CHAPTER XXX

idstofahurricane,”sheconcluded,asthewindowshookbeneaththepressureofthewind.Theylistenedtothesoundinsilence. Herethedooropenedwithconsiderablehesitation,andMrs.Hilbery’sheadappeared,atfirstwithanairofcaution,buthavingmadesurethatshehadadmittedherselftothedining-roomandnottosomemoreunusualregion,shecamecompletelyinsideandseemedinnowaytakenabackbythesightshesaw.Sheseemed,asusual,boundonsomequestofherownwhichwasinterruptedpleasantlybutstrangelybyrunningintooneofthosequeer,unnecessaryceremoniesthatotherpeoplethoughtfittoindulgein. “Pleasedon’tletmeinterruptyou,Mr.—”shewasataloss,asusual,forthename,andKatharinethoughtthatshedidnotrecognizehim.“Ihopeyou’vefoundsomethingnicetoread,”sheadded,pointingtothebookuponthetable.“Byron—ah,Byron.I’veknownpeoplewhoknewLordByron,”shesaid. Katharine,whohadriseninsomeconfusion,couldnothelpsmilingatthethoughtthathermotherfounditperfectlynaturalanddesirablethatherdaughtershouldbereadingByroninthedining-roomlateatnightalonewithastrangeyoungman.Sheblessedadispositionthatwassoconvenient,andfelttenderlytowardshermotherandhermother’seccentricities.ButRalphobservedthatalthoughMrs.Hilberyheldthebooksoclosetohereyesshewasnotreadingaword. “Mydearmother,whyaren’tyouinbed?”Katharineexclaimed,changingastonishinglyinthespaceofaminutetoherusualconditionofauthoritativegoodsense.“Whyareyouwanderingabout?” “I’msureIshouldlikeyourpoetrybetterthanIlikeLordByron’s,”saidMrs.Hilbery,addressingRalphDenham. “Mr.Denhamdoesn’twritepoetryhehaswrittenarticlesforfather,fortheReview,”Katharinesaid,asifpromptinghermemory. “Ohdear!Howdull!”Mrs.Hilberyexclaimed,withasuddenlaughthatratherpuzzledherdaughter. Ralphfoundthatshehadturneduponhimagazethatwasatonceveryvagueandverypenetrating. “ButI’msureyoureadpoetryatnight.Ialwaysjudgebytheexpressionoftheeyes,”Mrs.Hilberycontinued.(“Thewindowsofthesoul,”sheaddedparenthetically.)“Idon’tknowmuchaboutthelaw,”shewenton,“thoughmanyofmyrelationswerelawyers.Someofthemlookedveryhandsome,too,intheirwigs.ButIthinkIdoknowalittleaboutpoetry,”sheadded.“Andallthethingsthataren’twrittendown,but—but—”Shewavedherhand,asiftoindicatethewealthofunwrittenpoetryallaboutthem.“Thenightandthestars,thedawncomingup,thebargesswimmingpast,thesunsetting....Ahdear,”shesighed,“well,thesunsetisverylovelytoo.Isometimesthinkthatpoetryisn’tsomuchwhatwewriteaswhatwefeel,Mr.Denham.” Duringthisspeechofhermother’sKatharinehadturnedaway,andRalphfeltthatMrs.Hilberywastalkingtohimapart,withadesiretoascertainsomethingabouthimwhichsheveiledpurposelybythevaguenessofherwords.Hefeltcuriouslyencouragedandheartenedbythebeaminhereyeratherthanbyheractualwords.Fromthedistanceofherageandsexsheseemedtobewavingtohim,hailinghimasashipsinkingbeneaththehorizonmightwaveitsflagofgreetingtoanothersettingoutuponthesamevoyage.Hebenthishead,sayingnothing,butwithacuriouscertaintythatshehadreadananswertoherinquirythatsatisfiedher.Atanyrate,sherambledoffintoadescriptionoftheLawCourtswhichturnedtoadenunciationofEnglishjustice,which,accordingtoher,imprisonedpoormenwhocouldn’tpaytheirdebts.“Tellme,shallweeverdowithoutitall?”sheasked,butatthispointKatharinegentlyinsistedthathermothershouldgotobed.Lookingbackfromhalf-wayupthestaircase,KatharineseemedtoseeDenham’seyeswatchinghersteadilyandintentlywithanexpressionthatshehadguessedinthemwhenhestoodlookingatthewindowsacrosstheroad.