Chapter XV

by Virginia Woolf

　　The village of Disham lies somewhere on the rolling piece ofcultivated ground in the neighborhood of Lincoln, not so far inlandbut that a sound, bringing rumors of the sea, can be heard on summernights or when the winter storms fling the waves upon the long beach.So large is the church, and in particular the church tower, incomparison with the little street of cottages which compose thevillage, that the traveler is apt to cast his mind back to the MiddleAges, as the only time when so much piety could have been kept alive.So great a trust in the Church can surely not belong to our day, andhe goes on to conjecture that every one of the villagers has reachedthe extreme limit of human life. Such are the reflections of thesuperficial stranger, and his sight of the population, as it isrepresented by two or three men hoeing in a turnip-field, a smallchild carrying a jug, and a young woman shaking a piece of carpetoutside her cottage door, will not lead him to see anything very muchout of keeping with the Middle Ages in the village of Disham as it isto-day. These people, though they seem young enough, look so angularand so crude that they remind him of the little pictures painted bymonks in the capital letters of their manuscripts. He only halfunderstands what they say, and speaks very loud and clearly, asthough, indeed, his voice had to carry through a hundred years or morebefore it reached them. He would have a far better chance ofunderstanding some dweller in Paris or Rome, Berlin or Madrid, thanthese countrymen of his who have lived for the last two thousand yearsnot two hundred miles from the City of London.The Rectory stands about half a mile beyond the village. It is a largehouse, and has been growing steadily for some centuries round thegreat kitchen, with its narrow red tiles, as the Rector would pointout to his guests on the first night of their arrival, taking hisbrass candlestick, and bidding them mind the steps up and the stepsdown, and notice the immense thickness of the walls, the old beamsacross the ceiling, the staircases as steep as ladders, and theattics, with their deep, tent-like roofs, in which swallows bred, andonce a white owl. But nothing very interesting or very beautiful hadresulted from the different additions made by the different rectors.The house, however, was surrounded by a garden, in which the Rectortook considerable pride. The lawn, which fronted the drawing-roomwindows, was a rich and uniform green, unspotted by a single daisy,and on the other side of it two straight paths led past beds of tall,standing flowers to a charming grassy walk, where the Rev. WyndhamDatchet would pace up and down at the same hour every morning, with asundial to measure the time for him. As often as not, he carried abook in his hand, into which he would glance, then shut it up, andrepeat the rest of the ode from memory. He had most of Horace byheart, and had got into the habit of connecting this particular walkwith certain odes which he repeated duly, at the same time noting thecondition of his flowers, and stooping now and again to pick any thatwere withered or overblown. On wet days, such was the power of habitover him, he rose from his chair at the same hour, and paced his studyfor the same length of time, pausing now and then to straighten somebook in the bookcase, or alter the position of the two brasscrucifixes standing upon cairns of serpentine stone upon themantelpiece. His children had a great respect for him, credited himwith far more learning than he actually possessed, and saw that hishabits were not interfered with, if possible. Like most people who dothings methodically, the Rector himself had more strength of purposeand power of self-sacrifice than of intellect or of originality. Oncold and windy nights he rode off to visit sick people, who might needhim, without a murmur; and by virtue of doing dull duties punctually,he was much employed upon committees and local Boards and Councils;and at this period of his life (he was sixty-eight) he was beginningto be commiserated by tender old ladies for the extreme leanness ofhis person, which, they said, was worn out upon the roads when itshould have been resting before a comfortable fire. His elderdaughter, Elizabeth, lived with him and managed the house, and alreadymuch resembled him in dry sincerity and methodical habit of mind; ofthe two sons one, Richard, was an estate agent, the other,Christopher, was reading for the Bar. At Christmas, naturally, theymet together; and for a month past the arrangement of the Christmasweek had been much in the mind of mistress and maid, who pridedthemselves every year more confidently upon the excellence of theirequipment. The late Mrs. Datchet had left an excellent cupboard oflinen, to which Elizabeth had succeeded at the age of nineteen, whenher mother died, and the charge of the family rested upon theshoulders of the eldest daughter. She kept a fine flock of yellowchickens, sketched a little, certain rose-trees in the garden werecommitted specially to her care; and what with the care of the house,the care of the chickens, and the care of the poor, she scarcely knewwhat it was to have an idle minute. An extreme rectitude of mind,rather than any gift, gave her weight in the family. When Mary wroteto say that she had asked Ralph Denham to stay with them, she added,out of deference to Elizabeth's character, that he was very nice,though rather queer, and had been overworking himself in London. Nodoubt Elizabeth would conclude that Ralph was in love with her, butthere could be no doubt either that not a word of this would be spokenby either of them, unless, indeed, some catastrophe made mention of itunavoidable.Mary went down to Disham without knowing whether Ralph intended tocome; but two or three days before Christmas she received a telegramfrom Ralph, asking her to take a room for him in the village. This wasfollowed by a letter explaining that he hoped he might have his mealswith them; but quiet, essential for his work, made it necessary tosleep out.Mary was walking in the garden with Elizabeth, and inspecting theroses, when the letter arrived."But that's absurd," said Elizabeth decidedly, when the plan wasexplained to her. "There are five spare rooms, even when the boys arehere. Besides, he wouldn't get a room in the village. And he oughtn'tto work if he's overworked.""But perhaps he doesn't want to see so much of us," Mary thought toherself, although outwardly she assented, and felt grateful toElizabeth for supporting her in what was, of course, her desire. Theywere cutting roses at the time, and laying them, head by head, in ashallow basket."If Ralph were here, he'd find this very dull," Mary thought, with alittle shiver of irritation, which led her to place her rose the wrongway in the basket. Meanwhile, they had come to the end of the path,and while Elizabeth straightened some flowers, and made them standupright within their fence of string, Mary looked at her father, whowas pacing up and down, with his hand behind his back and his headbowed in meditation. Obeying an impulse which sprang from some desireto interrupt this methodical marching, Mary stepped on to the grasswalk and put her hand on his arm."A flower for your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose."Eh, dear?" said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at anangle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk."Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth's roses--I hopeyou asked her leave. Elizabeth doesn't like having her roses pickedwithout her leave, and quite right, too."He had a habit, Mary remarked, and she had never noticed it so clearlybefore, of letting his sentences tail away in a continuous murmur,whereupon he passed into a state of abstraction, presumed by hischildren to indicate some train of thought too profound for utterance."What?" said Mary, interrupting, for the first time in her life,perhaps, when the murmur ceased. He made no reply. She knew very wellthat he wished to be left alone, but she stuck to his side much as shemight have stuck to some sleep-walker, whom she thought it rightgradually to awaken. She could think of nothing to rouse him withexcept:"The garden's looking very nice, father.""Yes, yes, yes," said Mr. Datchet, running his words together in thesame abstracted manner, and sinking his head yet lower upon hisbreast. And suddenly, as they turned their steps to retrace their way,he jerked out:"The traffic's very much increased, you know. More rolling-stockneeded already. Forty trucks went down yesterday by the 12.15--countedthem myself. They've taken off the 9.3, and given us an 8.30 instead--suits the business men, you know. You came by the old 3.10 yesterday,I suppose?"She said "Yes," as he seemed to wish for a reply, and then he lookedat his watch, and made off down the path towards the house, holdingthe rose at the same angle in front of him. Elizabeth had gone roundto the side of the house, where the chickens lived, so that Mary foundherself alone, holding Ralph's letter in her hand. She was uneasy. Shehad put off the season for thinking things out very successfully, andnow that Ralph was actually coming, the next day, she could onlywonder how her family would impress him. She thought it likely thather father would discuss the train service with him; Elizabeth wouldbe bright and sensible, and always leaving the room to give messagesto the servants. Her brothers had already said that they would givehim a day's shooting. She was content to leave the problem of Ralph'srelations to the young men obscure, trusting that they would find somecommon ground of masculine agreement. But what would he think of her?Would he see that she was different from the rest of the family? Shedevised a plan for taking him to her sitting-room, and artfullyleading the talk towards the English poets, who now occupied prominentplaces in her little bookcase. Moreover, she might give him tounderstand, privately, that she, too, thought her family a queer one--queer, yes, but not dull. That was the rock past which she was bent onsteering him. And she thought how she would draw his attention toEdward's passion for Jorrocks, and the enthusiasm which ledChristopher to collect moths and butterflies though he was now twenty-two. Perhaps Elizabeth's sketching, if the fruits were invisible,might lend color to the general effect which she wished to produce ofa family, eccentric and limited, perhaps, but not dull. Edward, sheperceived, was rolling the lawn, for the sake of exercise; and thesight of him, with pink cheeks, bright little brown eyes, and ageneral resemblance to a clumsy young cart-horse in its winter coat ofdusty brown hair, made Mary violently ashamed of her ambitiousscheming. She loved him precisely as he was; she loved them all; andas she walked by his side, up and down, and down and up, her strongmoral sense administered a sound drubbing to the vain and romanticelement aroused in her by the mere thought of Ralph. She felt quitecertain that, for good or for bad, she was very like the rest of herfamily.Sitting in the corner of a third-class railway carriage, on theafternoon of the following day, Ralph made several inquiries of acommercial traveler in the opposite corner. They centered round avillage called Lampsher, not three miles, he understood, from Lincoln;was there a big house in Lampsher, he asked, inhabited by a gentlemanof the name of Otway?The traveler knew nothing, but rolled the name of Otway on his tongue,reflectively, and the sound of it gratified Ralph amazingly. It gavehim an excuse to take a letter from his pocket in order to verify theaddress."Stogdon House, Lampsher, Lincoln," he read out."You'll find somebody to direct you at Lincoln," said the man; andRalph had to confess that he was not bound there this very evening."I've got to walk over from Disham," he said, and in the heart of himcould not help marveling at the pleasure which he derived from makinga bagman in a train believe what he himself did not believe. For theletter, though signed by Katharine's father, contained no invitationor warrant for thinking that Katharine herself was there; the onlyfact it disclosed was that for a fortnight this address would be Mr.Hilbery's address. But when he looked out of the window, it was of herhe thought; she, too, had seen these gray fields, and, perhaps, shewas there where the trees ran up a slope, and one yellow light shonenow, and then went out again, at the foot of the hill. The light shonein the windows of an old gray house, he thought. He lay back in hiscorner and forgot the commercial traveler altogether. The process ofvisualizing Katharine stopped short at the old gray manor-house;instinct warned him that if he went much further with this processreality would soon force itself in; he could not altogether neglectthe figure of William Rodney. Since the day when he had heard fromKatharine's lips of her engagement, he had refrained from investinghis dream of her with the details of real life. But the light of thelate afternoon glowed green behind the straight trees, and became asymbol of her. The light seemed to expand his heart. She brooded overthe gray fields, and was with him now in the railway carriage,thoughtful, silent, and infinitely tender; but the vision pressed tooclose, and must be dismissed, for the train was slackening. Its abruptjerks shook him wide awake, and he saw Mary Datchet, a sturdy russetfigure, with a dash of scarlet about it, as the carriage slid down theplatform. A tall youth who accompanied her shook him by the hand, tookhis bag, and led the way without uttering one articulate word.Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when duskalmost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with anote of intimacy seldom heard by day. Such an edge was there in Mary'svoice when she greeted him. About her seemed to hang the mist of thewinter hedges, and the clear red of the bramble leaves. He felthimself at once stepping on to the firm ground of an entirelydifferent world, but he did not allow himself to yield to the pleasureof it directly. They gave him his choice of driving with Edward or ofwalking home across the fields with Mary--not a shorter way, theyexplained, but Mary thought it a nicer way. He decided to walk withher, being conscious, indeed, that he got comfort from her presence.What could be the cause of her cheerfulness, he wondered, halfironically, and half enviously, as the pony-cart started briskly away,and the dusk swam between their eyes and the tall form of Edward,standing up to drive, with the reins in one hand and the whip in theother. People from the village, who had been to the market town, wereclimbing into their gigs, or setting off home down the road togetherin little parties. Many salutations were addressed to Mary, whoshouted back, with the addition of the speaker's name. But soon sheled the way over a stile, and along a path worn slightly darker thanthe dim green surrounding it. In front of them the sky now showeditself of a reddish-yellow, like a slice of some semilucent stonebehind which a lamp burnt, while a fringe of black trees with distinctbranches stood against the light, which was obscured in one directionby a hump of earth, in all other directions the land lying flat to thevery verge of the sky. One of the swift and noiseless birds of thewinter's night seemed to follow them across the field, circling a fewfeet in front of them, disappearing and returning again and again.Mary had gone this walk many hundred times in the course of her life,generally alone, and at different stages the ghosts of past moodswould flood her mind with a whole scene or train of thought merely atthe sight of three trees from a particular angle, or at the sound ofthe pheasant clucking in the ditch. But to-night the circumstanceswere strong enough to oust all other scenes; and she looked at thefield and the trees with an involuntary intensity as if they had nosuch associations for her."Well, Ralph," she said, "this is better than Lincoln's Inn Fields,isn't it? Look, there's a bird for you! Oh, you've brought glasses,have you? Edward and Christopher mean to make you shoot. Can youshoot? I shouldn't think so--""Look here, you must explain," said Ralph. "Who are these young men?Where am I staying?""You are staying with us, of course," she said boldly. "Of course,you're staying with us--you don't mind coming, do you?""If I had, I shouldn't have come," he said sturdily. They walked on insilence; Mary took care not to break it for a time. She wished Ralphto feel, as she thought he would, all the fresh delights of the earthand air. She was right. In a moment he expressed his pleasure, much toher comfort."This is the sort of country I thought you'd live in, Mary," he said,pushing his hat back on his head, and looking about him. "Realcountry. No gentlemen's seats."He snuffed the air, and felt more keenly than he had done for manyweeks the pleasure of owning a body."Now we have to find our way through a hedge," said Mary. In the gapof the hedge Ralph tore up a poacher's wire, set across a hole to trapa rabbit."It's quite right that they should poach," said Mary, watching himtugging at the wire. "I wonder whether it was Alfred Duggins or SidRankin? How can one expect them not to, when they only make fifteenshillings a week? Fifteen shillings a week," she repeated, coming outon the other side of the hedge, and running her fingers through herhair to rid herself of a bramble which had attached itself to her. "Icould live on fifteen shillings a week--easily.""Could you?" said Ralph. "I don't believe you could," he added."Oh yes. They have a cottage thrown in, and a garden where one cangrow vegetables. It wouldn't be half bad," said Mary, with a sobernesswhich impressed Ralph very much."But you'd get tired of it," he urged."I sometimes think it's the only thing one would never get tired of,"she replied.The idea of a cottage where one grew one's own vegetables and lived onfifteen shillings a week, filled Ralph with an extraordinary sense ofrest and satisfaction."But wouldn't it be on the main road, or next door to a woman with sixsqualling children, who'd always be hanging her washing out to dryacross your garden?""The cottage I'm thinking of stands by itself in a little orchard.""And what about the Suffrage?" he asked, attempting sarcasm."Oh, there are other things in the world besides the Suffrage," shereplied, in an off-hand manner which was slightly mysterious.Ralph fell silent. It annoyed him that she should have plans of whichhe knew nothing; but he felt that he had no right to press herfurther. His mind settled upon the idea of life in a country cottage.Conceivably, for he could not examine into it now, here lay atremendous possibility; a solution of many problems. He struck hisstick upon the earth, and stared through the dusk at the shape of thecountry."D'you know the points of the compass?" he asked."Well, of course," said Mary. "What d'you take me for?--a Cockney likeyou?" She then told him exactly where the north lay, and where thesouth."It's my native land, this," she said. "I could smell my way about itblindfold."As if to prove this boast, she walked a little quicker, so that Ralphfound it difficult to keep pace with her. At the same time, he feltdrawn to her as he had never been before; partly, no doubt, becauseshe was more independent of him than in London, and seemed to beattached firmly to a world where he had no place at all. Now the duskhad fallen to such an extent that he had to follow her implicitly, andeven lean his hand on her shoulder when they jumped a bank into a verynarrow lane. And he felt curiously shy of her when she began to shoutthrough her hands at a spot of light which swung upon the mist in aneighboring field. He shouted, too, and the light stood still."That's Christopher, come in already, and gone to feed his chickens,"she said.She introduced him to Ralph, who could see only a tall figure ingaiters, rising from a fluttering circle of soft feathery bodies, uponwhom the light fell in wavering discs, calling out now a bright spotof yellow, now one of greenish-black and scarlet. Mary dipped her handin the bucket he carried, and was at once the center of a circle also;and as she cast her grain she talked alternately to the birds and toher brother, in the same clucking, half-inarticulate voice, as itsounded to Ralph, standing on the outskirts of the fluttering feathersin his black overcoat.He had removed his overcoat by the time they sat round the dinner-table, but nevertheless he looked very strange among the others. Acountry life and breeding had preserved in them all a look which Maryhesitated to call either innocent or youthful, as she compared them,now sitting round in an oval, softly illuminated by candlelight; andyet it was something of the kind, yes, even in the case of the Rectorhimself. Though superficially marked with lines, his face was a clearpink, and his blue eyes had the long-sighted, peaceful expression ofeyes seeking the turn of the road, or a distant light through rain, orthe darkness of winter. She looked at Ralph. He had never appeared toher more concentrated and full of purpose; as if behind his foreheadwere massed so much experience that he could choose for himself whichpart of it he would display and which part he would keep to himself.Compared with that dark and stern countenance, her brothers' faces,bending low over their soup-plates, were mere circles of pink,unmolded flesh."You came by the 3.10, Mr. Denham?" said the Reverend Wyndham Datchet,tucking his napkin into his collar, so that almost the whole of hisbody was concealed by a large white diamond. "They treat us very well,on the whole. Considering the increase of traffic, they treat us verywell indeed. I have the curiosity sometimes to count the trucks on thegoods' trains, and they're well over fifty--well over fifty, at thisseason of the year."The old gentleman had been roused agreeably by the presence of thisattentive and well-informed young man, as was evident by the care withwhich he finished the last words in his sentences, and his slightexaggeration in the number of trucks on the trains. Indeed, the chiefburden of the talk fell upon him, and he sustained it to-night in amanner which caused his sons to look at him admiringly now and then;for they felt shy of Denham, and were glad not to have to talkthemselves. The store of information about the present and past ofthis particular corner of Lincolnshire which old Mr. Datchet producedreally surprised his children, for though they knew of its existence,they had forgotten its extent, as they might have forgotten the amountof family plate stored in the plate-chest, until some rare celebrationbrought it forth.After dinner, parish business took the Rector to his study, and Maryproposed that they should sit in the kitchen."It's not the kitchen really," Elizabeth hastened to explain to herguest, "but we call it so--""It's the nicest room in the house," said Edward."It's got the old rests by the side of the fireplace, where the menhung their guns," said Elizabeth, leading the way, with a tall brasscandlestick in her hand, down a passage. "Show Mr. Denham the steps,Christopher. . . . When the Ecclesiastical Commissioners were here twoyears ago they said this was the most interesting part of the house.These narrow bricks prove that it is five hundred years old--fivehundred years, I think--they may have said six." She, too, felt animpulse to exaggerate the age of the bricks, as her father hadexaggerated the number of trucks. A big lamp hung down from the centerof the ceiling and, together with a fine log fire, illuminated a largeand lofty room, with rafters running from wall to wall, a floor of redtiles, and a substantial fireplace built up of those narrow red brickswhich were said to be five hundred years old. A few rugs and asprinkling of arm-chairs had made this ancient kitchen into asitting-room. Elizabeth, after pointing out the gun-racks, and thehooks for smoking hams, and other evidence of incontestable age, andexplaining that Mary had had the idea of turning the room into asitting-room--otherwise it was used for hanging out the wash and forthe men to change in after shooting--considered that she had done herduty as hostess, and sat down in an upright chair directly beneath thelamp, beside a very long and narrow oak table. She placed a pair ofhorn spectacles upon her nose, and drew towards her a basketful ofthreads and wools. In a few minutes a smile came to her face, andremained there for the rest of the evening."Will you come out shooting with us to-morrow?" said Christopher, whohad, on the whole, formed a favorable impression of his sister'sfriend."I won't shoot, but I'll come with you," said Ralph."Don't you care about shooting?" asked Edward, whose suspicions werenot yet laid to rest."I've never shot in my life," said Ralph, turning and looking him inthe face, because he was not sure how this confession would bereceived."You wouldn't have much chance in London, I suppose," saidChristopher. "But won't you find it rather dull--just watching us?""I shall watch birds," Ralph replied, with a smile."I can show you the place for watching birds," said Edward, "if that'swhat you like doing. I know a fellow who comes down from London aboutthis time every year to watch them. It's a great place for the wildgeese and the ducks. I've heard this man say that it's one of the bestplaces for birds in the country.""It's about the best place in England," Ralph replied. They were allgratified by this praise of their native county; and Mary now had thepleasure of hearing these short questions and answers lose theirundertone of suspicious inspection, so far as her brothers wereconcerned, and develop into a genuine conversation about the habits ofbirds which afterwards turned to a discussion as to the habits ofsolicitors, in which it was scarcely necessary for her to take part.She was pleased to see that her brothers liked Ralph, to the extent,that is, of wishing to secure his good opinion. Whether or not heliked them it was impossible to tell from his kind but experiencedmanner. Now and then she fed the fire with a fresh log, and as theroom filled with the fine, dry heat of burning wood, they all, withthe exception of Elizabeth, who was outside the range of the fire,felt less and less anxious about the effect they were making, and moreand more inclined for sleep. At this moment a vehement scratching washeard on the door."PiperI shall have to get up," murmured Christopher."It's not Piper, it's Pitch," Edward grunted."All the same, I shall have to get up," Christopher grumbled. He letin the dog, and stood for a moment by the door, which opened into thegarden, to revive himself with a draught of the black, starlit air."Do come in and shut the door!" Mary cried, half turning in her chair."We shall have a fine day to-morrow," said Christopher withcomplacency, and he sat himself on the floor at her feet, and leanthis back against her knees, and stretched out his long stockinged legsto the fire--all signs that he felt no longer any restraint at thepresence of the stranger. He was the youngest of the family, andMary's favorite, partly because his character resembled hers, asEdward's character resembled Elizabeth's. She made her knees acomfortable rest for his head, and ran her fingers through his hair."I should like Mary to stroke my head like that," Ralph thought tohimself suddenly, and he looked at Christopher, almost affectionately,for calling forth his sister's caresses. Instantly he thought ofKatharine, the thought of her being surrounded by the spaces of nightand the open air; and Mary, watching him, saw the lines upon hisforehead suddenly deepen. He stretched out an arm and placed a logupon the fire, constraining himself to fit it carefully into the frailred scaffolding, and also to limit his thoughts to this one room.Mary had ceased to stroke her brother's head; he moved it impatientlybetween her knees, and, much as though he were a child, she began oncemore to part the thick, reddish-colored locks this way and that. But afar stronger passion had taken possession of her soul than any herbrother could inspire in her, and, seeing Ralph's change ofexpression, her hand almost automatically continued its movements,while her mind plunged desperately for some hold upon slippery banks.