not help laughing to find herself cheated as usual in domestic
bargainings with her father； and left to do the
disagreeable work which belonged； by rights； to him。
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CHAPTER IX this morning； and get a lot done。”
Katharine disliked telling her mother about Cyril’s misbehavior
quite as much as her father did； and for much the
same reasons。 They both shrank； nervously； as people fear
the report of a gun on the stage； from all that would have
to be said on this occasion。 Katharine； moreover； was
unable to decide what she thought of Cyril’s misbehavior。
As usual； she saw something which her father and mother
did not see； and the effect of that something was to
suspend Cyril’s behavior in her mind without any qualification
at all。 They would think whether it was good or
bad； to her it was merely a thing that had happened。
When Katharine reached the study； Mrs。 Hilbery had
already dipped her pen in the ink。
“Katharine；” she said； lifting it in the air； “I’ve just
made out such a queer； strange thing about your grandfather。
I’m three years and six months older than he was
when he died。 I couldn’t very well have been his mother；
but I might have been his elder sister； and that seems to
me such a pleasant fancy。 I’m going to start quite fresh
She began her sentence； at any rate； and Katharine sat
down at her own table； untied the bundle of old letters
upon which she was working； smoothed them out absent
mindedly； and began to decipher the faded script。
In a minute she looked across at her mother； to judge her
mood。 Peace and happiness had relaxed every muscle in
her face； her lips were parted very slightly； and her breath
came in smooth； controlled inspirations like those of a
child who is surrounding itself with a building of bricks；
and increasing in ecstasy as each brick is placed in position。
So Mrs。 Hilbery was raising round her the skies and
trees of the past with every stroke of her pen； and recalling
the voices of the dead。 Quiet as the room was； and
undisturbed by the sounds of the present moment；
Katharine could fancy that here was a deep pool of past
time； and that she and her mother were bathed in the
light of sixty years ago。 What could the present give； she
wondered； to pare with the rich crowd of gifts bestowed
by the past？ Here was a Thursday morning in process
of manufacture； each second was minted fresh by
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the clock upon the mantelpiece。 She strained her ears
and could just hear； far off； the hoot of a motorcar and
the rush of wheels ing nearer and dying away again；
and the voices of men crying old iron and vegetables in
one of the poorer streets at the back of the house。 Rooms；
of course； accumulate their suggestions； and any room in
which one has been used to carry on any particular occupation
gives off memories of moods； of ideas； of postures
that have been seen in it； so that to attempt any different
kind of work there is almost impossible。
Katharine was unconsciously affected； each time she
entered her mother’s room； by all these influences； which
had had their birth years ago； when she was a child； and
had something sweet and solemn about them； and connected
themselves with early memories of the cavernous
glooms and sonorous echoes of the Abbey where her grandfather
lay buried。 All the books and pictures； even the
chairs and tables； had belonged to him； or had reference
to him； even the china dogs on the mantelpiece and the
little shepherdesses with their sheep had been bought by
him for a penny a piece from a man who used to stand
with a tray of toys in Kensington High Street； as Katharine
had often heard her mother tell。 Often she had sat in this
room； with her mind fixed so firmly on those vanished
figures that she could almost see the muscles round their
eyes and lips； and had given to each his own voice； with
its tricks of accent； and his coat and his cravat。 Often
she had seemed to herself to be moving among them； an
invisible ghost among the living； better acquainted with
them than with her own friends； because she knew their
secrets and possessed a divine foreknowledge of their
destiny。 They had been so unhappy； such muddlers； so
wrongheaded； it seemed to her。 She could have told them
what to do； and what not to do。 It was a melancholy fact
that they would pay no heed to her； and were bound to
e to grief in their own antiquated way。 Their behavior
was often grotesquely irrational； their conventions
monstrously absurd； and yet； as she brooded upon them；
she felt so closely attached to them that it was useless
to try to pass judgment upon them。 She very nearly lost
consciousness that she was a separate being； with a future
of her own。 On a morning of slight depression； such
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Night and Day
as this； she would try to find some sort of clue to the
muddle which their old letters presented； some reason
which seemed to make it worth while to them； some aim
which they kept steadily in view—but she was interrupted。
Mrs。 Hilbery had risen from her table； and was standing
looking out of the window at a string of barges swimming
up the river。
Katharine watched her。 Suddenly Mrs。 Hilbery turned
abruptly； and exclaimed：
“I really believe I’m bewitched！ I only want three sentences；
you see； something quite straightforward and
monplace； and I can’t find ‘em。”
She began to pace up and down the room； snatching up
her duster； but she was too much annoyed to find any
relief； as yet； in polishing the backs of books。
“Besides；” she said； giving the sheet she had written to
Katharine； “I don’t believe this’ll do。 Did your grandfather
ever visit the Hebrides； Katharine？” She looked in a
strangely beseeching way at her daughter。 “My mind got
running on the Hebrides； and I couldn’t help writing a
little description of them。 Perhaps it would do at the
beginning of a chapter。 Chapters often begin quite differently
from the way they go on； you know。” Katharine
read what her mother had written。 She might have been
a schoolmaster criticizing a child’s essay。 Her face gave
Mrs。 Hilbery； who watched it anxiously； no ground for
hope。
“It’s very beautiful；” she stated； “but； you see； mother；
we ought to go from point to point—”
“Oh； I know；” Mrs。 Hilbery exclaimed。 “And that’s just
what I can’t do。 Things keep ing into my head。 It
isn’t that I don’t know everything and feel everything
（who did know him； if I didn’t？）； but I can’t put it down；
you see。 There’s a kind of blind spot；” she said； touching
her forehead； “there。 And when I can’t sleep o’ nights； I
fancy I shall die without having done it。”
From exultation she had passed to the depths of depression
which the imagination of her death aroused。 The
depression municated itself to Katharine。 How impotent
they were； fiddling about all day long with papers！
And the clock was striking eleven and nothing done！ She
watched her mother； now rummaging in a great brass
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Virginia Woo