Kitty rang the bell at the house in Harrington Gardens. She was told that her father was in his study and going to the door she opened it softly: he was sitting by the fire reading the last edition of the evening paper. He looked up as she entered, put down the paper, and sprang nervously to his feet.

“Oh, Kitty, I didn't expect you till the later train.”

“I thought you wouldn't want the bother of coming to meet me so I didn't wire the time I expected to arrive.”

He gave her his cheek to kiss in the manner she so well remembered.

“I was just having a look at the paper,” he said. “I haven't read the paper for the last two days.”

She saw that he thought it needed some explanation if he occupied himself with the ordinary affairs of life.

“Of course,” she said. “You must be tired out, I'm afraid mother's death has been a great shock to you.”

He was older and thinner than when she had last seen him. A little, lined, dried-up man, with a precise manner.

“The surgeon said there had never been any hope. She hadn't been herself for more than a year, but she refused to see a doctor. The surgeon told me that she must have been in constant pain, he said it was a miracle that she had been able to endure it.”

“Did she never complain?”

“She said she wasn't very well. But she never complained of pain.” He paused and looked at Kitty. “Are you very tired after your journey?”

“Not very.”

“Would you like to go up and see her?”

“Is she here?”

“Yes, she was brought here from the nursing home.”

“Yes, I'll go now.”

“Would you like me to come with you?

There was something in her father's tone that made her look at him quickly. His face was slightly turned from her; he did not want her to catch his eye. Kitty had acquired of late a singular proficiency at reading the thoughts of others. After all, day after day she had applied all her sensibilities to divine from a casual word or an unguarded gesture the hidden thoughts of her husband. She guessed at once what her father was trying to hide from her. It was relief he felt, an infinite relief, and he was frightened of himself. For hard on thirty years he had been a good and faithful husband, he had never uttered a single word in dispraise of his wife, and now he should grieve for her. He had always done the things that were expected of him. It would have been shocking to him by the flicker of an eyelid or by the smallest hint to betray that he did not feel what under the circumstances a bereaved husband should feel.

“No, I would rather go by myself,” said Kitty.

She went upstairs and into the large, cold and pretentious bedroom in which her mother for so many years had slept. She remembered so well those massive pieces of mahogany and the engravings after Marcus Stone which adorned the walls. The things on the dressing-table were arranged with the stiff precision which Mrs. Garstin had all her life insisted upon. The flowers looked out of place; Mrs. Garstin would have thought it silly, affected, and unhealthy to have flowers in her bedroom. Their perfume did not cover that acrid, musty smell, as of freshly washed linen, which Kitty remembered as characteristic of her mother's room.

Mrs. Garstin lay on the bed, her hands folded across her breasts with a meekness which in life she would have had no patience with. With her strong sharp features, the cheeks hollow with suffering and the temples sunken, she looked handsome and even imposing. Death had robbed her face of its meanness and left only an impression of character. She might have been a Roman empress. It was strange to Kitty that of the dead persons she had seen this was the only one who in death seemed to preserve a look as though that clay had been once a habitation of the spirit. Grief she could not feel, for there had been too much bitterness between her mother and herself to leave in her heart any deep feeling of affection; and looking back on the girl she had been she knew that it was her mother who had made her what she was. But when she looked at that hard, domineering and ambitious woman who lay there so still and silent with all her petty aims frustrated by death, she was aware of a vague pathos. She had schemed and intrigued all her life and never had she desired anything but what was base and unworthy. Kitty wondered whether perhaps in some other sphere she looked upon her earthly course with consternation.

Doris came in.

“I thought you'd come by this train. I felt I must look in for a moment. Isn't it dreadful? Poor darling mother.”

Bursting into tears, she flung herself into Kitty's arms. Kitty kissed her. She knew how her mother had neglected Doris in favor of her and how harsh she had been with her because she was plain and dull. She wondered whether Doris really felt the extravagant grief she showed. But Doris had always been emotional. She wished she could cry: Doris would think her dreadfully hard. Kitty felt that she had been through too much to feign a distress she did not feel.

“Would you like to come and see father?” she asked her when the strength of the outburst had somewhat subsided.

Doris wiped her eyes. Kitty noticed that her sister's pregnancy had blunted her features and in her black dress she looked gross and blousy.

“No, I don't think I will. I shall only cry again. Poor old thing, he's bearing it wonderfully.”

Kitty showed her sister out of the house and then went back to her father. He was standing in front of the fire and the newspaper was neatly folded. He wanted her to see that he had not been reading it again.

“I haven't dressed for dinner,” he said. “I didn't think it was necessary.”

凯蒂按响了位于哈灵顿花园父母家的门铃。仆人告诉她，她的父亲在书房。她走到书房的门前，轻轻地把它推开，他正坐在火炉旁读上一期的晚报。当她进来的时候，他抬起头，放下了报纸，吃惊地跳了起来。

“噢，凯蒂，我以为你会乘下一班火车。”

“我想让您不要费事去接我，所以我没有给你拍电报告诉你到达的时间。”

他亲了亲她的脸颊，亲吻的动作她还清晰地记得和以前一模一样。

“我刚才想看看报纸。”他说道，“我还没读最近两天的报纸。”

她看出来了，如果这个时候，他还被日常生活的琐事所占据，他想需要做一些解释。

“当然。”她说道，“您一定累坏了，我想母亲的去世对您的打击很大。”

比起最后一次见到他，父亲更老，也更瘦了。一个矮小、瘦削、枯干的小老头，但仍带着一丝严谨的态度。

“医生说没有任何的希望，她其实已经病了一年多了，但是她拒绝看医生。医生告诉我说，她一定在持续不断地疼痛，他还说她竟然能够忍受下来，真是个奇迹。”

“她从没讲过她的病情吗？”

“她说她觉得不太舒服。但是她没说过疼痛。”他停下来，看着凯蒂，“旅途劳顿，你一定很累了吧？”

“不太累。”

“你想上楼去看看她吗？”

“她在家里？”

“是的，已经从医院拉回家了。”

“好的，我现在就去。”

“你想让我陪你去吗？”

在她父亲的口吻中有某种东西让她觉得奇怪，她很快地看了看他，他把脸悄悄扭到了一边，不想让她看到自己的眼睛。凯蒂最近练就了一项非凡的技能，能够读出别人的想法——毕竟，一天又一天，她已经应用所有识别力来侦测来自她丈夫的每一句随意说出的话或者不带防范的动作，挖出其背后隐藏的想法——她立刻猜到了她父亲试图躲避她的原因。他觉得是一种解脱，一种无限的解脱，自己也吓了一跳。多不容易呀，三十年来他一直是个善良和忠诚的丈夫，他从没说过一个字来指责妻子，现在他应该为她感到悲痛。他总是本本分分地做别人期望他做的事情。但这次作为一个承受着丧妻之痛的丈夫本来应该有的感情他却没有，无论是眨一下眼皮或最微小的举动都背叛了他原来的形象，这让他自己也感到震惊。

“不了，我愿意自己一个人去。”凯蒂说道。

她上了楼，走进一间宽敞、阴冷、俗丽的房间，这是她母亲睡了多年的卧室。她清楚记得那些大号的红木家具，记得墙壁上镶嵌的模仿马库斯·斯通画作的浮雕。梳妆台上的东西都一板一眼地完全按照贾斯汀夫人坚持多年的位置摆放着。鲜花看上去放的不是地方，因为贾斯汀夫人会认为，在卧室里放花是愚蠢的，不健康的，人是会受影响的。花的香气没有遮盖住刺鼻和发霉的味道，就像新洗过的亚麻布，凯蒂记得这是她母亲房间所独有的气味。

贾斯汀夫人就躺在床上，双手交叉放在胸前，一副温顺的样子，而在生前她总是很不耐烦的模样。她的五官棱角分明，脸颊由于疾病的折磨已经清瘦异常，太阳穴也凹陷下去了，但看上去长相依然端正，甚至能让人印象深刻。死亡已经夺走了她的尖酸刻薄，而只留下了她性格中威严的一面，就像一位罗马女皇。凯蒂觉得惊诧，在她所见过的死去的人中，只有她母亲似乎才具有这样的神态，在躯壳上再一次赋予了曾寄居在里面的灵魂。她没有感到悲伤，因为她和母亲之间曾经有着太多的不愉快，她在心里对她没有太深的感情，而且回想她做姑娘时，正是她的母亲一手造成了她今天的样子。但是，当她看到这个一度冷酷、强势和野心勃勃的女人如今未竟夙愿却静静地躺在这里，不免感到一种隐约的伤感。她的母亲聪明一生，算计一世，可没有想到她所追求的不过是些低级趣味和毫无价值的东西，凯蒂怀疑也许在另一个世界里，她母亲看到自己在尘世走过的一生，也会感到惊愕。

多瑞丝这时走了进来。

“我想你会坐这趟火车回来，所以得过来看一下。是不是很可怕呀？可怜的母亲。”

多瑞丝抱着凯蒂放声大哭，凯蒂亲吻着她。她知道母亲喜欢她，往往忽略多瑞丝，而且因为多瑞丝木讷、相貌平平而对她非常苛刻。凯蒂心里想，是不是多瑞丝自己也觉得所流露出的悲伤太过夸张。但是，多瑞丝总是感情外露，也多愁善感。凯蒂希望自己也能哭出来，要不多瑞丝会认为她真的铁石心肠，可凯蒂觉得自己经历了太多的痛苦，无法伪装自己并没有感到的悲伤。

“你愿意去书房看看父亲吗？”她放弃了想与多瑞丝抱头痛哭的努力，问道。

多瑞丝擦干了眼泪，凯蒂注意到怀孕已经使她妹妹的身子显得笨重。多瑞丝穿着黑色的衣服，脸上长着红斑，看着很邋遢。

“不了，我还是不去了，否则我该哭了。可怜的老父亲，他挺坚强的。”

凯蒂把妹妹送出了门，然后又回到父亲身边。他正站在火炉前，报纸整齐地叠着，他想让她看到他没有再读报纸了。

“我还没换吃晚饭的衣服。”他说道，“我觉得没必要了。”