Katharinesaid nothing, not knowing what to say. During what seemed to her a long time, old Lauderdale lay quite still. Then he seemed to rouse himself, and as he turned his head he coughed painfully.
“I want you to know how I’ve left the money,” he said abruptly, when he had recovered his breath.
“Do you think I ought to know?” asked Katharine, in some surprise.
“Yes—I don’t know whether you ought—no. But I want you to know. I’ve confidence in your judgment, my dear.”
“Oh, uncle Robert! As though your own were not a thousand times better!”
“In matters of business it may be. But this is quite another thing. You see, there are a good many who ought to have a share, and a good many who expect some of it, whether they have any claim or not. I want to know if you think I’ve acted fairly by everybody. Will you tell me, quite honestly? Nobody else would—except Katharine Ralston, perhaps.”
“But I don’t want to be made the judge of your actions, dear uncle Robert!” protested Katharine.
“Well—make a sacrifice, then, and do something you don’t like,” answered the old man, gruffly.
It would have pleased Doctor Routh to see how soon his temper rose at the merest sign of opposition.
“Well—tell me, then,” said Katharine, reluctantly.
“It’s a simple will,” began the old man, and then he paused, as though reflecting upon it. “Well—you see,” he continued, presently, “I argued in this way. I said to myself that the money ought either to go back to its original source—I’ve thought a great deal about that, too, and I’ve made sketches of wills leaving everything to the poor, in a big trust—I suppose every rich man has made rough sketches of queer wills at one time or another.” He paused a moment and seemed to be thinking. “Yes,” he resumed, presently, “either it should go back to the people, or else it ought to go amongst the Lauderdales, as directly as possible. Now there’s my brother, first—your grandfather. He’s older than I am, but he’s careless and foolish about money. He’d give it all away—better leave something to his asylums and things, and give him an income but no capital. He doesn’t want anything for himself—he’s agood man, and I wish I were like him. Then there’s your father, next, and Katharine Ralston—my nephew and niece. They don’t want a lot of money, either, do they?”
Katharine’s eyes expressed a little astonishment in spite of herself, and the old man saw it. He hesitated a while, coughed, cleared his throat, and then seemed to make up his mind.
“It’s been my opinion for a long time,” he said, slowly, “that your father has a good deal of his own.”
“Papa!” exclaimed Katharine. “Why—he always says he’s so poor! You don’t know how economical he is, and makes us be. I’m sure he can’t be rich.”
“Rich—h’m—that’s a relative expression nowadays. He’s not rich, compared with me—but he has enough, he has quite enough.”
“Oh—enough—yes,” answered the young girl. “The house is comfortable, and we have plenty to eat.” She laughed a little. “But as for clothes, you know—well, if my mother didn’t sell her miniatures, I don’t know exactly what she and I should do—nor what Charlotte would have done, before she was married.”
Robert Lauderdale looked at her intently for several seconds.
“Do you mean to say,” he asked, at length, “that when your dear mother sells her little paintings,it’s to get money for her and you to dress on?”
“Yes—of course. What did you think?”
“I thought it was for her small charities,” he answered, bending his rough brows with an expression of mingled pain and anger. “It seemed to me a good thing that she should have that interest. If I’d known that your father kept you all so close—”
“But I really think he’s poor, uncle Robert.”
“Poor! Nonsense! He’s got a million, anyway. I know it. Don’t look at me like that—as though you didn’t believe me. I tell you, I know it. I don’t know how much more he has, but he’s got that.”
He moved restlessly on his side, with more energy than he had yet shown, for he was growing angry.
“There’s some money in the drawer of that little table,” he said, pointing with his hand, which trembled a little. “It’s open—just get what there is and bring it here, will you?”
Katharine rose.
“I don’t want any money, if you mean to give it to me,” she said, as she crossed the room.
She brought him a roll of bills.
“Count it,” he said.
She counted carefully, turning back the crisp green notes over her delicate fingers. It was new money.
“There are three hundred and fifty dollars,” she said. “At least, I think I’ve counted right.”
“Near enough. Make a note of it, my dear. There are pencil and paper on the table. There—just write down the figure. Now put the money into your pocket, and go and spend it on some trifle.”
“I’d rather not,” answered Katharine, hesitating.
She had never had so much money in her hand in her whole life, though she was the grand-niece of Robert the Rich.
“Do as I tell you!” cried the old man, almost fiercely, and in a much stronger voice than he had been able to find hitherto.
Katharine obeyed, seeing that he was really losing his temper.
“You may as well spend it on toys as leave it to the servants,” he said. “They’d have stolen it as soon as I was dead. Not that I mean to die, though. Not till I’ve settled one or two things like this. I feel stronger.”
“I’m so glad!” exclaimed Katharine.
“So am I,” growled the sick man. “You’ve saved my life.”
“I?”
“Yes, child. Go and tell Routh that I said so. Upon my word!” he grumbled, half audibly. “Selling her poor little miniatures to buy clothes for herself and her children—my nieces—that’s just a little too much, you know—can’t see how I could die decently—well—without telling him what I think about it. Katharine,” he said, more loudly, addressing her, “it amounts to this. I’ve left a few charities, and I’ve left the Miners a little something to make them comfortable, and I’ve given a million to the Brights—Hamilton and Hester and their mother—and I’ve left the rest to you three young ones—you and Charlotte and Jack Ralston. That ought to make about twenty-five millions for each of you. I want to know if you think I’ve done right?”
Katharine’s hands dropped by her side. For the first time in her life she was literally struck dumb.
“That doesn’t mean,” continued the old man, watching her keenly, as the light came back to his eyes, “that doesn’t mean that I give you all that money, just as I gave you that roll of bills just now. It’s all tied up in trusts, just as far as the law would allow me to do it. You couldn’t take it and throw it into the street, nor speculate, nor buy a railway, nor do anything of the kind. You and Charlotte will have to pay half your income to your father and mother while they live, and you’ll have to leave it to your children—at least, Charlotte must, and I hope you will, my dear. And Jack must give half of his income to his mother. You see, as there are three parents, that will make it exactly equal. And all three of you have topay something to make up an income for your grandfather. So it will still be equally shared. I like you best, my dear, but I couldn’t show any favouritism in my will. The end of it will be that you will each have something less than half the income of twenty-five millions to spend. That’s better than selling miniatures to buy clothes, anyway. Isn’t it, now?”
He laughed hoarsely and then coughed.
“Go home, child,” he said, presently. “I’ve talked too much. Stop, though. What I’ve told you is not to be repeated on any account. I wanted to know what you thought of the right and wrong of the thing—but I’ve taken your breath away. Go home and think about it. Come and see me day after to-morrow—there, I shouldn’t have said that an hour ago—give me a little of that beef tea, please, my dear. I’m hungry—and I’d rather have it from your hand than from Mrs. Deems’s. Thank you.”
He drank eagerly, and she took the cup from him and set it down again.
“She’s a good creature, the nurse,” he said. “A very good creature—a sort of holy scarecrow. I shan’t need her much longer.”
“You really do seem better,” said Katharine, wondering how she could ever have believed that he was dying.
“I’m going to get well this time. I told Rouththis morning that I wasn’t going to die. You’ve saved my life. There’s nothing like rage for the action of the heart, I believe. I shall be out next week.”
He began to cough again.
“Go home—go home,” he managed to say, between the short spasms. “I’m talking too much.”
Katharine bent down and kissed his forehead quickly, looked at him affectionately and left the room, for she saw that what he said was true. She closed the door softly and found her way to the stairs. She was in haste to get out into the air and to be alone, for she wished, if possible, to realize the stupendous possibilities of life which the last few minutes had brought into her range of mental vision. It was not a light thing to have been told that she was one day to be among the richest of her very rich acquaintances, after having been brought up in such a penurious fashion.
In the hall she came suddenly upon her father and mother, who were parleying with the butler.
“Here’s Miss Katharine, sir,” said the servant, and he immediately fell back, glad to avoid further discussion with such a very obstinate person as Alexander Junior.
“Why, Katharine!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale, in surprise. “Do you mean to say you’re here?”
“Yes—didn’t you know? Doctor Routh sentme up in his carriage. He met me on the steps just as he was going in to see you. Didn’t he tell you?”
“No—how very extraordinary!”
Mrs. Lauderdale’s face assumed a grave expression not untinged with displeasure.
“This is very strange,” said her husband. “And Leek has just been telling us that uncle Robert could see no one.”
“I beg pardon, sir,” said the butler, coming forward respectfully. “There were orders that when Miss Katharine came, Mr. Lauderdale was not to be disturbed.”
“Yes,” answered Alexander Junior, coldly. “I understand. Come, Emma—come, Katharine—we shall be late for luncheon.”
“It isn’t half-past twelve yet,” observed Katharine, glancing at the great old clock, which at that moment gave ‘warning’ of the coming chime for the half-hour.
“It’s of no consequence what time it is,” said her father, more coldly than ever. “Come!”
They went out together, and the door closed behind them. Alexander Lauderdale stood still upon the pavement and faced his daughter, with a peculiarly hard look in his eyes.
“What does this all mean, Katharine?” he enquired, severely. “Your mother and I desire some explanation.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” answered the young girl. “Uncle Robert wanted to see me, and Doctor Routh told me so, and was kind enough to send me up in his carriage. I was coming away when I met you. There’s nothing to explain.”
Alexander Junior very nearly lost his temper. He could not recollect having done so since he had refused to accept John Ralston as his son-in-law, nearly eighteen months ago. But his steely grey eyes began to gleam now, and his clear, pale skin grew paler. It was evident that his mind was working rapidly in a direction which Katharine could not understand.
“I wish to know what he said to you,” he replied.
“Why do you want to know?” asked Katharine, unwisely, for she herself was agitated.
“I have a right to know,” answered her father, peremptorily.
It was unlike him to go to such lengths of insistence at once, and even Mrs. Lauderdale was surprised, and glanced at him somewhat timidly.
“Shall we walk on?” she suggested. “I’m cold—there’s a chilly wind from the corner.”
They began to move, Alexander Junior walking between them, with Katharine on his left. She did not reply to his last speech at once, and his anger rose.
“When I speak to you, Katharine, I expect to be answered,” he said.
“Yes,” replied Katharine, coolly. “I was thinking of what I should say.”
She had been taken unawares, and found it hard to decide how to act. She thought he was angry because he suspected her of trying to influence the old millionaire to do something which might facilitate her marriage with John Ralston, little guessing that in the eyes of the church and the law she was married already. So far as revealing anything about the dispositions of her great-uncle’s will might be concerned, she had not the slightest intention of saying anything about it, nor of even hinting that he had spoken of it. She was capable of quite as much obstinacy as her father, and she was far more intelligent; but she disliked a quarrel of any sort, and yet, placed as she was, she could not see how to avoid one, if he continued to insist. Mrs. Lauderdale saw that trouble was imminent, and tried to come to the rescue.
“How did he seem to be, dear?” she enquired, speaking across her husband. “Doctor Routh was not very encouraging.”
“He is better—really better, I’m sure,” answered Katharine, seizing the opportunity of turning the conversation. “When I first went in, he looked dreadfully ill. His eyes are quite sunken and his cheeks are positively hollow. But gradually, aswe talked, he revived, and when I left him he really seemed quite cheerful.”
She paused, not seeing how she could go on talking about the old gentleman’s appearance much longer. She hoped her mother would ask another question, but her father interposed again, with senseless and almost brutal persistence.
“I’m glad to hear that he is better,” he said. “But I’m still waiting for an answer to my question. What was the nature of the conversation between you, Katharine? I insist upon knowing.”
“Really, papa,” answered the young girl, looking up to him with eyes almost as hard as his own, “I don’t see why you should be so determined to know.”
“It’s of no consequence why I wish to know. It should be sufficient for you to understand my wishes. I expect you to obey me at once and to give a clear account of what took place. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly—oh, yes!”
It was evident from Katharine’s tone that she did not intend to satisfy him. Her mother thought that she might have excused herself instead of refusing so abruptly. She might have even given a harmless sketch of an imaginary conversation. But that was not her way, as she would have said.
Alexander’s anger increased with every moment, in a way by no means normal with him. He saidnothing for a few moments, but walked stiffly on, biting his clean-shaven upper lip with his bright teeth. He felt himself helpless, which made the position worse.
“So uncle Robert is really better,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, pacifically inclined.
“I think so,” answered Katharine, mechanically.
“I’m very glad. Aren’t you glad, Alexander, my dear?” she asked, turning to her husband.
“Of course. What a foolish question!”
Mrs. Lauderdale felt that under the circumstances it had certainly been a very foolish question, and she relapsed into silence. She was, on the whole, a very good woman, and was sincere in saying that she was glad of the old man’s recovery. This was not inconsistent with her recent haste to inform her husband of the supposed danger. It had seemed quite natural to her to think of going instantly to old Robert Lauderdale’s bedside, if there were any possibility of his dying. She knew, also, far better than Katharine had known, what an immense sum was to be divided at his death, and considering the life she had led under her husband’s economic rule, she might be pardoned if, even being strongly attached to the old gentleman, she was a little agitated at the thought of the changes imminent in her own existence. There is a point at which humanity must be forgiven for being human. In the memorable struggle for the greatLauderdale fortune, which divided the tribe against itself, it must not be forgotten that Mrs. Lauderdale was sincerely fond of the man who had accumulated the wealth, though she afterwards took a distinct side in the affairs, and showed herself as eager as many others to obtain as much as possible for her husband and her children.
Meanwhile, in spite of her, the opening skirmish continued sharply. After walking nearly the length of a block in silence, Alexander Junior once more turned his head in the direction of his daughter.
“Am I to understand, Katharine, that you definitely refuse to speak?” he enquired, sternly.
“If you mean that I should tell you in detail all that uncle Robert and I said to each other this morning,—yes. I refuse.”
“Do you know that you are disobedient and undutiful?”
“It isn’t necessary to discuss that. I’m not a child any longer.”
“Very well. We shall see.”
And they continued to walk in silence. Alexander was fond of walking and of all sorts of exercise, when it did not interfere with the rigid punctuality of his business habits. He had been a very strong man in his youth.
This was the beginning of hostilities, and the events hitherto described took place in the month of April.
Robert Lauderdale’s instinct had not deceived him, in prompting him to say that he was not going to die when he seemed most ill. He rallied quickly, and within a fortnight of the day on which he had sent for Katharine, he was able to be driven in the Park, in the noon sunshine. He was changed, and had grown suddenly much thinner, but most of his friends thought that at his age this was no bad sign.
Ever since that crisis there had been a coldness between Katharine and her father. She felt that he was watching her perpetually, looking, perhaps, for an opportunity of making her feel his displeasure, and assuredly trying to find out what she knew. The subject was not mentioned, and Alexander Junior seemed to have accepted his defeat more calmly than might have been expected; but Katharine knew his character well enough to be sure that the humiliation rankled, and that the obstinate determination to find out the secret was as constantly present as ever.
Katharine’s life became more and more difficult and complicated, and she seemed to become more powerless every day, when she tried to see some way of simplifying it. She found herself, indeed, in a very extraordinary position, and one which requires a little elucidation for all those who are not acquainted with her previous history.
In the first place, she had been secretly marriedto her second cousin John Ralston, nearly five months before the beginning of this story. John Ralston had faults which could not be concealed. It had been said with some truth that he drank and occasionally played high; that he was a failure, as far as any worldly success was concerned, was evident enough, although he was now making what seemed to be a determined effort at regular work. He was certainly not a particularly good young man. His father, the admiral, who had been dead some years, had been a brave sailor and distinguished in the service, but there were many stories of his wild doings, so that those who trace all character to heredity may find an excuse for John’s evil tendencies in his father’s temperament. Be this as it may, he had undoubtedly been exceedingly ‘lively,’ as his distant cousin and best friend, Hamilton Bright, expressed it.
But he had his good points. He was honourable to a fault. He loved Katharine with a single-hearted devotion very rare in so young a man,—for he was only five and twenty years of age,—and for her sake had been making a desperate attempt to master his worse instincts. He could be said to have succeeded in that, at least, since he had made his good resolutions. Whether he could keep them for the rest of his life was another matter.
Katharine’s father, however, put no faith in him, and never would. Moreover, John was a poorman, a consideration which had great weight. No one could suspect that his great uncle intended to leave him a large share of the fortune, and it was very generally believed that they had quarrelled and that John Ralston was to be cut off with nothing. This opinion was partly due to the fact that John kept away from Robert Lauderdale’s house more than the rest of the family, because he dreaded the idea of being counted among the hangers on of the tribe. But Alexander Lauderdale could not forbid him the house, because he was a relation, but altogether refused to hear of a marriage with Katharine. He hoped to make for her a match as good as her sister’s, if not better. The scene with John had been almost violent, but the young lovers had contrived to see each other with the freedom afforded by society to near relatives.
Almost a year had passed in this way, and there had seemed to be no prospect of a solution, when Katharine had taken the law into her own hands, being at that time nineteen years old. She had persuaded John that if he would marry her secretly, she could at once prevail on old Robert Lauderdale to find him some occupation in the West. After much hesitation John Ralston had consented, on condition that uncle Robert should be told immediately. The pair were secretly married by a clergyman whom John persuaded to perform the ceremony,and an hour later Katharine had told the old gentleman her secret. He at once offered to make her and John independent—for the honour of the family; but John had stipulated that he was to receive nothing of the nature of money. That would have been like begging with a loaded pistol. What he wanted was a position in which he might do some sort of work, and receive an equivalent sufficient to support himself and his wife. Robert Lauderdale at once proved to his grand-niece that such a scheme was wholly impracticable. John could do nothing which could earn him a dollar a day. Katharine had to own at last that he was right. He said that if John would work steadily in an office in New York, even for a year, it would be easy to push him rapidly into success.
The compromise was accepted as the only way out of the difficulty. The secret marriage remained a secret, and a mere accomplished formality. John continued to live with his mother as though he were a bachelor; Katharine stayed under her father’s roof as Miss Lauderdale. John returned to Beman Brothers, and was now working there, as has been said more than once. Katharine had to bear all the difficulties of a totally false position in society. These had been the results of the secret marriage, so far as actual consequences in fact were concerned. Morally speaking, there could be no question but that John Ralston, at least, had profitedenormously by the sense of honourable responsibility Katharine had forced upon him. He had made one of those supreme efforts of which natures nervous by temperament, melancholy, and sometimes susceptible of exaltation, are often capable. The almost divine dignity which his mother had taught him to attribute to the code of honour stood him in good stead. He saw by the light which guides heroes, things not heroic in themselves to be done, but brave at least, and they were easy to him, because, for Katharine’s sake, he would have done much more.
So far as Katharine was concerned, the effect upon her was different. It might even be questioned whether it were a good effect. She was helpless to do anything which could improve her position, and the result was a feeling of hostility against her surroundings. The whole fabric of society seemed to her to rest upon a doubtful foundation, since two young people so eminently fitted for each other could be forced by it into such a situation.
They were of equal standing in every way; she had even lately learned that their prospects of fortune, which were little short of colossal, were precisely the same. They loved each other. They were married by church and law. Yet between John’s code of honour, on the one hand, and Alexander Lauderdale’s determined opposition, onthe other, they dared not so much as own that they were husband and wife, lest some enormous social scandal should ensue. They had but one alternative—to leave New York together, which meant starvation, or else to accept Robert Lauderdale’s help in the form of money, which John was too proud to do. And though John would have been quite ready to starve alone, he had no intention of subjecting Katharine to any such ordeal. He blamed himself most bitterly for having accepted the secret marriage at all, but since the thing was done, he meant to do his share and bear his burden manfully and honourably. It was all he could do to atone for his weakness in having yielded, and for the trouble he had caused Katharine.
But she had no such active part as he. He must work, for he had chosen that salvation for his self-respect, and it was her portion to wait until he could win his independence on his own merits, since he would not be indebted for it to any one. The waiting is often harder to bear than the working. Katharine grew impatient of the conventions in the midst of which she lived, and found fault with the system of all modern society.
She was strangely repelled, too, by the attentions of the young men she met daily, and danced with, and sat beside at dinner. They had amused her until the last winter. She was not one of thosegirls who either feign indifference to amusement, or really feel it, and so long as she had been free to enjoy herself without any secondary thoughts about the meaning of enjoyment, she had found the world a pleasant place. Now, however, she was for the first time made conscious that several of the young fellows who surrounded her at parties really wished to marry her. The genuine and pure-hearted convictions concerning the inviolable sanctity of marriage, which are peculiarly strong in American young girls, asserted themselves with Katharine at every moment. Being the lawfully wedded wife of John Ralston, it seemed an outrage that young Van De Water, for instance, should seek occasion to assure her of his devotion. Yet, since he, like the rest, knew nothing of the truth, she could not blame him if he had chanced to fall in love with her. She could only refuse to listen to him and discourage his advances, feeling all the while a most unreasonable and yet womanly desire to hand him over to her husband’s tender mercies, together with a firm faith that John was not only able, but would also be quite disposed, to slay the offender forthwith.
This seems to prove that woman is naturally good, and that harm can only reach her by slow stages. And it is a curious reflection that generally in the world good, when it comes, comes quickly and evil slowly. Great purifying religionshave arisen and washed whole nations clean, almost in one man’s lifetime, whereas it has always required generations of luxury and vice to undermine the solidity of any strong people. A first sin is rarely more than an episode, too often exaggerated by those who would direct the conscience, and who leave the offenders to the terrible danger of discovering such exaggerations later, and then of setting down all wrong-doing as insignificant because the first was made to appear greater than it was.
Katharine hated the falseness of her position, and the perpetual irritation to which she was exposed unsettled the balance of her girlish convictions as they had emerged from the process of education, ready-made, honest, and somewhat conventional. The disturbance awakened abnormal activity in her mind, and she fell into the habit of questioning and discussing almost every accepted article of creeds social and spiritual.
Hence her liking for the society of Paul Griggs, whose experience was a fact, but whose convictions were a mystery not easily fathomed. Alexander Lauderdale especially detested the man for his easy way of accepting anybody’s religious beliefs, as though the form of religion were of no importance whatever, while perpetually thrusting forward the humanity of mankind as the principal point of interest in life. But when he was alone with Katharine, or with some kindred spirit, Griggs sometimes talked of other things.
The day on which Katharine, returning from Robert Lauderdale’s house, refused to answer her father’s questions was an important one in her history and in the lives of many closely connected with her; and this has seemed the best place for offering an explanation of such preceding events as bear directly upon all that followed. Here, therefore, ends the prologue to the story which is to tell of the lives of John Ralston and his wife, commonly known as Miss Lauderdale, during the great battle for the Lauderdale fortune. It has been a long prologue, and, as is usually the case in such tiresome preliminary pieces, the majority of the actors in the real play have not yet appeared, and the few who have come before the curtain crave as yet indulgence rather than applause. They have shown their faces and have explained the general nature of what is to be represented, and they retire as gracefully as they can, under rather difficult circumstances, to reappear in such actions and situations as should explain themselves.
Initself, Robert Lauderdale’s will was a very fair one. It provided, as has been seen, that each of the living members of the family in the direct line should have an equal income, while insuring the important condition that the money should remain in the hands of the Lauderdales and Ralstons as long as possible, since the income paid to the four elder members, Alexander Lauderdale Senior, Alexander Junior, the latter’s wife and Mrs. Ralston, John’s mother, should revert at the deaths of each to the three younger heirs, John Ralston, Katharine, and Charlotte Slayback, and afterwards to the children of each.
This result seemed just and, on the whole, to be desired. Robert Lauderdale had devoted much thought to the subject, and had seen no other way of acting fairly and at the same time of providing as far as possible against the subdivision and disappearance of the great fortune he had amassed. The will was to constitute three separate trusts, one for each of the direct legatees and their children, at whose death the trusts would expire,and the property be further divided amongst the succeeding generations in each line.
The old millionaire was a very enlightened man, and had honestly endeavoured during his lifetime to understand the conditions and obligations to which the possessors of very large fortunes should submit. Looking at the matter from this point of view, he had come to regard the accumulation and dissipation of wealth as a succession of natural phenomena, somewhat analogous to those of evaporation and rain, beneficial when gradual, destructive when sudden. As water is drawn up in the form of vapour, in invisible atoms, gradually to accumulate in the form of clouds, which, moving under natural conditions, are borne towards those regions where moisture is most needed, to descend gently and be lost in showers that give earth life, until the sky above is clear again, and all the fields below are green with growing things—so, thought Robert Lauderdale, should wealth follow a reasonable and beneficial course of constant distribution and redistribution, to promote which was a moral obligation upon those through whose hands it passed. He was not sure that it was in any way his duty to leave vast sums for charities, nor to hasten the subdivision of the property in any violent way; for he knew well enough that sudden divisions generally mean the forcible depression of values, in which case wealth, of which theincome being spent regularly should find its way to the points where it is most needed, must, on the contrary, become dormant until values are restored, if indeed they ever are restored altogether.
If he had been the father of one or more children, there is no knowing how he might have acted. If there had been in the whole family one man whom he sincerely trusted to act wisely, he might have left him the bulk of the fortune, giving each of the others a sum which would have been large compared with what they had of their own, but wholly insignificant by the side of the main property. But no such selection was possible. His brother was a very old man, wholly unfitted for the purpose. His brother’s son was a miser, and a dull one at that, in Robert’s estimation. John Ralston was not to be thought of for a moment. Hamilton Bright would have answered the conditions, but he was far removed in relationship, being a descendant of Robert Lauderdale’s uncle through a female line. Nevertheless, Robert Lauderdale hesitated.
It was perhaps natural that Alexander Junior should believe that he was the proper person for his uncle to select as the principal heir. He was the only son of the eldest of the family. He was a man of stainless reputation, occupying a position of high importance and trust. No one could have denied that he was scrupulous in business mattersto a degree rare even amongst the most honourable men of his own city. He was comparatively young, being only fifty years old, and he might live a quarter of a century to administer and hold together the Lauderdale estate, for his health was magnificent and his strength of iron.
He had thought it all over daily for so many years, that he could see no possible reason why he should not be the principal heir. In arguing the case, he told himself that his uncle was not capricious, that he would certainly not leave his fortune to Hamilton Bright, who was the only other sensible man of business in the whole connection, and that it was generally in the nature of very rich men to wish to know that their wealth was to be kept together after they were dead. No one could possibly do that better than Alexander Lauderdale Junior.
Nevertheless, he felt conscious that his uncle disliked him personally, and in moments of depression, when he had taken too little exercise and his liver was torpid, the certainty of this caused him much uneasiness. There was no apparent reason for it, and it suggested to his self-satisfied nature the idea that some caprice entered, after all, into the nature of his uncle. On such occasions he rarely failed to instruct Mrs. Lauderdale to ask uncle Robert to dinner, and to be particularly careful that the fish should be perfect. Uncle Robertwas fond of fish and a quiet family party. Katharine was his favourite, but he liked Mrs. Lauderdale, and his brother, the old philanthropist, was congenial to him, though the two took very different views of humanity and the public good. Alexander Senior’s dream was to get possession of all Robert’s millions and distribute them within a week amongst a number of asylums and charitable institutions which he patronized. He should then feel that he had done a good work and that his benevolent instincts had been satisfied. He sometimes sat in his study in a cloud of smoke—for he smoked execrable tobacco perpetually—and tried to persuade himself that ‘brother Bob’ might perhaps after all leave him the whole fortune. There would be great joy among the idiots on that day, thought old Alexander, as the two-cent ‘Virginia cheroot’ dropped from his hand, and he fell asleep in his well-worn armchair. And then came dreams of unbounded charity, of unlimited improvement and education of the poor and deficient. The greatest men of the age should be employed to devote their lives to the happiness of the poor little blind boys, and of the little girls born deaf, and of the vacantly staring blear-eyed youths whom nature had made carelessly, and whom God had sent into the world, perhaps, as a means of grace to those more richly endowed. For old Alexander was charitable to everyone—even to the Supreme Being, whose motives he ventured to judge. He was incapable of an unkind thought, and in the heaven of his old fancy he would have founded an asylum for reformed devils and would not have hesitated to beg a subscription of Satan himself, being quite ready to believe that the Prince of Hell might have his good moments. He would have prayed cheerfully for ‘the puir deil.’ There is no limit to the charity of such over-kind hearts. Nothing seems to them so bad but that, by gentleness and persuasion, it may at last be made good.
He knew, of course, for Robert had told him, that he was not to have the millions even during the few remaining years of his life, and he bore his brother no malice for the decision. Robert promised him that he should have plenty of money for his poor people, but did not hesitate to say that if he had the whole property he would pauperize half the city of New York in six months.
“You’d give every newsboy and messenger boy in the city a roast turkey for dinner every day,” laughed Robert.
“If I thought it might improve the condition of poor boys, I certainly should,” answered the philanthropist, gravely. “I’m fond of roast turkey myself—with cranberry sauce and chestnuts inside. Why shouldn’t the poor little fellows have it, too, if every one had enough money?”
“If there were enough money to go round, creation would be turned into a kitchen for a week, and into a hospital for six months afterwards,” observed Robert Lauderdale. “Fortunately, money’s scarcer than greediness.”
And on the whole, there was much wisdom in this plain view, which to Robert himself presented a clear picture of the condition of mankind in general in regard to money and its distribution.
It would not have been natural if even the least money-loving members of the family had not often speculated, each in his or her own way, about the chances of receiving something very considerable when old Robert died. He had been generous to them all, according to his lights, but he had not considered that any of them were objects of charity. The true conditions of his brother’s household life had been carefully concealed from him, until Katharine had, almost accidentally, given him an insight into her father’s family methods, so to say. Nevertheless, he had long known that Alexander Junior must have much more money than he was commonly thought to possess, and his mode of living, as compared with his fortune, proved conclusively that he hoarded what he had. He must have known that a large share of the estate must ultimately come to him, and he could assuredly have had no doubts as to its solidity, since it consisted entirely in land and houses. What was hehoarding his income for? That was the question which naturally suggested itself to Robert, and the only answer he could find, and the one which accorded perfectly with his own knowledge of his nephew’s character, was that Alexander was a miser. As the certainty solidified in the rich man’s mind, he became more and more determined that Alexander Junior should know nothing of the dispositions of the will.
And he had rigidly kept his own counsel until that day when he had confided in Katharine. When he was well again, or, at all events, so far recovered as to feel sure that he might live some time longer, he regretted what he had done. Weakened by illness, he had acted on impulse in making a young girl the repository of his secret intentions. Moreover, he had not intended to part with the right to change them whenever he should see fit, and the problem of the distribution of wealth continued to absorb his attention. He had great faith in Katharine, but, after all, she was not a man, as he told himself repeatedly. She might be expected to confide in John Ralston, who might, on some unfortunate day, drink a glass of wine too much and reveal the facts of the case. He would have been even more disturbed than he was, had he known that Alexander Junior suspected his daughter of knowing the truth.
Robert Lauderdale had certainly not made herlife easier for her by what he had done. During several days her father from time to time repeated his questions.
“I hope that you are in an altered frame of mind, Katharine,” he said. “This perpetual obstinacy on the part of my child is very painful to me.”
“I might say something of the same kind,” Katharine answered. “It’s painful—as you choose to call it—to me, to be questioned again and again about a thing I won’t speak of. Why will you do it? You seem to think that I hold my tongue out of sheer eccentricity, just to annoy you. Is that what you think? If so, you’re very much mistaken.”
“It’s the only possible explanation of your undutiful conduct. I repeat that I’m very much pained by your behaviour.”
“Look here, papa!” cried Katharine, turning upon him suddenly. “Don’t drag in the question of duty. It’s one’s duty to keep a secret when one’s heard it—whether one wanted to hear it or not. There’s no reason in the world why I should repeat to you what uncle Robert told me—any more than why I should go and tell Charlotte, or Hester Crowdie, or anybody else.”
“Katharine!” exclaimed Alexander Junior, sternly, “you are very impertinent.”
“Because I tell you what I think my duty is? I’m sorry you should think so. And besides, sinceyou seem so very anxious that I should betray a secret, I’m afraid that it wouldn’t be very safe with you.”
Alexander Junior did not wince under the cut. He was firmly persuaded that he was in the right.
“If you were not a grown-up woman, I should send you to your room,” he said, coldly.
“Yes, I realize the advantage of being grown up,” answered Katharine, with contempt.
“But I shall not tolerate this conduct any longer,” continued Alexander Junior. “I will not be defied by my own daughter.”
“Charlotte defied you for twenty years,” replied Katharine, “and she’s not half as strong as I am. And I never defied you, and I don’t now. That’s not the way I should put it. I’m not so dramatic, and as long as I won’t,—why, I won’t, that’s all,—and there’s no need of calling it defiance, nor by any other big name.”
Alexander was a cold man, and it was not likely that he should lose his temper again as he had when he had walked home with her from Robert Lauderdale’s. He began to recognize that in the matter of imposing his will forcibly, he had met his match. He had generally succeeded in dominating those with whom he came into close relations in life, but his hard and freezing exterior had contributed more to the effect than his intellectual gifts. Finding that his personality failed to producethe usual result, he temporized, for he was not good at sharp answers.
“There’s no denying the fact,” he said, “that uncle Robert has told you about his will. Can you deny that?”
The latter question is a terrible weapon, and is the favourite one of dull persons when dealing with truthful ones, because it is so easily used and so effective. Katharine was familiar with it, and knew that her father had few others, and none so strong. She met it in the approved fashion, which is as good as any, though none are satisfactory.
“That’s an absurd question,” she answered. “You’ve made up your mind beforehand, and nothing I could say would make you change it. If I denied that uncle Robert had told me anything about his will, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Certainly not!” replied Alexander, falling into the trap like a school-boy.
“Then it’s clear that nothing I can say can make you change your mind—in other words, that you’re prejudiced,” said Katharine, in cool triumph. “And as that’s undeniable, from your own words, I don’t see that it’s of the slightest use to ask me questions.”
Her father bit his clean-shaven upper lip and frowned severely.
“I don’t know where you get such sophistries from!” he answered, in impotent arrogance. “Unlessit’s that Mr. Griggs who teaches you,” he added, taking a new line of aggression.
“Why do you say ‘that’ Mr. Griggs, as though he were an adventurer or a fool?” enquired Katharine, arching her black brows.
“Because I suspect him of being both,” answered Alexander Junior, jumping at the suggestion with an affectation of keenness.
Katharine laughed.
“That’s too absurd, papa! You’d have said just the same thing if I’d said ‘murderer’ and ‘thief.’ You know as well as I do that Mr. Griggs is a distinguished man,—I didn’t say that he was a great genius,—who has got where he is by hard work and good work. He’s no more of an adventurer than you are.”
“I’ve heard strange stories of his youth, which I shall certainly not repeat to you,” answered Alexander, snapping his lips in the fine consciousness of his own really unimpeachable virtue.
One proverb, at least, is true, amidst many high-sounding, conventional lies. Virtue is emphatically its own reward. The scorn of those who possess it for those who do not, proves the fact beyond all doubt.
“I’m not going to discuss Mr. Griggs, and I don’t want to hear about his youth,” answered Katharine. “You’ve taken an unreasonable dislike for him, and there’s no necessity for your meeting any oftener than you please.”
“Fortunately, no—there’s no necessity. I should be sorry to associate with such men, and I regret very much that you should choose your friends amongst them. Since you’ve announced your intention of defying me and disregarding all my wishes, we’ll say no more about that for the present. Perhaps I shall find means to bring you to reason which will surprise you. In the meantime, I consider that you are acting very unwisely in refusing to communicate what you know about the will.”
“Possibly—but I’m willing to abide by my mistake,” answered Katharine, calmly.
“It is of course certain,” continued her father, “that a very large sum of money will come to us when my uncle Robert dies—some day. Let us hope that it may be long before that happens.”
“By all means, let’s hope so,” observed Katharine.
“Don’t interrupt me, Katharine. You can at least show me the common courtesy of listening to what I say, whatever position you may choose to take up against me. As I was saying, a great deal of money will come to some of us. We do not know exactly how much it will be, though I’ve no doubt that you’re acquainted with all the details. But I admit that you can’t possibly appreciate how important it is for us all to know how this great fortune is to be disposed of, and who hasbeen selected as the administrator. The happiness of many persons, the safety of the fortune itself, depend upon these things being known in time.”
“I don’t see what they can have to do with the safety of the fortune. Houses don’t run away. I’ve often heard you say that uncle Robert has everything in houses. I suppose one person will get one house and another will get another.”
“I’m not here to explain the principle of business to you,” said Alexander. “Those are things you can’t understand. The death of a man of such immense wealth necessarily affects public affairs and the market, even if his fortune is largely in real estate. It is a security to the world at large to feel that a proper person has succeeded in the management of the estate.”
“I suppose that uncle Robert understands that, too,” observed Katharine.
“In a way, of course—yes, in a certain way he must, I’ve no doubt. But these great men never seem to realize what will happen when they die.”
“You speak of uncle Robert’s death as though you expected to hear of it this evening. He’s almost quite well.”
Again Alexander Junior bit his lip. He had, perhaps, never before been so conscious that when his personality failed to produce the effect he desired, his intelligence had no chance of accomplishing anything unaided.
“This is intolerable!” he exclaimed, with profound disgust. “Since you can be neither decently civil nor in any way reasonable, I shall leave you to think over your conduct.”
This is a threat which rarely inspires terror in the offender. Katharine did not wish to go too far, and received the announcement in silence, sincerely hoping that he would really go away and leave her to herself. Such scenes occurred almost every day, and she was weary of them,—not more so, perhaps, than Alexander was of perpetual defeat. She could not understand why he was so persistent, for it seemed to her that she showed him plainly enough how determined she was to keep silence. His reproof did not affect her in the least, for she knew she was right. She wondered, indeed, from time to time, that a man so undoubtedly upright as he was should so press her to betray a confidence, when he had all his life preached to her about the value of reticence and discretion, and she rightly attributed his conduct to his excessive anxiety for the money, overriding even his rigid principles. She had often admired him, merely for that very rigidity, which appealed to her as being masculine and strong. She despised him the more when she had discovered that the only motive able to bend the stiff back of his scrupulous theory and practice was the love of money, pure and simple. She did not believe thathe would have so derogated to save her life. The very arrogance of his manner showed how far he knew himself to be from his own ideal. He was trying to carry it through as a matter of right.
Katharine longed to confide in John Ralston. He was not so free as he had been in his idle days, a few months earlier. Having accepted a position, he was determined to do his best, and he stayed down town every day as long as there was the least possibility of finding anything which he could do in the bank.
Not long after the last-recorded interview with Katharine, Alexander Junior, being down town, had some reason to speak of a matter of business with the senior partner in Beman Brothers’, and entered the bank early in the afternoon. It was a vast establishment on the ground floor, a few steps above the level of the street. Being a place where there was much going and coming and active work, the office had not the air of icily polished perfection which characterized the inner fane of the Trust Company. The counters and seats were dark, and rubbed smooth with use, like the floor; the doors were worn with constant handling, but moved easily and noiselessly on their hinges. The brass gratings and rails were bright with long years of daily leathering. Everything was large, strong, and workmanlike, as a big engine, which is well kept but gets very little rest. There was the low,breathing, softly shuffling sound in the air, which is heard where many are busy and no one speaks a superfluous word.
Alexander Lauderdale passed through the great outer office and caught sight of John Ralston, bending over some writing at a small desk by himself. Ralston was at that time between five and six and twenty years of age, a wiry, lean young man, with a dark face. There was more restlessness than strength in the expression, perhaps, but there was no lack of energy, a quality which, when it does not find vent in a congenial activity, is apt to produce a look of discontent. Possibly, too, there might be a dash of Indian blood in the Ralston family. There was certainly none in the Lauderdales. John’s bright brown eyes were turned upon his work, as Alexander passed near him, but glanced up quickly a moment later and saw him. A look of contempt darkened the young man’s features like a shadow, and was instantly gone again. The two men had not exchanged half a dozen words in eighteen months. The brown eyes went back to the page, and the sinewy, nervous hand went on writing, and the straight, smooth hair on the top of Ralston’s head, as he bent over the desk, became again the most prominent object, for its extreme blackness, in that part of the office.
Alexander Junior was ushered into the elder Mr. Beman’s private room, by a grave young man in ajacket with gilt buttons. The name of Lauderdale was a passport in any place of business in the city.
“By the way,” he said, after exchanging a few words about the matter which had brought him there, “you’ve taken back that young cousin of ours, Jack Ralston. How’s the fellow getting on?”
“Ralston? Oh, yes—Mr. Lauderdale wanted him to try again—yes—well, he’s doing pretty well, I’m told. But they tell me he can’t do anything, though he wants to. Praiseworthy, though, very praiseworthy, to try and work, when he’s sure to have plenty of money one of these days. I like the boy myself,” added Mr. Beman, with slightly increasing interest. “He’s got some good in him, somewhere, I’ll be bound.”
“Does he keep pretty steady?” enquired Alexander Junior. “You knew he drank, I suppose?”
“Drinks!” exclaimed Mr. Beman, rather incredulously. “Nonsense—don’t believe it.”
Mr. Beman hated society, and spent many of his leisure hours in a club chiefly frequented by old gentlemen.
“Oh, no! It’s quite true, I assure you. I thought you knew, or I wouldn’t have mentioned it—being a relation. I hope he won’t make a fool of himself, now that he’s with you. Good morning.”
“Good morning, my dear Lauderdale,” answered the banker, cordially shaking hands.
Alexander left the bank and returned to his own office, questioning himself by the way concerning the right and wrong side of what he had just done, in undermining whatever confidence Mr. Beman might have in John Ralston. By dint of moral exertion, he succeeded in inducing his Scotch business instinct to admit that it was fair to warn an old friend if the habits of a young man he had lately taken into employment were not exactly what they should be. He resolutely closed his eyes to the fact that he had waited several days, until something had required that he should see the banker, in order to ask the careless question, and that, during all that time, Katharine’s obstinacy had rankled in his brooding temper like an unreturned blow. He did not wish to think, either, that he had perpetrated a small act of indirect vengeance. He was very intent upon being conscientious—it would not do even to remember that any under-thoughts had floated through his brain beneath the current which he desired to see.
It was easy enough to forget it all, by merely allowing his mind to turn again to the question of his uncle’s millions. That subject had a fascination which never palled. If he is to be excused at all for this and many other things which he subsequently did, his excuse must be stated now, or never.
Let this one fact be remembered, for the sake ofhis humanity. He had spent the best years of his life in the inner office of a great Trust Company. That alone explains many things. Having originally been in moderate circumstances, he had been brought into daily contact for a long period with the process of hoarding money. He had seen how sums, originally insignificant, doubled and trebled themselves, and grew to fair dimensions by the simplest of all means,—by being kept locked up. He had not been by nature grasping, nor covetous of the goods of others in any inordinate degree, but he had that inborn craving for the actual money itself, for seeing it and touching it, and knowing where it is, which makes one small boy ask his father for a penny ‘to put by the side of the other,’ while his brother spends his mite on a sugar-plum, eats it, and runs off to play. Day by day, month by month, year by year, he had seen that putting of one penny by the side of the other going on under his eyes and personal supervision. It had been his duty to see that the pennies stayed where they were put. It is not strange that, with his temperament, he should have done for himself what he did for others. And with the doing of it came the habit of secrecy, which belongs to the miser’s passion, the instinctive denial of the possession, the mechanical and constantly recurring avowal of an imaginary poverty. All that came as surely as the dream of countless gold, to becounted forever and ever, with the absolute certainty of never reaching the end, and as the nightmare of the empty safe, more real and terrible than the live horror of the waking man who comes home and finds that the wife he loves has left him.
He knew that hideous scene by heart. It visited him sometimes with no apparent cause. He knew how in the night—he always dreamed that it happened at night—he went to his own box in the Safe Deposit Vault, his own familiar box, as in reality he went regularly twice in every week. He felt the thrill of secret, heart-warming anticipation as he came near to it. His heart began to beat as it always did then, and only then, giving him a queer, breathless sensation which he loved, and that peculiar thirsty dryness in the throat. He turned the key, he pressed the spring, and out it came against his greedy, trembling hand—empty. At that point he awoke, clutching at the thin, tough chain by which the real key hung about his neck. His worst fear for years had been to dream that dream—his highest pleasure had been to go, after dreaming it, and find it false, the drawer full, all safe, the good United States Bonds filed away in dockets of a hundred thousand dollars each, untouched and unfingered.
He knew the fascination, the dumb horror, the soul-uplifting delight of a great passion, of onewhich is said to be the last and greatest, if not the worst, that plays the devil’s music on the wrung heartstrings of men. That is his only excuse for what he did. Dares humanity allege its humanity in extenuation of its humanity?
BeforeJohn Ralston had gone back to Beman Brothers’, it had been easy enough for him and Katharine to meet in the course of the day, but the difficulties had increased unavoidably of late. Of course they saw each other in society, and as members of the same tribe they were often asked to the same parties, though that was by no means a matter of certainty. It was necessary to have a fixed understanding which should enable them to be sure of meeting and communicating with one another, and of knowing from day to day whether the next meeting were positively certain or not. John’s hour for going down town was fixed, but the time of his returning was not. That depended on the amount of work there chanced to be for him at the bank,—sometimes more, sometimes less.
The habits of the Lauderdale household in Clinton Place were also very exact. Alexander Junior took charge, as it were, of the day, as soon as it appeared, and doled it out in portions. Breakfast was at half past eight, and he expected his wife and daughter to make their appearance in time tosee him at least finish the solid steak or brace of chops with which he fortified himself for work. His father always came down late, in order to be able to smoke as soon as he had finished eating, without annoying any one, for the old man seemed to subsist largely upon tobacco smoke and fresh milk—which is a strange mixture, but not unhealthy for those who are accustomed to it. That he smoked ‘Old Virginia Cheroots’ at two cents each, was his misfortune and not his fault. Practically he lived upon his son, for he had long ago given away everything he possessed, and even the old house had passed into Alexander’s hands—for a very moderate equivalent, which the philanthropist had already spent in advance upon the introduction of a new heating apparatus in his favourite asylum. Alexander Junior supplied him with the necessaries of life, and by almost imperceptible degrees of change had at last substituted the cheroots for the fine Havanas to which his father had been addicted in his comparative prosperity. From time to time the old man made a mild remark about the deterioration of cigars. The observations of his friends, after smoking one of his, were less mild. Alexander Senior attributed the change to the McKinley Bill. Alexander Junior did not smoke. He left the house every morning at a quarter past nine, before the fumigation had begun.
Katharine had always been free to go out for awalk alone in the early hours since she had been considered to be grown up, and she took advantage of the privilege now in order to meet John Ralston. He was expected to be at the bank at half past nine, and, as it was near the Rector Street Station, he could calculate his time with precision if he found himself near a station of the elevated road.
He and Katharine had a simple system of signals. John came down to Clinton Place by the Sixth Avenue elevated, and got out at the corner. Thence he walked past the Lauderdales’ house to Fifth Avenue, and crossed Washington Square to South Fifth Avenue, by which he reached the Bleecker Street Station of the elevated railway. The usual place of meeting was on the south side of the Square. If Katharine were coming that morning there was something red in her window, a bit of ribbon, a red fan, or anything she chanced to pick up of the required colour. John could see it at a glance. He, on his part, let fall a few seeds or grains on the well-swept lower step of the house as he passed, to show that he had gone by. The convention was that the signal should consist of any kind of seed or grain. If, when she went out, there was nothing on the step, which very rarely happened, Katharine went back into the house and waited, easily finding an excuse if any one remarked her return, by alleging a mismatched pair of gloves, or a forgotten parasol or umbrella.
The system worked perfectly. Two or three grains of wheat, or rice, or rye, a couple of peppercorns, a little millet, varied daily, according to the supply John had in his pockets, and dropped near one end of the step, were all that was required, for it was rarely that more than a few minutes elapsed between their being deposited there and the moment when Katharine saw them. Generally, the sparrows had got them before any one else came out. The only person who ever noticed the frequent presence of seeds of some kind on the doorstep was the old philanthropist, who made illogical reflections upon the habits of the birds that brought them there, as he naturally supposed.
With regard to the place of meeting, the two changed it from time to time, or from day to day, as they thought best. Their minutes were counted, as John could not afford to be late at Beman Brothers’, and sometimes they only exchanged a few words, agreeing to meet in the evening, or, since the spring had come, after John’s business hours. Hitherto, they believed that none of their acquaintances had seen them, and they believed that none ever would. There seemed to be no reason why people they knew should be wandering in the purlieus and slums about South Fifth Avenue and Green Street, for instance, at nine o’clock in the morning. A few women in society patronized the little foreign shop in the Avenue, near theSquare, where artificial flowers were made, but if they ever went there themselves, it was much later in the day.
They met on the morning after Alexander Junior had spoken to Mr. Beman about John. The latter was standing before the church on the south side of Washington Square, puffing at the last end of a cigarette, when he saw Katharine’s figure, clad, as usual, in grey homespun, emerging from one of the walks which ended opposite to him. The colour came a little to her face as she caught sight of him.
She walked quickly, and began to speak before she reached him.
“Oh Jack! I do so want to see you!” She held out her hand as he lifted his hat.
Their hands remained clasped a second longer, perhaps, than if they had been mere acquaintances, and their eyes were still meeting when their hands had parted.
“Yes—so do I,” answered Ralston, with small regard for grammar. “You look tired, dear. What is it?”
“It’s this life—I don’t know how much longer I can stand it,” answered Katharine, and they began to walk on.
“Has anything happened? Has your father been teasing you again?” John asked, quickly.
“Oh, yes! He leaves me no peace. It’s a succession of pitched battles whenever we meet. He’s made up his mind to know what uncle Robert said to me, and I’ve made up mine that he shan’t. What can I do? Why, Jack, I wouldn’t even tell you!”
“I don’t want to know,” answered Ralston. “Uncle Robert isn’t going to die for twenty years, and I hope he may live thirty. Of course, when he dies, if we’re alive, we shall have heaps of money all round, and your father and grandfather will probably get the biggest shares. But there’ll be plenty for us all. Your father seems to me to have lost his head about it.”
“He really has. It’s the same thing every day. He tells me that I’m all kinds of things—undutiful, and impertinent, and intolerable—altogether a perfect fiend, according to him. Then he threatens me—”
“Threatens you?” repeated John, with a quick frown and a change of tone. “He’d better not!”
“Well—he says that he’ll find means to make me speak, and that sort of thing. I don’t see myself what means he has at his command, I’m sure. I suppose when he’s angry he doesn’t know what he’s saying. So I try to smile—but I don’t like it.”
“I should think not! But as you say, he can’t really do anything except talk. He’s permanently angry, though. He came into the bank yesterday and passed near me. I saw his face.”
John added no comment, but his tone expressed well enough what he felt.
“I know,” answered Katharine. “He always has that expression now,—one only used to see it now and then,—as though he meant to have something, if he had to kill somebody to get it. It’s the strangest thing! He, who has always preached to me about keeping the secret of other people’s confidence! It’s perfectly incomprehensible! It’s as though his whole nature had suddenly changed.”
“He’s wild to know how much he’s to have,” observed John, thoughtfully. “It attacked him when they expected uncle Robert to die. And now that he knows that you know, he means to wring it out of you. I hate him. I should like to wring his neck.”
“Jack!”
“Oh, well—of course he’s your father, and I’m very sorry for expressing myself—all the same—” he finished his sentence inwardly. “At all events, he’s got to treat you properly, or I shall interfere. This can’t go on, you know.”
“You, Jack dear? What could you do?”
“What could I do? Take you away from him, of course. I’m your husband. Don’t forget that, Katharine.”
“No, dear—I’m not likely to. But still—I don’t see—nothing’s changed, you know. The difficulties are just the same as they ever were.”
“Yes. But the reasons are different. I can’t allow you to suffer. You know that after all that trouble last winter my mother insisted on making over half the property to me. Of course things go on just as they did, and we share everything. But I’ve got it all the same—six thousand a year, if I choose to call it my own. The reason why we don’t tell everybody that we’re married is, first, because it would make such an incredible row in the family, and secondly, because, as my mother and I have so little between us, she would have to reduce ever so many things if we set up at housekeeping with her, until I can make something. As long as you’re happy at home, that’s all very well. We’re young enough to wait six months or a year, though we don’t like it, and I’m going in for earning the respect of the Beman Brethren—they’re really awfully nice to me, I must say. Anything more ignorant than I am you can’t imagine!”
“Never mind, Jack—you’re learning, at all events,” said Katharine, in an encouraging tone. “And I know, dear—I know how you care for me, and how brave you are to wait for the sake of what’s nice to your mother—”
“Oh, don’t talk of courage! It’s what I ought to have done long ago, if I hadn’t been a born loafer and idiot. But if things are going to be different since your beloved father has got this idea into his head, if he’s going to torment youperpetually, and make your life a burden, and call you bad names out of the prayer-book—that sort of thing, you know—why, then, we must just do it, that’s all—just face the row, and the economies, and all, and you must come to my mother’s.”
“But, Jack—just think of what would happen—”
“Well—just think what’s happening now. It’s much worse, I’m sure, and if it’s going to last, I shall just do it. My mother always says that she wishes we could be married. Well—we are married. There’s nothing to be done but to tell her so. Besides, for her part, she’d be delighted. You don’t know her! She’s just like a man in some things. She’d put up with anything—boiled beef and cabbage, and a horse-car fare on Sundays by way of an outing. Only, of course, if it can possibly be helped, I don’t want her to have to pinch and screw about her gloves, and her cabs, and the little things she likes and has had all her life. That’s why I’m working. If I could only get a salary of two thousand a year, we could manage. I’ve figured it all out—it’s just that two thousand that would make the difference—it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“It’s worse,” said Katharine. “It’s abominable.”
“Yes—it’s everything you like—or don’t like, rather. But if you’re going to suffer, we must doas I say. I’ll tell you how we’ll manage it. You’ll just go up to our house some morning about ten o’clock, and go out of town with my mother for a few days. I’ll get a holiday from Beman’s, and I’ll go and see your mother and tell her, and then I’ll go down town and face your father. His office is a nice, quiet place, I believe. He’s nothing much to do but to be trusted, and he sits all day long by himself in the company’s showcase, and people trust him. That’s his profession. He represents the moral side of business. Once I’ve told him, I’ll disappear for a while,—going to you, of course,—and we three will come back together and tell the world that we’ve been quietly married—which is quite true. Lots of people do that nowadays to get out of the expense and fuss of a dress parade wedding. How does that strike you?”