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before he went to bed。
CHAPTER XXIV
The first signs of spring； even such as make themselves
felt towards the middle of February； not only produce
little white and violet flowers in the more sheltered corners
of woods and gardens； but bring to birth thoughts
and desires parable to those faintly colored and
sweetly scented petals in the minds of men and women。
Lives frozen by age； so far as the present is concerned； to
a hard surface； which neither reflects nor yields； at this
season bee soft and fluid； reflecting the shapes and
colors of the present； as well as the shapes and colors of
the past。 In the case of Mrs。 Hilbery； these early spring
days were chiefly upsetting inasmuch as they caused a
general quickening of her emotional powers； which； as
far as the past was concerned； had never suffered much
diminution。 But in the spring her desire for expression
invariably increased。 She was haunted by the ghosts of
phrases。 She gave herself up to a sensual delight in the
binations of words。 She sought them in the pages of
her favorite authors。 She made them for herself on scraps
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of paper； and rolled them on her tongue when there
seemed no occasion for such eloquence。 She was upheld
in these excursions by the certainty that no language
could outdo the splendor of her father’s memory； and although
her efforts did not notably further the end of his
biography； she was under the impression of living more
in his shade at such times than at others。 No one can
escape the power of language； let alone those of English
birth brought up from childhood； as Mrs。 Hilbery had been；
to disport themselves now in the Saxon plainness； now in
the Latin splendor of the tongue； and stored with memories；
as she was； of old poets exuberating in an infinity of
vocables。 Even Katharine was slightly affected against
her better judgment by her mother’s enthusiasm。 Not that
her judgment could altogether acquiesce in the necessity
for a study of Shakespeare’s sons as a preliminary to
the fifth chapter of her grandfather’s biography。 Beginning
with a perfectly frivolous jest； Mrs。 Hilbery had
evolved a theory that Anne Hathaway had a way； among
other things； of writing Shakespeare’s sons； the idea；
struck out to enliven a party of professors； who forwarded
a number of privately printed manuals within the next
few days for her instruction； had submerged her in a flood
of Elizabethan literature； she had e half to believe in
her joke； which was； she said； at least as good as other
people’s facts； and all her fancy for the time being centered
upon StratfordonAvon。 She had a plan； she told
Katharine； when； rather later than usual； Katharine came
into the room the morning after her walk by the river； for
visiting Shakespeare’s tomb。 Any fact about the poet had
bee； for the moment； of far greater interest to her
than the immediate present； and the certainty that there
was existing in England a spot of ground where
Shakespeare had undoubtedly stood； where his very bones
lay directly beneath one’s feet； was so absorbing to her
on this particular occasion that she greeted her daughter
with the exclamation：
“D’you think he ever passed this house？”
The question； for the moment； seemed to Katharine to
have reference to Ralph Denham。
“On his way to Blackfriars； I mean；” Mrs。 Hilbery continued；
“for you know the latest discovery is that he owned
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a house there。”
Katharine still looked about her in perplexity； and Mrs。
Hilbery added：
“Which is a proof that he wasn’t as poor as they’ve
sometimes said。 I should like to think that he had enough；
though I don’t in the least want him to be rich。”
Then； perceiving her daughter’s expression of perplexity；
Mrs。 Hilbery burst out laughing。
“My dear； I’m not talking about YOUR William； though
that’s another reason for liking him。 I’m talking； I’m thinking；
I’m dreaming of MY William—William Shakespeare；
of course。 Isn’t it odd；” she mused； standing at the window
and tapping gently upon the pane； “that for all one
can see； that dear old thing in the blue bon； crossing
the road with her basket on her arm； has never heard
that there was such a person？ Yet it all goes on： lawyers
hurrying to their work； cabmen squabbling for their fares；
little boys rolling their hoops； little girls throwing bread
to the gulls； as if there weren’t a Shakespeare in the
world。 I should like to stand at that crossing all day long
and say： ‘People； read Shakespeare！’”
Katharine sat down at her table and opened a long
dusty envelope。 As Shelley was mentioned in the course
of the letter as if he were alive； it had； of course； considerable
value。 Her immediate task was to decide whether
the whole letter should be printed； or only the paragraph
which mentioned Shelley’s name； and she reached out for
a pen and held it in readiness to do justice upon the
sheet。 Her pen； however； remained in the air。 Almost surreptitiously
she slipped a clean sheet in front of her； and
her hand； descending； began drawing square boxes halved
and quartered by straight lines； and then circles which
underwent the same process of dissection。
“Katharine！ I’ve hit upon a brilliant idea！” Mrs。 Hilbery
exclaimed—”to lay out； say； a hundred pounds or so on
copies of Shakespeare； and give them to working men。
Some of your clever friends who get up meetings might
help us； Katharine。 And that might lead to a playhouse；
where we could all take parts。 You’d be Rosalind—but
you’ve a dash of the old nurse in you。 Your father’s Hamlet；
e to years of discretion； and I’m—well； I’m a bit
of them all； I’m quite a large bit of the fool； but the fools
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in Shakespeare say all the clever things。 Now who shall
William be？ A hero？ Hotspur？ Henry the Fifth？ No； William’s
got a touch of Hamlet in him； too。 I can fancy that William
talks to himself when he’s alone。 Ah； Katharine； you
must say very beautiful things when you’re toge