by reflecting that Helen +was overwrought, and he was upheld in this opinion by his obstinate +sense that she was opposed to him in the argument. + +“Do you think she’s in danger?” he asked. + +“No one can go on being as ill as that day after day—” Helen replied. +She looked at him, and spoke as if she felt some indignation with +somebody. + +“Very well, I’ll talk to Rodriguez this afternoon,” he replied. + +Helen went upstairs at once. + +Nothing now could assuage Terence’s anxiety. He could not read, nor +could he sit still, and his sense of security was shaken, in spite of +the fact that he was determined that Helen was exaggerating, and that +Rachel was not very ill. But he wanted a third person to confirm him in +his belief. + +Directly Rodriguez came down he demanded, “Well, how is she? Do you +think her worse?” + +“There is no reason for anxiety, I tell you—none,” Rodriguez replied in +his execrable French, smiling uneasily, and making little movements all +the time as if to get away. + +Hewet stood firmly between him and the door. He was determined to see +for himself what kind of man he was. His confidence in the man vanished +as he looked at him and saw his insignificance, his dirty appearance, +his shiftiness, and his unintelligent, hairy face. It was strange that +he had never seen this before. + +“You won’t object, of course, if we ask you to consult another doctor?” +he continued. + +At this the little man became openly incensed. + +“Ah!” he cried. “You have not confidence in me? You object to my +treatment? You wish me to give up the case?” + +“Not at all,” Terence replied, “but in serious illness of this kind—” + +Rodriguez shrugged his shoulders. + +“It is not serious, I assure you. You are overanxious. The young lady +is not seriously ill, and I am a doctor. The lady of course is +frightened,” he sneered. “I understand that perfectly.” + +“The name and address of the doctor is—?” Terence continued. + +“There is no other doctor,” Rodriguez replied sullenly. “Every one has +confidence in me. Look! I will show you.” + +He took out a packet of old letters and began turning them over as if +in search of one that would confute Terence’s suspicions. As he +searched, he began to tell a story about an English lord who had +trusted him—a great English lord, whose name he had, unfortunately, +forgotten. + +“There is no other doctor in the place,” he concluded, still turning +over the letters. + +“Never mind,” said Terence shortly. “I will make enquiries for myself.” +Rodriguez put the letters back in his pocket. + +“Very well,” he remarked. “I have no objection.” + +He lifted his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, as if to repeat that +they took the illness much too seriously and that there was no other +doctor, and slipped out, leaving behind him an impression that he was +conscious that he was distrusted, and that his malice was aroused. + +After this Terence could no longer stay downstairs. He went up, knocked +at Rachel’s door, and asked Helen whether he might see her for a few +minutes. He had not seen her yesterday. She made no objection, and went +and sat at a table in the window. + +Terence sat down by the bedside. Rachel’s face was changed. She looked +as though she were entirely concentrated upon the effort of keeping +alive. Her lips were drawn, and her cheeks were sunken and flushed, +though without colour. Her eyes were not entirely shut, the lower half +of the white part showing, not as if she saw, but as if they remained +open because she was too much exhausted to close them. She opened them +completely when he kissed her. But she only saw an old woman slicing a +man’s head off with a knife. + +“There it falls!” she murmured. She then turned to Terence and asked +him anxiously some question about a man with mules, which he could not +understand. “Why doesn’t he come? Why doesn’t he come?” she repeated. +He was appalled to think of the dirty little man downstairs in +connection with illness like this, and turned instinctively to Helen, +but she was doing something at a table in the window, and did not seem +to realise how great the shock to him must be. He rose to go, for he +could not endure to listen any longer; his heart beat quickly and +painfully with anger and misery. As he passed Helen she asked him in +the same weary, unnatural, but determined voice to fetch her more ice, +and to have the jug outside filled with fresh milk. + +When he had done these errands he went to find Hirst. Exhausted and +very hot, St. John had fallen asleep on a bed, but Terence woke him +without scruple. + +“Helen thinks she’s worse,” he said. “There’s no doubt she’s +frightfully ill. Rodriguez is useless. We must get another doctor.” + +“But there is no other doctor,” said Hirst drowsily, sitting up and +rubbing his eyes. + +“Don’t be a damned fool!” Terence exclaimed. “Of course there’s another +doctor, and, if there isn’t, you’ve got to find one. It ought to have +been done days ago. I’m going down to saddle the horse.” He could not +stay still in one place. + +In less than ten minutes St. John was riding to the town in the +scorching heat in search of a doctor, his orders being to find one and +bring him back if he had to be fetched in a special train. + +“We ought to have done it days ago,” Hewet repeated angrily. + +When he went back into the drawing-room he found that Mrs. Flushing was +there, standing very erect in the middle of the room, having arrived, +as people did in these days, by the kitchen or through the garden +unannounced. + +“She’s better?” Mrs. Flushing enquired abruptly; they did not attempt +to shake hands. + +“No,” said Terence. “If anything, they think she’s worse.” + +Mrs. Flushing seemed to consider for a moment or two, looking straight +at Terence all the time. + +“Let me tell you,” she said, speaking in nervous jerks, “it’s always +about the seventh day one begins to get anxious. I daresay you’ve been +sittin’ here worryin’ by yourself. You think she’s bad, but any one +comin’ with a fresh eye would see she was better. Mr. Elliot’s had +fever; he’s all right now,” she threw out. “It wasn’t anythin’ she +caught on the expedition. What’s it matter—a few days’ fever? My +brother had fever for twenty-six days once. And in a week or two he was +up and about. We gave him nothin’ but milk and arrowroot—” + +Here Mrs. Chailey came in with a message. + +“I’m wanted upstairs,” said Terence. + +“You see—she’ll be better,” Mrs. Flushing jerked out as he left the +room. Her anxiety to persuade Terence was very great, and when he left +her without saying anything she felt dissatisfied and restless; she did +not like to stay, but she could not bear to go. She wandered from room +to room looking for some one to talk to, but all the rooms were empty. + +Terence went upstairs, stood inside the door to take Helen’s +directions, looked over at Rachel, but did not attempt to speak to her. +She appeared vaguely conscious of his presence, but it seemed to +disturb her, and she turned, so that she lay with her back to him. + +For six days indeed she had been oblivious of the world outside, +because it needed all her attention to follow the hot, red, quick +sights which passed incessantly before her eyes. She knew that it was +of enormous importance that she should attend to these sights and grasp +their meaning, but she was always being just too late to hear or see +something which would explain it all. For this reason, the +faces,—Helen’s face, the nurse’s, Terence’s, the doctor’s,—which +occasionally forced themselves very close to her, were worrying because +they distracted her attention and she might miss the clue. However, on +the fourth afternoon she was suddenly unable to keep Helen’s face +distinct from the sights themselves; her lips widened as she bent down +over the bed, and she began to gabble unintelligibly like the rest. The +sights were all concerned in some plot, some adventure, some escape. +The nature of what they were doing changed incessantly, although there +was always a reason behind it, which she must endeavour to grasp. Now +they were among trees and savages, now they were on the sea, now they +were on the tops of high towers; now they jumped; now they flew. But +just as the crisis was about to happen, something invariably slipped in +her brain, so that the whole effort had to begin over again. The heat +was suffocating. At last the faces went further away; she fell into a +deep pool of sticky water, which eventually closed over her head. She +saw nothing and heard nothing but a faint booming sound, which was the +sound of the sea rolling over her head. While all her tormentors +thought that she was dead, she was not dead, but curled up at the +bottom of the sea. There she lay, sometimes seeing darkness, sometimes +light, while every now and then some one turned her over at the bottom +of the sea. + +After St. John had spent some hours in the heat of the sun wrangling +with evasive and very garrulous natives, he extracted the information +that there was a doctor, a French doctor, who was at present away on a +holiday in the hills. It was quite impossible, so they said, to find +him. With his experience of the country, St. John thought it unlikely +that a telegram would either be sent or received; but having reduced +the distance of the hill town, in which he was staying, from a hundred +miles to thirty miles, and having hired a carriage and horses, he +started at once to fetch the doctor himself. He succeeded in finding +him, and eventually forced the unwilling man to leave his young wife +and return forthwith. They reached the villa at midday on Tuesday. + +Terence came out to receive them, and St. John was struck by the fact +that he had grown perceptibly thinner in the interval; he was white +too; his eyes looked strange. But the curt speech and the sulky +masterful manner of Dr. Lesage impressed them both favourably, although +at the same time it was obvious that he was very much annoyed at the +whole affair. Coming downstairs he gave his directions emphatically, +but it never occurred to him to give an opinion either because of the +presence of Rodriguez who was now obsequious as well as malicious, or +because he took it for granted that they knew already what was to be +known. + +“Of course,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders, when Terence asked +him, “Is she very ill?” + +They were both conscious of a certain sense of relief when Dr. Lesage +was gone, leaving explicit directions, and promising another visit in a +few hours’ time; but, unfortunately, the rise of their spirits led them +to talk more than usual, and in talking they quarrelled. They +quarrelled about a road, the Portsmouth Road. St. John said that it is +macadamised where it passes Hindhead, and Terence knew as well as he +knew his own name that it is not macadamised at that point. In the +course of the argument they said some very sharp things to each other, +and the rest of the dinner was eaten in silence, save for an occasional +half-stifled reflection from Ridley. + +When it grew dark and the lamps were brought in, Terence felt unable to +control his irritation any longer. St. John went to bed in a state of +complete exhaustion, bidding Terence good-night with rather more +affection than usual because of their quarrel, and Ridley retired to +his books. Left alone, Terence walked up and down the room; he stood at +the open window. + +The lights were coming out one after another in the town beneath, and +it was very peaceful and cool in the garden, so that he stepped out on +to the terrace. As he stood there in the darkness, able only to see the +shapes of trees through the fine grey light, he was overcome by a +desire to escape, to have done with this suffering, to forget that +Rachel was ill. He allowed himself to lapse into forgetfulness of +everything. As if a wind that had been raging incessantly suddenly fell +asleep, the fret and strain and anxiety which had been pressing on him +passed away. He seemed to stand in an unvexed space of air, on a little +island by himself; he was free and immune from pain. It did not matter +whether Rachel was well or ill; it did not matter whether they were +apart or together; nothing mattered—nothing mattered. The waves beat on +the shore far away, and the soft wind passed through the branches of +the trees, seeming to encircle him with peace and security, with dark +and nothingness. Surely the world of strife and fret and anxiety was +not the real world, but this was the real world, the world that lay +beneath the superficial world, so that, whatever happened, one was +secure. The quiet and peace seemed to lap his body in a fine cool +sheet, soothing every nerve; his mind seemed once more to expand, and +become natural. + +But when he had stood thus for a time a noise in the house roused him; +he turned instinctively and went into the drawing-room. The sight of +the lamp-lit room brought back so abruptly all that he had forgotten +that he stood for a moment unable to move. He remembered everything, +the hour, the minute even, what point they had reached, and what was to +come. He cursed himself for making believe for a minute that things +were different from what they are. The night was now harder to face +than ever. + +Unable to stay in the empty drawing-room, he wandered out and sat on +the stairs half-way up to Rachel’s room. He longed for some one to talk +to, but Hirst was asleep, and Ridley was asleep; there was no sound in +Rachel’s room. The only sound in the house was the sound of Chailey +moving in the kitchen. At last there was a rustling on the stairs +overhead, and Nurse McInnis came down fastening the links in her cuffs, +in preparation for the night’s watch. Terence rose and stopped her. He +had scarcely spoken to her, but it was possible that she might confirm +him in the belief which still persisted in his own mind that Rachel was +not seriously ill. He told her in a whisper that Dr. Lesage had been +and what he had said. + +“Now, Nurse,” he whispered, “please tell me your opinion. Do you +consider that she is very seriously ill? Is she in any danger?” + +“The doctor has said—” she began. + +“Yes, but I want your opinion. You have had experience of many cases +like this?” + +“I could not tell you more than Dr. Lesage, Mr. Hewet,” she replied +cautiously, as though her words might be used against her. “The case is +serious, but you may feel quite certain that we are doing all we can +for Miss Vinrace.” She spoke with some professional self-approbation. +But she realised perhaps that she did not satisfy the young man, who +still blocked her way, for she shifted her feet slightly upon the stair +and looked out of the window where they could see the moon over the +sea. + +“If you ask me,” she began in a curiously stealthy tone, “I never like +May for my patients.” + +“May?” Terence repeated. + +“It may be a fancy, but I don’t like to see anybody fall ill in May,” +she continued. “Things seem to go wrong in May. Perhaps it’s the moon. +They say the moon affects the brain, don’t they, Sir?” + +He looked at her but he could not answer her; like all the others, when +one looked at her she seemed to shrivel beneath one’s eyes and become +worthless, malicious, and untrustworthy. + +She slipped past him and disappeared. + +Though he went to his room he was unable even to take his clothes off. +For a long time he paced up and down, and then leaning out of the +window gazed at the earth which lay so dark against the paler blue of +the sky. With a mixture of fear and loathing he looked at the slim +black cypress trees which were still visible in the garden, and heard +the unfamiliar creaking and grating sounds which show that the earth is +still hot. All these sights and sounds appeared sinister and full of +hostility and foreboding; together with the natives and the nurse and +the doctor and the terrible force of the illness itself they seemed to +be in conspiracy against him. They seemed to join together in their +effort to extract the greatest possible amount of suffering from him. +He could not get used to his pain, it was a revelation to him. He had +never realised before that underneath every action, underneath the life +of every day, pain lies, quiescent, but ready to devour; he seemed to +be able to see suffering, as if it were a fire, curling up over the +edges of all action, eating away the lives of men and women. He thought +for the first time with understanding of words which had before seemed +to him empty: the struggle of life; the hardness of life. Now he knew +for himself that life is hard and full of suffering. He looked at the +scattered lights in the town beneath, and thought of Arthur and Susan, +or Evelyn and Perrott venturing out unwittingly, and by their happiness +laying themselves open to suffering such as this. How did they dare to +love each other, he wondered; how had he himself dared to live as he +had lived, rapidly and carelessly, passing from one thing to another, +loving Rachel as he had loved her? Never again would he feel secure; he +would never believe in the stability of life, or forget what depths of +pain lie beneath small happiness and feelings of content and safety. It +seemed to him as he looked back that their happiness had never been so +great as his pain was now. There had always been something imperfect in +their happiness, something they had wanted and had not been able to +get. It had been fragmentary and incomplete, because they were so young +and had not known what they were doing. + +The light of his candle flickered over the boughs of a tree outside the +window, and as the branch swayed in the darkness there came before his +mind a picture of all the world that lay outside his window; he thought +of the immense river and the immense forest, the vast stretches of dry +earth and the plains of the sea that encircled the earth; from the sea +the sky rose steep and enormous, and the air washed profoundly between +the sky and the sea. How vast and dark it must be tonight, lying +exposed to the wind; and in all this great space it was curious to +think how few the towns were, and how small little rings of light, or +single glow-worms he figured them, scattered here and there, among the +swelling uncultivated folds of the world. And in those towns were +little men and women, tiny men and women. Oh, it was absurd, when one +thought of it, to sit here in a little room suffering and caring. What +did anything matter? Rachel, a tiny creature, lay ill beneath him, and +here in his little room he suffered on her account. The nearness of +their bodies in this vast universe, and the minuteness of their bodies, +seemed to him absurd and laughable. Nothing mattered, he repeated; they +had no power, no hope. He leant on the window-sill, thinking, until he +almost forgot the time and the place. Nevertheless, although he was +convinced that it was absurd and laughable, and that they were small +and hopeless, he never lost the sense that these thoughts somehow +formed part of a life which he and Rachel would live together. + +Owing perhaps to the change of doctor, Rachel appeared to be rather +better next day. Terribly pale and worn though Helen looked, there was +a slight lifting of the cloud which had hung all these days in her +eyes. + +“She talked to me,” she said voluntarily. “She asked me what day of the +week it was, like herself.” + +Then suddenly, without any warning or any apparent reason, the tears +formed in her eyes and rolled steadily down her cheeks. She cried with +scarcely any attempt at movement of her features, and without any +attempt to stop herself, as if she did not know that she was crying. In +spite of the relief which her words gave him, Terence was dismayed by +the sight; had everything given way? Were there no limits to the power +of this illness? Would everything go down before it? Helen had always +seemed to him strong and determined, and now she was like a child. He +took her in his arms, and she clung to him like a child, crying softly +and quietly upon his shoulder. Then she roused herself and wiped her +tears away; it was silly to behave like that, she said; very silly, she +repeated, when there could be no doubt that Rachel was better. She +asked Terence to forgive her for her folly. She stopped at the door and +came back and kissed him without saying anything. + +On this day indeed Rachel was conscious of what went on round her. She +had come to the surface of the dark, sticky pool, and a wave seemed to +bear her up and down with it; she had ceased to have any will of her +own; she lay on the top of the wave conscious of some pain, but chiefly +of weakness. The wave was replaced by the side of a mountain. Her body +became a drift of melting snow, above which her knees rose in huge +peaked mountains of bare bone. It was true that she saw Helen and saw +her room, but everything had become very pale and semi-transparent. +Sometimes she could see through the wall in front of her. Sometimes +when Helen went away she seemed to go so far that Rachel’s eyes could +hardly follow her. The room also had an odd power of expanding, and +though she pushed her voice out as far as possible until sometimes it +became a bird and flew away, she thought it doubtful whether it ever +reached the person she was talking to. There were immense intervals or +chasms, for things still had the power to appear visibly before her, +between one moment and the next; it sometimes took an hour for Helen to +raise her arm, pausing long between each jerky movement, and pour out +medicine. Helen’s form stooping to raise her in bed appeared of +gigantic size, and came down upon her like the ceiling falling. But for +long spaces of time she would merely lie conscious of her body floating +on the top of the bed and her mind driven to some remote corner of her +body, or escaped and gone flitting round the room. All sights were +something of an effort, but the sight of Terence was the greatest +effort, because he forced her to join mind to body in the desire to +remember something. She did not wish to remember; it troubled her when +people tried to disturb her loneliness; she wished to be alone. She +wished for nothing else in the world. + +Although she had cried, Terence observed Helen’s greater hopefulness +with something like triumph; in the argument between them she had made +the first sign of admitting herself in the wrong. He waited for Dr. +Lesage to come down that afternoon with considerable anxiety, but with +the same certainty at the back of his mind that he would in time force +them all to admit that they were in the wrong. + +As usual, Dr. Lesage was sulky in his manner and very short in his +answers. To Terence’s demand, “She seems to be better?” he replied, +looking at him in an odd way, “She has a chance of life.” + +The door shut and Terence walked across to the window. He leant his +forehead against the pane. + +“Rachel,” he repeated to himself. “She has a chance of life. Rachel.” + +How could they say these things of Rachel? Had any one yesterday +seriously believed that Rachel was dying? They had been engaged for +four weeks. A fortnight ago she had been perfectly well. What could +fourteen days have done to bring her from that state to this? To +realise what they meant by saying that she had a chance of life was +beyond him, knowing as he did that they were engaged. He turned, still +enveloped in the same dreary mist, and walked towards the door. +Suddenly he saw it all. He saw the room and the garden, and the trees +moving in the air, they could go on without her; she could die. For the +first time since she fell ill he remembered exactly what she looked +like and the way in which they cared for each other. The immense +happiness of feeling her close to him mingled with a more intense +anxiety than he had felt yet. He could not let her die; he could not +live without her. But after a momentary struggle, the curtain fell +again, and he saw nothing and felt nothing clearly. It was all going +on—going on still, in the same way as before. Save for a physical pain +when his heart beat, and the fact that his fingers were icy cold, he +did not realise that he was anxious about anything. Within his mind he +seemed to feel nothing about Rachel or about any one or anything in the +world. He went on giving orders, arranging with Mrs. Chailey, writing +out lists, and every now and then he went upstairs and put something +quietly on the table outside Rachel’s door. That night Dr. Lesage +seemed to be less sulky than usual. He stayed voluntarily for a few +moments, and, addressing St. John and Terence equally, as if he did not +remember which of them was engaged to the young lady, said, “I consider +that her condition to-night is very grave.” + +Neither of them went to bed or suggested that the other should go to +bed. They sat in the drawing-room playing picquet with the door open. +St. John made up a bed upon the sofa, and when it was ready insisted +that Terence should lie upon it. They began to quarrel as to who should +lie on the sofa and who should lie upon a couple of chairs covered with +rugs. St. John forced Terence at last to lie down upon the sofa. + +“Don’t be a fool, Terence,” he said. “You’ll only get ill if you don’t +sleep.” + +“Old fellow,” he began, as Terence still refused, and stopped abruptly, +fearing sentimentality; he found that he was on the verge of tears. + +He began to say what he had long been wanting to say, that he was sorry +for Terence, that he cared for him, that he cared for Rachel. Did she +know how much he cared for her—had she said anything, asked perhaps? He +was very anxious to say this, but he refrained, thinking that it was a +selfish question after all, and what was the use of bothering Terence +to talk about such things? He was already half asleep. But St. John +could not sleep at once. If only, he thought to himself, as he lay in +the darkness, something would happen—if only this strain would come to +an end. He did not mind what happened, so long as the succession of +these hard and dreary days was broken; he did not mind if she died. He +felt himself disloyal in not minding it, but it seemed to him that he +had no feelings left. + +All night long there was no call or movement, except the opening and +shutting of the bedroom door once. By degrees the light returned into +the untidy room. At six the servants began to move; at seven they crept +downstairs into the kitchen; and half an hour later the day began +again. + +Nevertheless it was not the same as the days that had gone before, +although it would have been hard to say in what the difference +consisted. Perhaps it was that they seemed to be waiting for something. +There were certainly fewer things to be done than usual. People drifted +through the drawing-room—Mr. Flushing, Mr. and Mrs. Thornbury. They +spoke very apologetically in low tones, refusing to sit down, but +remaining for a considerable time standing up, although the only thing +they had to say was, “Is there anything we can do?” and there was +nothing they could do. + +Feeling oddly detached from it all, Terence remembered how Helen had +said that whenever anything happened to you this was how people +behaved. Was she right, or was she wrong? He was too little interested +to frame an opinion of his own. He put things away in his mind, as if +one of these days he would think about them, but not now. The mist of +unreality had deepened and deepened until it had produced a feeling of +numbness all over his body. Was it his body? Were those really his own +hands? + +This morning also for the first time Ridley found it impossible to sit +alone in his room. He was very uncomfortable downstairs, and, as he did +not know what was going on, constantly in the way; but he would not +leave the drawing-room. Too restless to read, and having nothing to do, +he began to pace up and down reciting poetry in an undertone. Occupied +in various ways—now in undoing parcels, now in uncorking bottles, now +in writing directions, the sound of Ridley’s song and the beat of his +pacing worked into the minds of Terence and St. John all the morning as +a half comprehended refrain. + +They wrestled up, they wrestled down, + They wrestled sore and still: +The fiend who blinds the eyes of men, + That night he had his will. + +Like stags full spent, among the bent + They dropped awhile to rest— + + +“Oh, it’s intolerable!” Hirst exclaimed, and then checked himself, as +if it were a breach of their agreement. Again and again Terence would +creep half-way up the stairs in case he might be able to glean news of +Rachel. But the only news now was of a very fragmentary kind; she had +drunk something; she had slept a little; she seemed quieter. In the +same way, Dr. Lesage confined himself to talking about details, save +once when he volunteered the information that he had just been called +in to ascertain, by severing a vein in the wrist, that an old lady of +eighty-five was really dead. She had a horror of being buried alive. + +“It is a horror,” he remarked, “that we generally find in the very old, +and seldom in the young.” They both expressed their interest in what he +told them; it seemed to them very strange. Another strange thing about +the day was that the luncheon was forgotten by all of them until it was +late in the afternoon, and then Mrs. Chailey waited on them, and looked +strange too, because she wore a stiff print dress, and her sleeves were +rolled up above her elbows. She seemed as oblivious of her appearance, +however, as if she had been called out of her bed by a midnight alarm +of fire, and she had forgotten, too, her reserve and her composure; she +talked to them quite familiarly as if she had nursed them and held them +naked on her knee. She assured them over and over again that it was +their duty to eat. + +The afternoon, being thus shortened, passed more quickly than they +expected. Once Mrs. Flushing opened the door, but on seeing them shut +it again quickly; once Helen came down to fetch something, but she +stopped as she left the room to look at a letter addressed to her. She +stood for a moment turning it over, and the extraordinary and mournful +beauty of her attitude struck Terence in the way things struck him +now—as something to be put away in his mind and to be thought about +afterwards. They scarcely spoke, the argument between them seeming to +be suspended or forgotten. + +Now that the afternoon sun had left the front of the house, Ridley +paced up and down the terrace repeating stanzas of a long poem, in a +subdued but suddenly sonorous voice. Fragments of the poem were wafted +in at the open window as he passed and repassed. + +Peor and Baalim +Forsake their Temples dim, + With that twice batter’d God of Palestine +And mooned Astaroth— + + +The sound of these words were strangely discomforting to both the young +men, but they had to be borne. As the evening drew on and the red light +of the sunset glittered far away on the sea, the same sense of +desperation attacked both Terence and St. John at the thought that the +day was nearly over, and that another night was at hand. The appearance +of one light after another in the town beneath them produced in Hirst a +repetition of his terrible and disgusting desire to break down and sob. +Then the lamps were brought in by Chailey. She explained that Maria, in +opening a bottle, had been so foolish as to cut her arm badly, but she +had bound it up; it was unfortunate when there was so much work to be +done. Chailey herself limped because of the rheumatism in her feet, but +it appeared to her mere waste of time to take any notice of the unruly +flesh of servants. The evening went on. Dr. Lesage arrived +unexpectedly, and stayed upstairs a very long time. He came down once +and drank a cup of coffee. + +“She is very ill,” he said in answer to Ridley’s question. All the +annoyance had by this time left his manner, he was grave and formal, +but at the same time it was full of consideration, which had not marked +it before. He went upstairs again. The three men sat together in the +drawing-room. Ridley was quite quiet now, and his attention seemed to +be thoroughly awakened. Save for little half-voluntary movements and +exclamations that were stifled at once, they waited in complete +silence. It seemed as if they were at last brought together face to +face with something definite. + +It was nearly eleven o’clock when Dr. Lesage again appeared in the +room. He approached them very slowly, and did not speak at once. He +looked first at St. John and then at Terence, and said to Terence, “Mr. +Hewet, I think you should go upstairs now.” + +Terence rose immediately, leaving the others seated with Dr. Lesage +standing motionless between them. + +Chailey was in the passage outside, repeating over and over again, +“It’s wicked—it’s wicked.” + +Terence paid her no attention; he heard what she was saying, but it +conveyed no meaning to his mind. All the way upstairs he kept saying to +himself, “This has not happened to me. It is not possible that this has +happened to me.” + +He looked curiously at his own hand on the banisters. The stairs were +very steep, and it seemed to take him a long time to surmount them. +Instead of feeling keenly, as he knew that he ought to feel, he felt +nothing at all. When he opened the door he saw Helen sitting by the +bedside. There were shaded lights on the table, and the room, though it +seemed to be full of a great many things, was very tidy. There was a +faint and not unpleasant smell of disinfectants. Helen rose and gave up +her chair to him in silence. As they passed each other their eyes met +in a peculiar level glance, he wondered at the extraordinary clearness +of his eyes, and at the deep calm and sadness that dwelt in them. He +sat down by the bedside, and a moment afterwards heard the door shut +gently behind her. He was alone with Rachel, and a faint reflection of +the sense of relief that they used to feel when they were left alone +possessed him. He looked at her. He expected to find some terrible +change in her, but there was none. She looked indeed very thin, and, as +far as he could see, very tired, but she was the same as she had always +been. Moreover, she saw him and knew him. She smiled at him and said, +“Hullo, Terence.” + +The curtain which had been drawn between them for so long vanished +immediately. + +“Well, Rachel,” he replied in his usual voice, upon which she opened +her eyes quite widely and smiled with her familiar smile. He kissed her +and took her hand. + +“It’s been wretched without you,” he said. + +She still looked at him and smiled, but soon a slight look of fatigue +or perplexity came into her eyes and she shut them again. + +“But when we’re together we’re perfectly happy,” he said. He continued +to hold her hand. + +The light being dim, it was impossible to see any change in her face. +An immense feeling of peace came over Terence, so that he had no wish +to move or to speak. The terrible torture and unreality of the last +days were over, and he had come out now into perfect certainty and +peace. His mind began to work naturally again and with great ease. The +longer he sat there the more profoundly was he conscious of the peace +invading every corner of his soul. Once he held his breath and listened +acutely; she was still breathing; he went on thinking for some time; +they seemed to be thinking together; he seemed to be Rachel as well as +himself; and then he listened again; no, she had ceased to breathe. So +much the better—this was death. It was nothing; it was to cease to +breathe. It was happiness, it was perfect happiness. They had now what +they had always wanted to have, the union which had been impossible +while they lived. Unconscious whether he thought the words or spoke +them aloud, he said, “No two people have ever been so happy as we have +been. No one has ever loved as we have loved.” + +It seemed to him that their complete union and happiness filled the +room with rings eddying more and more widely. He had no wish in the +world left unfulfilled. They possessed what could never be taken from +them. + +He was not conscious that any one had come into the room, but later, +moments later, or hours later perhaps, he felt an arm behind him. The +arms were round him. He did not want to have arms round him, and the +mysterious whispering voices annoyed him. He laid Rachel’s hand, which +was now cold, upon the counterpane, and rose from his chair, and walked +across to the window. The windows were uncurtained, and showed the +moon, and a long silver pathway upon the surface of the waves. + +“Why,” he said, in his ordinary tone of voice, “look at the moon. +There’s a halo round the moon. We shall have rain to-morrow.” + +The arms, whether they were the arms of man or of woman, were round him +again; they were pushing him gently towards the door. He turned of his +own accord and walked steadily in advance of the arms, conscious of a +little amusement at the strange way in which people behaved merely +because some one was dead. He would go if they wished it, but nothing +they could do would disturb his happiness. + +As he saw the passage outside the room, and the table with the cups and +the plates, it suddenly came over him that here was a world in which he +would never see Rachel again. + +“Rachel! Rachel!” he shrieked, trying to rush back to her. But they +prevented him, and pushed him down the passage and into a bedroom far +from her room. Downstairs they could hear the thud of his feet on the +floor, as he struggled to break free; and twice they heard him shout, +“Rachel, Rachel!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +For two or three hours longer the moon poured its light through the +empty air. Unbroken by clouds it fell straightly, and lay almost like a +chill white frost over the sea and the earth. During these hours the +silence was not broken, and the only movement was caused by the +movement of trees and branches which stirred slightly, and then the +shadows that lay across the white spaces of the land moved too. In this +profound silence one sound only was audible, the sound of a slight but +continuous breathing which never ceased, although it never rose and +never fell. It continued after the birds had begun to flutter from +branch to branch, and could be heard behind the first thin notes of +their voices. It continued all through the hours when the east +whitened, and grew red, and a faint blue tinged the sky, but when the +sun rose it ceased, and gave place to other sounds. + +The first sounds that were heard were little inarticulate cries, the +cries, it seemed, of children or of the very poor, of people who were +very weak or in pain. But when the sun was above the horizon, the air +which had been thin and pale grew every moment richer and warmer, and +the sounds of life became bolder and more full of courage and +authority. By degrees the smoke began to ascend in wavering breaths +over the houses, and these slowly thickened, until they were as round +and straight as columns, and instead of striking upon pale white +blinds, the sun shone upon dark windows, beyond which there was depth +and space. + +The sun had been up for many hours, and the great dome of air was +warmed through and glittering with thin gold threads of sunlight, +before any one moved in the hotel. White and massive it stood in the +early light, half asleep with its blinds down. + +At about half-past nine Miss Allan came very slowly into the hall, and +walked very slowly to the table where the morning papers were laid, but +she did not put out her hand to take one; she stood still, thinking, +with her head a little sunk upon her shoulders. She looked curiously +old, and from the way in which she stood, a little hunched together and +very massive, you could see what she would be like when she was really +old, how she would sit day after day in her chair looking placidly in +front of her. Other people began to come into the room, and to pass +her, but she did not speak to any of them or even look at them, and at +last, as if it were necessary to do something, she sat down in a chair, +and looked quietly and fixedly in front of her. She felt very old this +morning, and useless too, as if her life had been a failure, as if it +had been hard and laborious to no purpose. She did not want to go on +living, and yet she knew that she would. She was so strong that she +would live to be a very old woman. She would probably live to be +eighty, and as she was now fifty, that left thirty years more for her +to live. She turned her hands over and over in her lap and looked at +them curiously; her old hands, that had done so much work for her. +There did not seem to be much point in it all; one went on, of course +one went on. . . . She looked up to see Mrs. Thornbury standing beside +her, with lines drawn upon her forehead, and her lips parted as if she +were about to ask a question. + +Miss Allan anticipated her. + +“Yes,” she said. “She died this morning, very early, about three +o’clock.” + +Mrs. Thornbury made a little exclamation, drew her lips together, and +the tears rose in her eyes. Through them she looked at the hall which +was now laid with great breadths of sunlight, and at the careless, +casual groups of people who were standing beside the solid arm-chairs +and tables. They looked to her unreal, or as people look who remain +unconscious that some great explosion is about to take place beside +them. But there was no explosion, and they went on standing by the +chairs and the tables. Mrs. Thornbury no longer saw them, but, +penetrating through them as though they were without substance, she saw +the house, the people in the house, the room, the bed in the room, and +the figure of the dead lying still in the dark beneath the sheets. She +could almost see the dead. She could almost hear the voices of the +mourners. + +“They expected it?” she asked at length. + +Miss Allan could only shake her head. + +“I know nothing,” she replied, “except what Mrs. Flushing’s maid told +me. She died early this morning.” + +The two women looked at each other with a quiet significant gaze, and +then, feeling oddly dazed, and seeking she did not know exactly what, +Mrs. Thornbury went slowly upstairs and walked quietly along the +passages, touching the wall with her fingers as if to guide herself. +Housemaids were passing briskly from room to room, but Mrs. Thornbury +avoided them; she hardly saw them; they seemed to her to be in another +world. She did not even look up directly when Evelyn stopped her. It +was evident that Evelyn had been lately in tears, and when she looked +at Mrs. Thornbury she began to cry again. Together they drew into the +hollow of a window, and stood there in silence. Broken words formed +themselves at last among Evelyn’s sobs. “It was wicked,” she sobbed, +“it was cruel—they were so happy.” + +Mrs. Thornbury patted her on the shoulder. + +“It seems hard—very hard,” she said. She paused and looked out over the +slope of the hill at the Ambroses’ villa; the windows were blazing in +the sun, and she thought how the soul of the dead had passed from those +windows. Something had passed from the world. It seemed to her +strangely empty. + +“And yet the older one grows,” she continued, her eyes regaining more +than their usual brightness, “the more certain one becomes that there +is a reason. How could one go on if there were no reason?” she asked. + +She asked the question of some one, but she did not ask it of Evelyn. +Evelyn’s sobs were becoming quieter. “There must be a reason,” she +said. “It can’t only be an accident. For it was an accident—it need +never have happened.” + +Mrs. Thornbury sighed deeply. + +“But we must not let ourselves think of that,” she added, “and let us +hope that they don’t either. Whatever they had done it might have been +the same. These terrible illnesses—” + +“There’s no reason—I don’t believe there’s any reason at all!” Evelyn +broke out, pulling the blind down and letting it fly back with a little +snap. + +“Why should these things happen? Why should people suffer? I honestly +believe,” she went on, lowering her voice slightly, “that Rachel’s in +Heaven, but Terence. . . .” + +“What’s the good of it all?” she demanded. + +Mrs. Thornbury shook her head slightly but made no reply, and pressing +Evelyn’s hand she went on down the passage. Impelled by a strong desire +to hear something, although she did not know exactly what there was to +hear, she was making her way to the Flushings’ room. As she opened +their door she felt that she had interrupted some argument between +husband and wife. Mrs. Flushing was sitting with her back to the light, +and Mr. Flushing was standing near her, arguing and trying to persuade +her of something. + +“Ah, here is Mrs. Thornbury,” he began with some relief in his voice. +“You have heard, of course. My wife feels that she was in some way +responsible. She urged poor Miss Vinrace to come on the expedition. I’m +sure you will agree with me that it is most unreasonable to feel that. +We don’t even know—in fact I think it most unlikely—that she caught her +illness there. These diseases—Besides, she was set on going. She would +have gone whether you asked her or not, Alice.” + +“Don’t, Wilfrid,” said Mrs. Flushing, neither moving nor taking her +eyes off the spot on the floor upon which they rested. “What’s the use +of talking? What’s the use—?” She ceased. + +“I was coming to ask you,” said Mrs. Thornbury, addressing Wilfrid, for +it was useless to speak to his wife. “Is there anything you think that +one could do? Has the father arrived? Could one go and see?” + +The strongest wish in her being at this moment was to be able to do +something for the unhappy people—to see them—to assure them—to help +them. It was dreadful to be so far away from them. But Mr. Flushing +shook his head; he did not think that now—later perhaps one might be +able to help. Here Mrs. Flushing rose stiffly, turned her back to them, +and walked to the dressing-room opposite. As she walked, they could see +her breast slowly rise and slowly fall. But her grief was silent. She +shut the door behind her. + +When she was alone by herself she clenched her fists together, and +began beating the back of a chair with them. She was like a wounded +animal. She hated death; she was furious, outraged, indignant with +death, as if it were a living creature. She refused to relinquish her +friends to death. She would not submit to dark and nothingness. She +began to pace up and down, clenching her hands, and making no attempt +to stop the quick tears which raced down her cheeks. She sat still at +last, but she did not submit. She looked stubborn and strong when she +had ceased to cry. + +In the next room, meanwhile, Wilfrid was talking to Mrs. Thornbury with +greater freedom now that his wife was not sitting there. + +“That’s the worst of these places,” he said. “People will behave as +though they were in England, and they’re not. I’ve no doubt myself that +Miss Vinrace caught the infection up at the villa itself. She probably +ran risks a dozen times a day that might have given her the illness. +It’s absurd to say she caught it with us.” + +If he had not been sincerely sorry for them he would have been annoyed. +“Pepper tells me,” he continued, “that he left the house because he +thought them so careless. He says they never washed their vegetables +properly. Poor people! It’s a fearful price to pay. But it’s only what +I’ve seen over and over again—people seem to forget that these things +happen, and then they do happen, and they’re surprised.” + +Mrs. Thornbury agreed with him that they had been very careless, and +that there was no reason whatever to think that she had caught the +fever on the expedition; and after talking about other things for a +short time, she left him and went sadly along the passage to her own +room. There must be some reason why such things happen, she thought to +herself, as she shut the door. Only at first it was not easy to +understand what it was. It seemed so strange—so unbelievable. Why, only +three weeks ago—only a fortnight ago, she had seen Rachel; when she +shut her eyes she could almost see her now, the quiet, shy girl who was +going to be married. She thought of all that she would have missed had +she died at Rachel’s age, the children, the married life, the +unimaginable depths and miracles that seemed to her, as she looked +back, to have lain about her, day after day, and year after year. The +stunned feeling, which had been making it difficult for her to think, +gradually gave way to a feeling of the opposite nature; she thought +very quickly and very clearly, and, looking back over all her +experiences, tried to fit them into a kind of order. There was +undoubtedly much suffering, much struggling, but, on the whole, surely +there was a balance of happiness—surely order did prevail. Nor were the +deaths of young people really the saddest things in life—they were +saved so much; they kept so much. The dead—she called to mind those who +had died early, accidentally—were beautiful; she often dreamt of the +dead. And in time Terence himself would come to feel—She got up and +began to wander restlessly about the room. + +For an old woman of her age she was very restless, and for one of her +clear, quick mind she was unusually perplexed. She could not settle to +anything, so that she was relieved when the door opened. She went up to +her husband, took him in her arms, and kissed him with unusual +intensity, and then as they sat down together she began to pat him and +question him as if he were a baby, an old, tired, querulous baby. She +did not tell him about Miss Vinrace’s death, for that would only +disturb him, and he was put out already. She tried to discover why he +was uneasy. Politics again? What were those horrid people doing? She +spent the whole morning in discussing politics with her husband, and by +degrees she became deeply interested in what they were saying. But +every now and then what she was saying seemed to her oddly empty of +meaning. + +At luncheon it was remarked by several people that the visitors at the +hotel were beginning to leave; there were fewer every day. There were +only forty people at luncheon, instead of the sixty that there had +been. So old Mrs. Paley computed, gazing about her with her faded eyes, +as she took her seat at her own table in the window. Her party +generally consisted of Mr. Perrott as well as Arthur and Susan, and +to-day Evelyn was lunching with them also. + +She was unusually subdued. Having noticed that her eyes were red, and +guessing the reason, the others took pains to keep up an elaborate +conversation between themselves. She suffered it to go on for a few +minutes, leaning both elbows on the table, and leaving her soup +untouched, when she exclaimed suddenly, “I don’t know how you feel, but +I can simply think of nothing else!” + +The gentlemen murmured sympathetically, and looked grave. + +Susan replied, “Yes—isn’t it perfectly awful? When you think what a +nice girl she was—only just engaged, and this need never have +happened—it seems too tragic.” She looked at Arthur as though he might +be able to help her with something more suitable. + +“Hard lines,” said Arthur briefly. “But it was a foolish thing to do—to +go up that river.” He shook his head. “They should have known better. +You can’t expect Englishwomen to stand roughing it as the natives do +who’ve been acclimatised. I’d half a mind to warn them at tea that day +when it was being discussed. But it’s no good saying these sort of +things—it only puts people’s backs up—it never makes any difference.” + +Old Mrs. Paley, hitherto contented with her soup, here intimated, by +raising one hand to her ear, that she wished to know what was being +said. + +“You heard, Aunt Emma, that poor Miss Vinrace has died of the fever,” +Susan informed her gently. She could not speak of death loudly or even +in her usual voice, so that Mrs. Paley did not catch a word. Arthur +came to the rescue. + +“Miss Vinrace is dead,” he said very distinctly. + +Mrs. Paley merely bent a little towards him and asked, “Eh?” + +“Miss Vinrace is dead,” he repeated. It was only by stiffening all the +muscles round his mouth that he could prevent himself from bursting +into laughter, and forced himself to repeat for the third time, “Miss +Vinrace. . . . She’s dead.” + +Let alone the difficulty of hearing the exact words, facts that were +outside her daily experience took some time to reach Mrs. Paley’s +consciousness. A weight seemed to rest upon her brain, impeding, though +not damaging its action. She sat vague-eyed for at least a minute +before she realised what Arthur meant. + +“Dead?” she said vaguely. “Miss Vinrace dead? Dear me . . . that’s very +sad. But I don’t at the moment remember which she was. We seem to have +made so many new acquaintances here.” She looked at Susan for help. “A +tall dark girl, who just missed being handsome, with a high colour?” + +“No,” Susan interposed. “She was—” then she gave it up in despair. +There was no use in explaining that Mrs. Paley was thinking of the +wrong person. + +“She ought not to have died,” Mrs. Paley continued. “She looked so +strong. But people will drink the water. I can never make out why. It +seems such a simple thing to tell them to put a bottle of Seltzer water +in your bedroom. That’s all the precaution I’ve ever taken, and I’ve +been in every part of the world, I may say—Italy a dozen times over. . +. . But young people always think they know better, and then they pay +the penalty. Poor thing—I am very sorry for her.” But the difficulty of +peering into a dish of potatoes and helping herself engrossed her +attention. + +Arthur and Susan both secretly hoped that the subject was now disposed +of, for there seemed to them something unpleasant in this discussion. +But Evelyn was not ready to let it drop. Why would people never talk +about the things that mattered? + +“I don’t believe you care a bit!” she said, turning savagely upon Mr. +Perrott, who had sat all this time in silence. + +“I? Oh, yes, I do,” he answered awkwardly, but with obvious sincerity. +Evelyn’s questions made him too feel uncomfortable. + +“It seems so inexplicable,” Evelyn continued. “Death, I mean. Why +should she be dead, and not you or I? It was only a fortnight ago that +she was here with the rest of us. What d’you believe?” she demanded of +Mr. Perrott. “D’you believe that things go on, that she’s still +somewhere—or d’you think it’s simply a game—we crumble up to nothing +when we die? I’m positive Rachel’s not dead.” + +Mr. Perrott would have said almost anything that Evelyn wanted him to +say, but to assert that he believed in the immortality of the soul was +not in his power. He sat silent, more deeply wrinkled than usual, +crumbling his bread. + +Lest Evelyn should next ask him what he believed, Arthur, after making +a pause equivalent to a full stop, started a completely different +topic. + +“Supposing,” he said, “a man were to write and tell you that he wanted +five pounds because he had known your grandfather, what would you do? +It was this way. My grandfather—” + +“Invented a stove,” said Evelyn. “I know all about that. We had one in +the conservatory to keep the plants warm.” + +“Didn’t know I was so famous,” said Arthur. “Well,” he continued, +determined at all costs to spin his story out at length, “the old chap, +being about the second best inventor of his day, and a capable lawyer +too, died, as they always do, without making a will. Now Fielding, his +clerk, with how much justice I don’t know, always claimed that he meant +to do something for him. The poor old boy’s come down in the world +through trying inventions on his own account, lives in Penge over a +tobacconist’s shop. I’ve been to see him there. The question is—must I +stump up or not? What does the abstract spirit of justice require, +Perrott? Remember, I didn’t benefit under my grandfather’s will, and +I’ve no way of testing the truth of the story.” + +“I don’t know much about the abstract spirit of justice,” said Susan, +smiling complacently at the others, “but I’m certain of one thing—he’ll +get his five pounds!” + +As Mr. Perrott proceeded to deliver an opinion, and Evelyn insisted +that he was much too stingy, like all lawyers, thinking of the letter +and not of the spirit, while Mrs. Paley required to be kept informed +between the courses as to what they were all saying, the luncheon +passed with no interval of silence, and Arthur congratulated himself +upon the tact with which the discussion had been smoothed over. + +As they left the room it happened that Mrs. Paley’s wheeled chair ran +into the Elliots, who were coming through the door, as she was going +out. Brought thus to a standstill for a moment, Arthur and Susan +congratulated Hughling Elliot upon his convalescence,—he was down, +cadaverous enough, for the first time,—and Mr. Perrott took occasion to +say a few words in private to Evelyn. + +“Would there be any chance of seeing you this afternoon, about +three-thirty say? I shall be in the garden, by the fountain.” + +The block dissolved before Evelyn answered. But as she left them in the +hall, she looked at him brightly and said, “Half-past three, did you +say? That’ll suit me.” + +She ran upstairs with the feeling of spiritual exaltation and quickened +life which the prospect of an emotional scene always aroused in her. +That Mr. Perrott was again about to propose to her, she had no doubt, +and she was aware that on this occasion she ought to be prepared with a +definite answer, for she was going away in three days’ time. But she +could not bring her mind to bear upon the question. To come to a +decision was very difficult to her, because she had a natural dislike +of anything final and done with; she liked to go on and on—always on +and on. She was leaving, and, therefore, she occupied herself in laying +her clothes out side by side upon the bed. She observed that some were +very shabby. She took the photograph of her father and mother, and, +before she laid it away in her box, she held it for a minute in her +hand. Rachel had looked at it. Suddenly the keen feeling of some one’s +personality, which things that they have owned or handled sometimes +preserves, overcame her; she felt Rachel in the room with her; it was +as if she were on a ship at sea, and the life of the day was as unreal +as the land in the distance. But by degrees the feeling of Rachel’s +presence passed away, and she could no longer realise her, for she had +scarcely known her. But this momentary sensation left her depressed and +fatigued. What had she done with her life? What future was there before +her? What was make-believe, and what was real? Were these proposals and +intimacies and adventures real, or was the contentment which she had +seen on the faces of Susan and Rachel more real than anything she had +ever felt? + +She made herself ready to go downstairs, absentmindedly, but her +fingers were so well trained that they did the work of preparing her +almost of their own accord. When she was actually on the way +downstairs, the blood began to circle through her body of its own +accord too, for her mind felt very dull. + +Mr. Perrott was waiting for her. Indeed, he had gone straight into the +garden after luncheon, and had been walking up and down the path for +more than half an hour, in a state of acute suspense. + +“I’m late as usual!” she exclaimed, as she caught sight of him. “Well, +you must forgive me; I had to pack up. . . . My word! It looks stormy! +And that’s a new steamer in the bay, isn’t it?” + +She looked at the bay, in which a steamer was just dropping anchor, the +smoke still hanging about it, while a swift black shudder ran through +the waves. “One’s quite forgotten what rain looks like,” she added. + +But Mr. Perrott paid no attention to the steamer or to the weather. + +“Miss Murgatroyd,” he began with his usual formality, “I asked you to +come here from a very selfish motive, I fear. I do not think you need +to be assured once more of my feelings; but, as you are leaving so +soon, I felt that I could not let you go without asking you to tell +me—have I any reason to hope that you will ever come to care for me?” + +He was very pale, and seemed unable to say any more. + +The little gush of vitality which had come into Evelyn as she ran +downstairs had left her, and she felt herself impotent. There was +nothing for her to say; she felt nothing. Now that he was actually +asking her, in his elderly gentle words, to marry him, she felt less +for him than she had ever felt before. + +“Let’s sit down and talk it over,” she said rather unsteadily. + +Mr. Perrott followed her to a curved green seat under a tree. They +looked at the fountain in front of them, which had long ceased to play. +Evelyn kept looking at the fountain instead of thinking of what she was +saying; the fountain without any water seemed to be the type of her own +being. + +“Of course I care for you,” she began, rushing her words out in a +hurry; “I should be a brute if I didn’t. I think you’re quite one of +the nicest people I’ve ever known, and one of the finest too. But I +wish . . . I wish you didn’t care for me in that way. Are you sure you +do?” For the moment she honestly desired that he should say no. + +“Quite sure,” said Mr. Perrott. + +“You see, I’m not as simple as most women,” Evelyn continued. “I think +I want more. I don’t know exactly what I feel.” + +He sat by her, watching her and refraining from speech. + +“I sometimes think I haven’t got it in me to care very much for one +person only. Some one else would make you a better wife. I can imagine +you very happy with some one else.” + +“If you think that there is any chance that you will come to care for +me, I am quite content to wait,” said Mr. Perrott. + +“Well—there’s no hurry, is there?” said Evelyn. “Suppose I thought it +over and wrote and told you when I get back? I’m going to Moscow; I’ll +write from Moscow.” + +But Mr. Perrott persisted. + +“You cannot give me any kind of idea. I do not ask for a date . . . +that would be most unreasonable.” He paused, looking down at the gravel +path. + +As she did not immediately answer, he went on. + +“I know very well that I am not—that I have not much to offer you +either in myself or in my circumstances. And I forget; it cannot seem +the miracle to you that it does to me. Until I met you I had gone on in +my own quiet way—we are both very quiet people, my sister and I—quite +content with my lot. My friendship with Arthur was the most important +thing in my life. Now that I know you, all that has changed. You seem +to put such a spirit into everything. Life seems to hold so many +possibilities that I had never dreamt of.” + +“That’s splendid!” Evelyn exclaimed, grasping his hand. “Now you’ll go +back and start all kinds of things and make a great name in the world; +and we’ll go on being friends, whatever happens . . . we’ll be great +friends, won’t we?” + +“Evelyn!” he moaned suddenly, and took her in his arms, and kissed her. +She did not resent it, although it made little impression on her. + +As she sat upright again, she said, “I never see why one shouldn’t go +on being friends—though some people do. And friendships do make a +difference, don’t they? They are the kind of things that matter in +one’s life?” + +He looked at her with a bewildered expression as if he did not really +understand what she was saying. With a considerable effort he collected +himself, stood up, and said, “Now I think I have told you what I feel, +and I will only add that I can wait as long as ever you wish.” + +Left alone, Evelyn walked up and down the path. What did matter then? +What was the meaning of it all? + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + +All that evening the clouds gathered, until they closed entirely over +the blue of the sky. They seemed to narrow the space between earth and +heaven, so that there was no room for the air to move in freely; and +the waves, too, lay flat, and yet rigid, as if they were restrained. +The leaves on the bushes and trees in the garden hung closely together, +and the feeling of pressure and restraint was increased by the short +chirping sounds which came from birds and insects. + +So strange were the lights and the silence that the busy hum of voices +which usually filled the dining-room at meal times had distinct gaps in +it, and during these silences the clatter of the knives upon plates +became audible. The first roll of thunder and the first heavy drop +striking the pane caused a little stir. + +“It’s coming!” was said simultaneously in many different languages. + +There was then a profound silence, as if the thunder had withdrawn into +itself. People had just begun to eat again, when a gust of cold air +came through the open windows, lifting tablecloths and skirts, a light +flashed, and was instantly followed by a clap of thunder right over the +hotel. The rain swished with it, and immediately there were all those +sounds of windows being shut and doors slamming violently which +accompany a storm. + +The room grew suddenly several degrees darker, for the wind seemed to +be driving waves of darkness across the earth. No one attempted to eat +for a time, but sat looking out at the garden, with their forks in the +air. The flashes now came frequently, lighting up faces as if they were +going to be photographed, surprising them in tense and unnatural +expressions. The clap followed close and violently upon them. Several +women half rose from their chairs and then sat down again, but dinner +was continued uneasily with eyes upon the garden. The bushes outside +were ruffled and whitened, and the wind pressed upon them so that they +seemed to stoop to the ground. The waiters had to press dishes upon the +diners’ notice; and the diners had to draw the attention of waiters, +for they were all absorbed in looking at the storm. As the thunder +showed no signs of withdrawing, but seemed massed right overhead, while +the lightning aimed straight at the garden every time, an uneasy gloom +replaced the first excitement. + +Finishing the meal very quickly, people congregated in the hall, where +they felt more secure than in any other place because they could +retreat far from the windows, and although they heard the thunder, they +could not see anything. A little boy was carried away sobbing in the +arms of his mother. + +While the storm continued, no one seemed inclined to sit down, but they +collected in little groups under the central skylight, where they stood +in a yellow atmosphere, looking upwards. Now and again their faces +became white, as the lightning flashed, and finally a terrific crash +came, making the panes of the skylight lift at the joints. + +“Ah!” several voices exclaimed at the same moment. + +“Something struck,” said a man’s voice. + +The rain rushed down. The rain seemed now to extinguish the lightning +and the thunder, and the hall became almost dark. + +After a minute or two, when nothing was heard but the rattle of water +upon the glass, there was a perceptible slackening of the sound, and +then the atmosphere became lighter. + +“It’s over,” said another voice. + +At a touch, all the electric lights were turned on, and revealed a +crowd of people all standing, all looking with rather strained faces up +at the skylight, but when they saw each other in the artificial light +they turned at once and began to move away. For some minutes the rain +continued to rattle upon the skylight, and the thunder gave another +shake or two; but it was evident from the clearing of the darkness and +the light drumming of the rain upon the roof, that the great confused +ocean of air was travelling away from them, and passing high over head +with its clouds and its rods of fire, out to sea. The building, which +had seemed so small in the tumult of the storm, now became as square +and spacious as usual. + +As the storm drew away, the people in the hall of the hotel sat down; +and with a comfortable sense of relief, began to tell each other +stories about great storms, and produced in many cases their +occupations for the evening. The chess-board was brought out, and Mr. +Elliot, who wore a stock instead of a collar as a sign of +convalescence, but was otherwise much as usual, challenged Mr. Pepper +to a final contest. Round them gathered a group of ladies with pieces +of needlework, or in default of needlework, with novels, to superintend +the game, much as if they were in charge of two small boys playing +marbles. Every now and then they looked at the board and made some +encouraging remark to the gentlemen. + +Mrs. Paley just round the corner had her cards arranged in long ladders +before her, with Susan sitting near to sympathise but not to correct, +and the merchants and the miscellaneous people who had never been +discovered to possess names were stretched in their arm-chairs with +their newspapers on their knees. The conversation in these +circumstances was very gentle, fragmentary, and intermittent, but the +room was full of the indescribable stir of life. Every now and then the +moth, which was now grey of wing and shiny of thorax, whizzed over +their heads, and hit the lamps with a thud. + +A young woman put down her needlework and exclaimed, “Poor creature! it +would be kinder to kill it.” But nobody seemed disposed to rouse +himself in order to kill the moth. They watched it dash from lamp to +lamp, because they were comfortable, and had nothing to do. + +On the sofa, beside the chess-players, Mrs. Elliot was imparting a new +stitch in knitting to Mrs. Thornbury, so that their heads came very +near together, and were only to be distinguished by the old lace cap +which Mrs. Thornbury wore in the evening. Mrs. Elliot was an expert at +knitting, and disclaimed a compliment to that effect with evident +pride. + +“I suppose we’re all proud of something,” she said, “and I’m proud of +my knitting. I think things like that run in families. We all knit +well. I had an uncle who knitted his own socks to the day of his +death—and he did it better than any of his daughters, dear old +gentleman. Now I wonder that you, Miss Allan, who use your eyes so +much, don’t take up knitting in the evenings. You’d find it such a +relief, I should say—such a rest to the eyes—and the bazaars are so +glad of things.” Her voice dropped into the smooth half-conscious tone +of the expert knitter; the words came gently one after another. “As +much as I do I can always dispose of, which is a comfort, for then I +feel that I am not wasting my time—” + +Miss Allan, being thus addressed, shut her novel and observed the +others placidly for a time. At last she said, “It is surely not natural +to leave your wife because she happens to be in love with you. But +that—as far as I can make out—is what the gentleman in my story does.” + +“Tut, tut, that doesn’t sound good—no, that doesn’t sound at all +natural,” murmured the knitters in their absorbed voices. + +“Still, it’s the kind of book people call very clever,” Miss Allan +added. + +“_Maternity_—by Michael Jessop—I presume,” Mr. Elliot put in, for he +could never resist the temptation of talking while he played chess. + +“D’you know,” said Mrs. Elliot, after a moment, “I don’t think people +_do_ write good novels now—not as good as they used to, anyhow.” + +No one took the trouble to agree with her or to disagree with her. +Arthur Venning who was strolling about, sometimes looking at the game, +sometimes reading a page of a magazine, looked at Miss Allan, who was +half asleep, and said humorously, “A penny for your thoughts, Miss +Allan.” + +The others looked up. They were glad that he had not spoken to them. +But Miss Allan replied without any hesitation, “I was thinking of my +imaginary uncle. Hasn’t every one got an imaginary uncle?” she +continued. “I have one—a most delightful old gentleman. He’s always +giving me things. Sometimes it’s a gold watch; sometimes it’s a +carriage and pair; sometimes it’s a beautiful little cottage in the New +Forest; sometimes it’s a ticket to the place I most want to see.” + +She set them all thinking vaguely of the things they wanted. Mrs. +Elliot knew exactly what she wanted; she wanted a child; and the usual +little pucker deepened on her brow. + +“We’re such lucky people,” she said, looking at her husband. “We really +have no wants.” She was apt to say this, partly in order to convince +herself, and partly in order to convince other people. But she was +prevented from wondering how far she carried conviction by the entrance +of Mr. and Mrs. Flushing, who came through the hall and stopped by the +chess-board. Mrs. Flushing looked wilder than ever. A great strand of +black hair looped down across her brow, her cheeks were whipped a dark +blood red, and drops of rain made wet marks upon them. + +Mr. Flushing explained that they had been on the roof watching the +storm. + +“It was a wonderful sight,” he said. “The lightning went right out over +the sea, and lit up the waves and the ships far away. You can’t think +how wonderful the mountains looked too, with the lights on them, and +the great masses of shadow. It’s all over now.” + +He slid down into a chair, becoming interested in the final struggle of +the game. + +“And you go back to-morrow?” said Mrs. Thornbury, looking at Mrs. +Flushing. + +“Yes,” she replied. + +“And indeed one is not sorry to go back,” said Mrs. Elliot, assuming an +air of mournful anxiety, “after all this illness.” + +“Are you afraid of dyin’?” Mrs. Flushing demanded scornfully. + +“I think we are all afraid of that,” said Mrs. Elliot with dignity. + +“I suppose we’re all cowards when it comes to the point,” said Mrs. +Flushing, rubbing her cheek against the back of the chair. “I’m sure I +am.” + +“Not a bit of it!” said Mr. Flushing, turning round, for Mr. Pepper +took a very long time to consider his move. “It’s not cowardly to wish +to live, Alice. It’s the very reverse of cowardly. Personally, I’d like +to go on for a hundred years—granted, of course, that I had the full +use of my faculties. Think of all the things that are bound to happen!” + +“That is what I feel,” Mrs. Thornbury rejoined. “The changes, the +improvements, the inventions—and beauty. D’you know I feel sometimes +that I couldn’t bear to die and cease to see beautiful things about +me?” + +“It would certainly be very dull to die before they have discovered +whether there is life in Mars,” Miss Allan added. + +“Do you really believe there’s life in Mars?” asked Mrs. Flushing, +turning to her for the first time with keen interest. “Who tells you +that? Some one who knows? D’you know a man called—?” + +Here Mrs. Thornbury laid down her knitting, and a look of extreme +solicitude came into her eyes. + +“There is Mr. Hirst,” she said quietly. + +St. John had just come through the swing door. He was rather blown +about by the wind, and his cheeks looked terribly pale, unshorn, and +cavernous. After taking off his coat he was going to pass straight +through the hall and up to his room, but he could not ignore the +presence of so many people he knew, especially as Mrs. Thornbury rose +and went up to him, holding out her hand. But the shock of the warm +lamp-lit room, together with the sight of so many cheerful human beings +sitting together at their ease, after the dark walk in the rain, and +the long days of strain and horror, overcame him completely. He looked +at Mrs. Thornbury and could not speak. + +Every one was silent. Mr. Pepper’s hand stayed upon his Knight. Mrs. +Thornbury somehow moved him to a chair, sat herself beside him, and +with tears in her own eyes said gently, “You have done everything for +your friend.” + +Her action set them all talking again as if they had never stopped, and +Mr. Pepper finished the move with his Knight. + +“There was nothing to be done,” said St. John. He spoke very slowly. +“It seems impossible—” + +He drew his hand across his eyes as if some dream came between him and +the others and prevented him from seeing where he was. + +“And that poor fellow,” said Mrs. Thornbury, the tears falling again +down her cheeks. + +“Impossible,” St. John repeated. + +“Did he have the consolation of knowing—?” Mrs. Thornbury began very +tentatively. + +But St. John made no reply. He lay back in his chair, half-seeing the +others, half-hearing what they said. He was terribly tired, and the +light and warmth, the movements of the hands, and the soft +communicative voices soothed him; they gave him a strange sense of +quiet and relief. As he sat there, motionless, this feeling of relief +became a feeling of profound happiness. Without any sense of disloyalty +to Terence and Rachel he ceased to think about either of them. The +movements and the voices seemed to draw together from different parts +of the room, and to combine themselves into a pattern before his eyes; +he was content to sit silently watching the pattern build itself up, +looking at what he hardly saw. + +The game was really a good one, and Mr. Pepper and Mr. Elliot were +becoming more and more set upon the struggle. Mrs. Thornbury, seeing +that St. John did not wish to talk, resumed her knitting. + +“Lightning again!” Mrs. Flushing suddenly exclaimed. A yellow light +flashed across the blue window, and for a second they saw the green +trees outside. She strode to the door, pushed it open, and stood half +out in the open air. + +But the light was only the reflection of the storm which was over. The +rain had ceased, the heavy clouds were blown away, and the air was thin +and clear, although vapourish mists were being driven swiftly across +the moon. The sky was once more a deep and solemn blue, and the shape +of the earth was visible at the bottom of the air, enormous, dark, and +solid, rising into the tapering mass of the mountain, and pricked here +and there on the slopes by the tiny lights of villas. The driving air, +the drone of the trees, and the flashing light which now and again +spread a broad illumination over the earth filled Mrs. Flushing with +exultation. Her breasts rose and fell. + +“Splendid! Splendid!” she muttered to herself. Then she turned back +into the hall and exclaimed in a peremptory voice, “Come outside and +see, Wilfrid; it’s wonderful.” + +Some half-stirred; some rose; some dropped their balls of wool and +began to stoop to look for them. + +“To bed—to bed,” said Miss Allan. + +“It was the move with your Queen that gave it away, Pepper,” exclaimed +Mr. Elliot triumphantly, sweeping the pieces together and standing up. +He had won the game. + +“What? Pepper beaten at last? I congratulate you!” said Arthur Venning, +who was wheeling old Mrs. Paley to bed. + +All these voices sounded gratefully in St. John’s ears as he lay +half-asleep, and yet vividly conscious of everything around him. Across +his eyes passed a procession of objects, black and indistinct, the +figures of people picking up their books, their cards, their balls of +wool, their work-baskets, and passing him one after another on their +way to bed. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VOYAGE OUT *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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