The Complete Novels - 9 Books in One Edition. Virginia Woolf

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