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“But I’m sure you read poetry at night。 I always judge
by the expression of the eyes；” Mrs。 Hilbery continued。
（“The windows of the soul；” she added parenthetically。）
“I don’t know much about the law；” she went on； “though
many of my relations were lawyers。 Some of them looked
very handsome； too； in their wigs。 But I think I do know
a little about poetry；” she added。 “And all the things that
aren’t written down； but—but—” She waved her hand；
as if to indicate the wealth of unwritten poetry all about
them。 “The night and the stars； the dawn ing up； the
barges swimming past； the sun setting… 。 Ah dear；” she
sighed； “well； the sunset is very lovely too。 I sometimes
think that poetry isn’t so much what we write as what we
feel； Mr。 Denham。”
During this speech of her mother’s Katharine had turned
away； and Ralph felt that Mrs。 Hilbery was talking to him
apart； with a desire to ascertain something about him
which she veiled purposely by the vagueness of her words。
He felt curiously encouraged and heartened by the beam
in her eye rather than by her actual words。 From the dis
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tance of her age and sex she seemed to be waving to
him； hailing him as a ship sinking beneath the horizon
might wave its flag of greeting to another setting out
upon the same voyage。 He bent his head； saying nothing；
but with a curious certainty that she had read an
answer to her inquiry that satisfied her。 At any rate； she
rambled off into a description of the Law Courts which
turned to a denunciation of English justice； which； according
to her； imprisoned poor men who couldn’t pay
their debts。 “Tell me； shall we ever do without it all？” she
asked； but at this point Katharine gently insisted that
her mother should go to bed。 Looking back from halfway
up the staircase； Katharine seemed to see Denham’s eyes
watching her steadily and intently with an expression
that she had guessed in them when he stood looking at
the windows across the road。
CHAPTER XXXI
The tray which brought Katharine’s cup of tea the next
morning brought； also； a note from her mother； announcing
that it was her intention to catch an early train to
StratfordonAvon that very day。
“Please find out the best way of getting there；” the
note ran； “and wire to dear Sir John Burdett to expect
me； with my love。 I’ve been dreaming all night of you and
Shakespeare； dearest Katharine。”
This was no momentary impulse。 Mrs。 Hilbery had been
dreaming of Shakespeare any time these six months； toying
with the idea of an excursion to what she considered
the heart of the civilized world。 To stand six feet above
Shakespeare’s bones； to see the very stones worn by his
feet； to reflect that the oldest man’s oldest mother had
very likely seen Shakespeare’s daughter—such thoughts
roused an emotion in her； which she expressed at unsuitable
moments； and with a passion that would not have
been unseemly in a pilgrim to a sacred shrine。 The only
strange thing was that she wished to go by herself。 But；
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Night and Day
naturally enough； she was well provided with friends who
lived in the neighborhood of Shakespeare’s tomb； and
were delighted to wele her； and she left later to catch
her train in the best of spirits。 There was a man selling
violets in the street。 It was a fine day。 She would remember
to send Mr。 Hilbery the first daffodil she saw。 And； as
she ran back into the hall to tell Katharine； she felt； she
had always felt； that Shakespeare’s mand to leave
his bones undisturbed applied only to odious curiositymongers—
not to dear Sir John and herself。 Leaving her
daughter to cogitate the theory of Anne Hathaway’s sons；
and the buried manuscripts here referred to； with
the implied menace to the safety of the heart of civilization
itself； she briskly shut the door of her taxicab； and
was whirled off upon the first stage of her pilgrimage。
The house was oddly different without her。 Katharine
found the maids already in possession of her room； which
they meant to clean thoroughly during her absence。 To
Katharine it seemed as if they had brushed away sixty
years or so with the first flick of their damp dusters。 It
seemed to her that the work she had tried to do in that
room was being swept into a very insignificant heap of
dust。 The china shepherdesses were already shining from
a bath of hot water。 The writingtable might have belonged
to a professional man of methodical habits。
Gathering together a few papers upon which she was at
work； Katharine proceeded to her own room with the intention
of looking through them； perhaps； in the course
of the morning。 But she was met on the stairs by
Cassandra； who followed her up； but with such intervals
between each step that Katharine began to feel her purpose
dwindling before they had reached the door。
Cassandra leant over the banisters； and looked down upon
the Persian rug that lay on the floor of the hall。
“Doesn’t everything look odd this morning？” she inquired。
“Are you really going to spend the morning with
those dull old letters； because if so—”
The dull old letters； which would have turned the heads
of the most sober of collectors； were laid upon a table；
and； after a moment’s pause； Cassandra； looking grave all
of a sudden； asked Katharine where she should find the
“History of England” by Lord Macaulay。 It was downstairs
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in Mr。 Hilbery’s study。 The cousins descended together in
search of it。 They diverged into the drawingroom for the
good reason that the door was open。 The portrait of Richard
Alardyce attracted their attention。
“I wonder what he was like？” It was a question that
Katharine had often asked herself lately。
“Oh； a fraud like the rest of them—at least Henry says
so；” Cassandra replied。 “Though I don’t believe everything
Henry says；” she added a little defensively。
Down they went into Mr。 Hilbery’s study； where they
began to look among his books。 So desultory was this
examination that