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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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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 some fifteen minutes failed to discover
the work they were in search of。
“Must you read Macaulay’s History； Cassandra？” Katharine
asked； with a stretch of her arms。
“I must；” Cassandra replied briefly。
“Well； I’m going to leave you to look for it by yourself。”
“Oh； no； Katharine。 Please stay and help me。 You see—
you see—I told William I’d read a little every day。 And I
want to tell him that I’ve begun when he es。”
“When does William e？” Katharine asked； turning
to the shelves again。
“To tea； if that suits you？”
“If it suits me to be out； I suppose you mean。”
“Oh； you’re horrid… 。 Why shouldn’t you—？”
“Yes ？”
“Why shouldn’t you be happy too？”
“I am quite happy；” Katharine replied。
“I mean as I am。 Katharine；” she said impulsively； “do
let’s be married on the same day。”
“To the same man？”
“Oh； no； no。 But why shouldn’t you marry—some one
else？”
“Here’s your Macaulay；” said Katharine； turning round with
the book in her hand。 “I should say you’d better begin to
read at once if you mean to be educated by teatime。”
“Damn Lord Macaulay！” cried Cassandra； slapping the
book upon the table。 “Would you rather not talk？”
“We’ve talked enough already；” Katharine replied evasively。
“I know I shan’t be able to settle to Macaulay；” said
Cassandra； looking ruefully at the dull red cover of the
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prescribed volume； which； however； possessed a talismanic
property； since William admired it。 He had advised a little
serious reading for the morning hours。
“Have you read Macaulay？” she asked。
“No。 William never tried to educate me。” As she spoke
she saw the light fade from Cassandra’s face； as if she
had implied some other； more mysterious； relationship。
She was stung with punction。 She marveled at her
own rashness in having influenced the life of another； as
she had influenced Cassandra’s life。
“We weren’t serious；” she said quickly。
“But I’m fearfully serious；” said Cassandra； with a little
shudder； and her look showed that she spoke the truth。
She turned and glanced at Katharine as she had never
glanced at her before。 There was fear in her glance； which
darted on her and then dropped guiltily。 Oh； Katharine
had everything—beauty； mind； character。 She could never
pete with Katharine； she could never be safe so long
as Katharine brooded over her； dominating her； disposing
of her。 She called her cold； unseeing； unscrupulous； but
the only sign she gave outwardly was a curious one—she
reached out her hand and grasped the volume of history。
At that moment the bell of the telephone rang and
Katharine went to answer it。 Cassandra； released from
observation； dropped her book and clenched her hands。
She suffered more fiery torture in those few minutes than
she had suffered in the whole of her life； she learnt more
of her capacities for feeling。 But when Katharine reappeared
she was calm； and had gained a look of dignity
that was new to her。
“Was that him？” she asked。
“It was Ralph Denham；” Katharine replied。
“I meant Ralph Denham。”
“Why did you mean Ralph Denham？ What has William
told you about Ralph Denham？” The accusation that
Katharine was calm； callous； and indifferent was not possible
in face of her present air of animation。 She gave
Cassandra no time to frame an answer。 “Now； when are
you and William going to be married？” she asked。
Cassandra made no reply for some moments。 It was；
indeed； a very difficult question to answer。 In conversation
the night before； William had indicated to Cassandra
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that； in his belief； Katharine was being engaged to
Ralph Denham in the diningroom。 Cassandra； in the rosy
light of her own circumstances； had been disposed to
think that the matter must be settled already。 But a letter
which she had received that morning from William；
while ardent in its expres