The Voyage Out Part 15

'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 anch.o.r.ed 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 Ambrose's villa. When he had definitely decided that a certain light apart from the others higher up the hill was their light, he was considerably rea.s.sured. 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 ma.s.s of the mountains rose against the paler blue of the sky. There was no moon, but myriads of stars, and lights were anch.o.r.ed up and down in the dark waves of earth all round him. He had meant to go back, but the single light of the Ambrose's 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 brus.h.i.+ng 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.16 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. 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 criticise 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 gla.s.ses 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 swis.h.i.+ng 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 das.h.i.+ng 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 wors.h.i.+pped 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 Friends.h.i.+p,' said Hewet. 'The t.i.tle 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 Perrott won't won't do. He's not strong, is he?' 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.'

Hewet 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 friends.h.i.+p; I want to care for some one greater and n.o.bler 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 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 pa.s.s swiftly in front of him, the figure of a woman crossing from one room to another. 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 pa.s.s 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 brus.h.i.+ng 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 was.h.i.+ng 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 gla.s.s and looking at her own face with superb pride and melancholy, when her husband appeared in the doorway in his s.h.i.+rt 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 brus.h.i.+ng 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 circ.u.mspect,' 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ps, until he roared English oaths at them, 'popping my head out of the window just as I was, in my s.h.i.+rt sleeves. The beggars had the sense to scatter.'