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so much else—everything； I should say—everything。
Leave us something； eh； Katharine？”
“Leave you something？” said Katharine； apparently waking
from a brown study。 “I was thinking we must be going—”
“Is it tonight that Lady Ferrilby dines with us？ No； we
mustn’t be late；” said Rodney； rising。 “D’you know the
Ferrilbys； Miss Datchet？ They own Trantem Abbey；” he
added； for her information； as she looked doubtful。 “And
if Katharine makes herself very charming tonight；
perhaps’ll lend it to us for the honeymoon。”
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Night and Day
“I agree that may be a reason。 Otherwise she’s a dull
woman；” said Katharine。 “At least；” she added； as if to
qualify her abruptness； “I find it difficult to talk to her。”
“Because you expect every one else to take all the
trouble。 I’ve seen her sit silent a whole evening；” he said；
turning to Mary； as he had frequently done already。 “Don’t
you find that； too？ Sometimes when we’re alone； I’ve
counted the time on my watch”—here he took out a large
gold watch； and tapped the glass—”the time between
one remark and the next。 And once I counted ten minutes
and twenty seconds； and then； if you’ll believe me；
she only said ‘Um！’”
“I’m sure I’m sorry；” Katharine apologized。 “I know it’s
a bad habit； but then； you see； at home—”
The rest of her excuse was cut short； so far as Mary was
concerned； by the closing of the door。 She fancied she
could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs。 A
moment later； the doorbell rang again； and Katharine
reappeared； having left her purse on a chair。 She soon
found it； and said； pausing for a moment at the door； and
speaking differently as they were alone：
“I think being engaged is very bad for the character。”
She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled；
as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness。
But the remark puzzled Mary； it seemed to refer to
something else； and her manner had changed so strangely；
now that William was out of hearing； that she could not
help looking at her for an explanation。 She looked almost
stern； so that Mary； trying to smile at her； only succeeded
in producing a silent stare of interrogation。
As the door shut for the second time； she sank on to
the floor in front of the fire； trying； now that their bodies
were not there to distract her； to piece together her impressions
of them as a whole。 And； though priding herself；
with all other men and women； upon an infallible
eye for character； she could not feel at all certain that
she knew what motives inspired Katharine Hilbery in life。
There was something that carried her on smoothly； out of
reach—something； yes； but what？—something that reminded
Mary of Ralph。 Oddly enough； he gave her the
same feeling； too； and with him； too； she felt baffled。
Oddly enough； for no two people； she hastily concluded；
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were more unlike。 And yet both had this hidden impulse；
this incalculable force —this thing they cared for and
didn’t talk about—oh； what was it？
CHAPTER XV
The village of Disham lies somewhere on the rolling piece
of cultivated ground in the neighborhood of Lincoln； not
so far inland but that a sound； bringing rumors of the
sea； can be heard on summer nights or when the winter
storms fling the waves upon the long beach。 So large is
the church； and in particular the church tower； in parison
with the little street of cottages which pose
the village； that the traveler is apt to cast his mind back
to the Middle Ages； 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； and he goes on to conjecture
that every one of the villagers has reached the
extreme limit of human life。 Such are the reflections of
the superficial stranger； and his sight of the population；
as it is represented by two or three men hoeing in a
turnipfield； a small child carrying a jug； and a young
woman shaking a piece of carpet outside her cottage door；
will not lead him to see anything very much out of keeping
with the Middle Ages in the village of Disham as it is
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Night and Day
today。 These people； though they seem young enough；
look so angular and so crude that they remind him of the
little pictures painted by monks in the capital letters of
their manuscripts。 He only half understands what they
say； and speaks very loud and clearly； as though； indeed；
his voice had to carry through a hundred years or more
before it reached them。 He would have a far better chance
of understanding some dweller in Paris or Rome； Berlin or
Madrid； than these countrymen of his who have lived for
the last two thousand years not two hundred miles from
the City of London。
The Rectory stands about half a mile beyond the village。
It is a large house； and has been growing steadily
for some centuries round the great kitchen； with its narrow
red tiles； as the Rector would point out to his guests
on the first night of their arrival； taking his brass candlestick；
and bidding them mind the steps up and the steps
down； and notice the immense thickness of the walls； the
old beams across the ceiling； the staircases as steep as
ladders； and the attics； with their deep； tentlike roofs；
in which swallows bred； and once a white owl。 But noth
ing very interesting or very beautiful had resulted from
the different additions made by the different rectors。
The house； however； was surrounded by a garden； in
which the Rector took considerable pride。 The lawn； which
fronted the drawingroom windows； 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。
Wyndham Datchet would pace up and down at the same
hour every morning； with a sundial to measure the time
for him。 As often as not； he carried a book in his hand；
into which he would glance； then shut it up； and repeat
the rest of the ode from memory。 He had most of Horace
by heart； and had got into the habit of connecting this
particular walk with certain odes which he repeated duly；
at the same time noting the condition of his flowers； and
stooping now and again to pick any that were withered
or overblown。 On wet days； such was the power of habit
over him； he rose from his chair at the same hour； and
paced his study for the same length of time； pausing now
and then to straighten some book in the bookcase； or
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alter the position of the two brass crucifixes standing
upon cairns of serpentine stone upon the mantelpiece。
His children had a great respect for him； credited him
with far more learning than he actually possessed； and
saw that his habits were not interfered with； if possible。
Like most people who do things methodically； the Rector
himself had more strength of purpose and power of self
sacrifice than of intellect or of originality。 On cold and
windy nights he rode off to visit sick people； who might
need him； without a murmur； and by virtue of doing dull
duties punctually； he was much employed upon mittees
and local Boards and Councils； and at this period of
his life （he was sixtyeight） he was beginning to be miserated
by tender old ladies for the extreme leanness
of his person； which； they said； was worn out upon the
roads when it should have been resting before a fortable
fire。 His elder daughter； Elizabeth； lived with him
and managed the house； and already much resembled him
in dry sincerity and methodical habit of mind； of the two
sons one； Richard； was an estate agent； the other； Christopher；
was reading for the Bar。 At Christmas； naturally；
they met together； and for a month past the arrangement
of the Christmas week had been much in the mind of
mistress and maid； who prided themselves every year more
confidently upon the excellence of their equipment。 The
late Mrs。 Datchet had left an excellent cupboard of linen；
to which Elizabeth had s