Mrs.Lauderdalewas indignant. Katharine, at least, had been able to see the ludicrous side of the situation, and had laughed to herself on finding that she was locked in. Less conventional than either her father or mother, it had occurred to her for a moment that she was acting a part in an amusing comedy. The idea that by one or two absurd phrases she had so irritated Alexander as to make him forget his dignity and his common sense together, and do a thoroughly foolish thing such as a child in a passion might do, was funny in the extreme, she thought. But Mrs. Lauderdale, being called in, as it were, after the play, thought the result very poor fun indeed. In her opinion, her husband had done a senseless thing, in the worst possible taste.
Fortunately the house was an old one, and the simple, old-fashioned lock was amenable to keys which did not belong to it. In due time, Mrs. Lauderdale found one which served the purpose, and Katharine was set at liberty.
“This is just a little more than I can bear,” she said, as her mother entered the room. “I didn’t expect this sort of thing last night when I said I wouldn’t go to uncle Robert’s. Really—papa’s losing his head.”
“I must say, it’s going rather far,” admitted Mrs. Lauderdale.
“It’s gone a great deal too far,” Katharine answered. “I laughed when I found I was locked in. It seemed so funny. But I won’t let him do it again.”
“You two have a faculty for irritating each other that’s beyond anything,” observed Mrs. Lauderdale. “It really would be much better if you could be separated for a little while. My dear, what do you suppose could happen, if you went to uncle Robert’s?”
“Just what I told you yesterday. Papa would be quite bland when I came home again. By that time he could have got over his rage, and he’d want to know things—oh, well! I won’t talk about all that. It only hurts you, and it can’t do any good, can it? Hadn’t I better go up to uncle Robert’s and ask if he can have me? Meanwhile, Jane could pack a few things—just what I need to-day—I can always come down, or send down, and get anything I want at a moment’s notice. Shan’t I, mother? What do you think?”
“Well—I don’t quite know, child. Of course I ought not to, but then if I don’t—” She paused, conscious of vagueness. “If I don’t let you go,”she continued, “there’ll be worse trouble before long. This is an impossible position, we know, and if you went to Washington, I’m sure he’d go down on Sunday and bring you back. It was very clever of you to think of going to uncle Robert’s.”
“I could go to the Crowdies’,” said Katharine, meditatively. “Of course, Hester’s my best friend, but I do hate her husband so—I can’t help it.”
Walter Crowdie was a distinguished young painter, whose pale face and heavy, red mouth were unaccountably repulsive to Katharine, and, in a less degree, to her mother also. Mrs. Crowdie was Hamilton Bright’s sister, and therefore a distant cousin.
“And papa might insist on bringing me back from there, too. There are lots of reasons against it. Besides—Hamilton—”
“What about Hamilton?” asked Mrs. Lauderdale.
“Oh, nothing! Mother—I don’t want to do violent things and make a fuss, and all that, you know—but if you agree, and think it’s sensible, I will go up and ask uncle Robert if I may stay a few days. You can see, yourself, that all this can’t go on much longer.”
In her resentment of her father’s behaviour, she felt quite reconciled with her mother, and Mrs. Lauderdale was glad as she realized the fact. There was an underthought in her mind, too,which was perhaps not altogether so creditable. Though it was only to be for a few days, Katharine was to be away from her. She, was to have a breathing space from the temptation which tormented her. For a little while she should be herself again, not contrasted, at every turn of her daily life, with that terrible bloom which ever outshone the fading flower of her own beauty. That was her dream. If she could but be supremely beautiful still for one short month—that was all she asked—after that, she would submit to time, and give up the pride of life, and never complain again. She would not have acknowledged to herself that this was a motive, for she honestly did her best to fight her sin; but it was there, nevertheless, and influenced her to agree the more readily to Katharine’s absence. It counteracted, indeed, the anxiety she felt about her husband’s view of the case when he should return from his office late in the afternoon; but her instinct told her, also, that he might very probably be a little ashamed of what he had done, and be secretly glad of the solution unexpectedly offered him.
Katharine got ready to go in a few minutes. As she put on her hat and gloves, she glanced two or three times at the bit of red ribbon that lay on her toilet-table. She had taken down the signal from the window on the previous evening, in order to inform John Ralston that she could not come thatmorning. On the whole, she was glad that she could not see him, for it would be hard to conceal from him what had happened. She would send him a message down town, and he could see her, undisturbed, at their uncle’s house in the afternoon—more freely there than anywhere else, indeed, since Robert Lauderdale was in the secret of the clandestine marriage.
Before she left the house, Mrs. Lauderdale laid her hands upon the girl’s shoulders and looked into her eyes with an anxious expression.
“Katharine, dear,” she said, “don’t ever let yourself think such things as you said yesterday afternoon.”
“What things, mother?”
“About not believing—you know. You didn’t mean what you said, darling, of course—and I’m not preaching to you. You know I promised long ago that I would never talk about religion to you children, nor influence you. I’ve kept my word. But this is different. Religion—well, we don’t all agree in this world. But God—God’s for everybody, just the same, dear. But then,” she added, quickly, “I know you didn’t really mean what you said. Only keep the thought away, when it comes.”
Katharine said nothing, but she nodded gravely and kissed her mother on both cheeks. At the last moment, as she was going to the door, she stopped and turned back.
“I’m awfully sorry to bother you, mother dear,” she said, “but I’ve got no money—not even twenty-five cents. Could you give me something? I don’t like to be out with nothing at all in my pocket.”
The deprecating tone, the real, earnest regret at being obliged to ask for even such a trifle, told the tale of what had gone on in the house, unknown to the world, for years, far better than any words could have done.
“Of course, child—I always have something, you know,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, promptly. “Here are ten dollars.”
“Oh—I don’t want so much!” cried Katharine. “I’m not going to buy anything—it’s only for horse-cars, and things like that. Give me a dollar and a little change, if you have it.”
But Mrs. Lauderdale insisted that she should take the note.
“I don’t want you to go to uncle Robert’s without a penny in your pocket. It looks like poor relations.”
“Well—you’re always generous, mother,” answered the young girl, with a little laugh. “But it’s papa’s relation, and not yours.”
“I know, dear—I know. But it makes no difference.”
As Katharine had anticipated, Robert Lauderdale was very glad to see her. He was sitting inhis library, into which the sun streamed through the high windows, one of which was partly opened to let in the spring freshness.
She thought he looked ill. He had not recovered from the effects of his illness so quickly as Doctor Routh had expected, owing to a certain weakness of the heart, natural enough at his age and after enduring so severe a strain. His appetite had never returned, and he was thin in the body and almost wasted in the face. If anything, Katharine thought he looked worse than when she had last seen him a few days previously. But he welcomed her with a cheery smile, and she sat down beside him.
“Come to pay me a little visit?” His voice was oddly hollow. “That’s right! I wish you’d stay with me a few days again. But then, you’re too gay, I suppose.”
“Not at all too gay,” laughed Katharine. “That’s exactly what I want to do, and why I came at this hour. I wanted to ask if you’d have me for a week, and then, if you would, I was going to send for my things. And now you’ve spoken first, and I accept. My things are all ready,” she added, still smiling. “You see, I knew you’d let me come.”
“Of course, little girl!” answered the old man, his sunken eyes fixing themselves wistfully on her young face. “Ring for Leek and tell him to send a man down at once.”
“Oh—there’s no hurry about it. I made myself as beautiful as I could before starting—but I want to dazzle you at dinner. You sit up for dinner, don’t you? How are you, uncle, dear? Better?”
“Yes—yes,” he answered, slowly. “I suppose I’m better. But it’s slow work. Yes, I sit up for dinner. It makes the days shorter. They’re so long. You look pale, my dear. What’s the matter? Too much dancing? Too much flirting? Or what?”
“I never flirt, uncle Robert!” Katharine laughed again.
“Well, then, it’s time you began, and you’d better begin at once—with me.”
And the old gentleman laughed, too, a queer hollow laugh that seemed to come from his backbone, with a rattle in it. And he laid two of his great bony fingers against the young girl’s pale, fresh cheek—as though death played with life, and would like to kiss it.
So they chatted pleasantly together in the morning sunshine amongst the grand old books which the rich man had collected about him. Katharine had no intention of telling him what had happened in Clinton Place, if she could help it. Uncle Robert did not seem to require any reason for her sudden determination to pay him a visit, as she had done before on more than one occasion. Hewas glad enough to have her, whatever her reasons might be.
Katharine breathed the atmosphere of freedom and revived. The certainty that for several days, at least, the perpetual contest with her father was not to be renewed, brought colour to her cheeks and light to her eyes. But as the time wore on towards the hour for luncheon, and she came and went, and alternately talked with the old man and read aloud to him a little and sat in silence, watching his face, the conviction came over her that he could never get back his strength. The vitality was gone out of him, and he had grown listless. She could not tell whether he might live much longer, or not, but she felt that he had lost something which he could never regain.
“You feel stronger, don’t you?” she asked, in an encouraging tone.
He did not answer at once, but looked at her affectionately and dreamily.
“Don’t be worried about me, dear girl,” he said, at last. “I’m doing very well.”
“No, but really—” Katharine’s face took an anxious expression.
“Really?” he repeated, looking at her still. Then his head fell back against the dark red cushion. “I’m not dead yet,” he said, quietly. “But it’s coming—it’s coming by inches.”
“Don’t say that!”
But she knew it was true, and she began to talk of other things. He, however, seemed inclined to come back to the subject of his failing strength.
“I should be better if they didn’t bother me,” he said. “They keep coming to see whether I’m alive, and sending messages to enquire. Confound them!” he exclaimed, with a momentary return of energy. “They couldn’t send more flowers if the undertaker were in the house! What does an old fellow like me want of flowers, I should like to know? They may turn my grave into a flower show if they like, when I’m tucked away in it, but I wish they’d leave me alone till I am!”
“Who are they?” asked Katharine, with some curiosity.
“The tribe, as you call the family. Your mother’s one. Didn’t she tell you she sent me flowers?”
“No—I’ll tell her not to.”
“Don’t do that, little girl. You just let her alone. If she were the only one—I shouldn’t care. I wouldn’t hurt her feelings for anything, you know—and then, it means something when she sends them, because she works for them and earns the money. But why the dickens the three Miss Miners should think it necessary to send me American Beauties in cardboard boxes, I can’t conceive. They’re comfortably off enough, now, but that’s no reason, and they can’t stand theexpense of that sort of thing long. Perhaps they think it won’t last long. Of course it’s well meant. I made Beman give them a lift with some little stocks they had lying round, and he took an interest in the thing, I suppose, for I hear that they’re very comfortable—ten thousand a year amongst the four of them, with Frank—and I suppose he earns something with all his writings, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yes.The Centurygave him a hundred and fifty dollars for an article the other day. He was so pleased! You have no idea!”
“I daresay,” said the great millionaire, gravely. “Very nice, too—a hundred and fifty for one article. Well—he’s another. He sends me all he writes—there’s a heap of things on the table, there. That’s his corner, you know, because he’s the literary man of the family. And he scribbles me little notes with them. He’s rather humble about his work—for he says he’d really be glad if anything he turned out could help to pass the time for me. Well—it’s nice of him, I know. But it irritates me, somehow. As for that Crowdie, he’s the worst of the lot—as he’s the cleverest. By the bye, what day is to-day—Thursday, isn’t it?”
“Yes—it’s Thursday. Why?”
“Well—he’s coming before luncheon to-day. It appears that he’s painted a picture of you. Ithink you said something about it last winter, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I told you I was sitting to him. He painted it for Hester. She’s my great friend, you know.”
“Oh, yes—so she is—so she is! Well—that’s a singular thing, too. He said in his last note that it was for me.”
“Did he?” Katharine laughed. “You’d better take it, uncle dear—that is, if you want it. It’s a good picture.”
“Everything the young scoundrel does is good!” growled the old man. “Do you like him, child?”
“Like him! I perfectly loathe him—but I can’t tell why,” she added, in quick apology. “He’s always very kind.”
“I don’t see how Walter Crowdie can be kind to my niece,” said Robert Lauderdale, with rough pride. “Anyhow, he wants to get something out of me. So he’s bringing the picture to me this morning. I told you what I meant to do for them in my will. I don’t see why I should do anything. They’re rich, those people. She had money and he gets big prices, and I’ll do him the credit to say he’s industrious, at all events. He seems to be a good husband to Hester, too—isn’t he?”
“She adores him,” answered Katharine.
“Well—I suppose I’m like you. I can’t tell why I dislike the man, but I do. It’s a case of‘Doctor Fell.’ Yes—there’s Crowdie, and the Miners—even Ham Bright—he’s always enquiring and leaving cards! As for your father, he writes me long letters once a week, as though I were abroad, and he comes to see me every Sunday afternoon at four o’clock, rain or shine.”
“Oh—that’s where he goes!” cried Katharine. “I often wondered—he always disappears on Sunday afternoon.”
“Yes—he comes here and tells me what a solid thing the Trust Company is, and how he’s devoting his life to it, and sacrificing his chances of getting rich, so as to be useful. Oh, it’s very fine, I admit. But then, he never says anything about that money of his which he keeps put away. And I never say anything about it, either. What’s the use—it would only make him uncomfortable.”
“But you’re quite sure he has it, uncle Robert, aren’t you?” asked Katharine. “You’re not doing him an injustice?”
“Yes. I’ve seen it.”
“What—the money? I don’t understand.”
“I’ve seen the value of a million of money in United States Bonds, which were the property of your father,” answered the old man. “I won’t tell you how it happened, because a banker accidentally betrayed your father’s confidence. It was at the time of a conversion of bonds, two years ago. For some reason or other, Alexander—yourfather—couldn’t attend to it, or do it all himself. I don’t know why. Anyhow, he employed a banker confidentially, and I came to know the fact, and I saw the bonds. So that settles it. He’s not squandered a million on your clothes in the last two years, has he, little girl?”
“Hardly!” Katharine laughed. “But mightn’t it have been trust money, or something like that?”
“No. His name was there. He’s a careful man—your father. So it couldn’t have been a trust. Well—I was going through the list, wasn’t I? I haven’t half finished. There’s your grandfather. Sandy never had much sense when he was a boy. He was all heart. I suppose he knows I’m dying, and wants me to give my soul a lift in the shape of some liberal contributions to his charities. I wish you could see the piles of reports he sends, and letters without end—in his queer, shaky hand. ‘Dear old Bob; what’s a million, more or less, to you, and it would make ten thousand homes happy.’ That’s the sort of thing. Ten thousand idiots! Give them all a hundred dollars apiece—of course they’d be happy, for a week or two. Sandy forgets the headaches they’d have afterwards. He believes everything’s good, and everybody’s an angel, more or less disguised, but recognizable. Well—I suppose it’s better to be an optimist. They’re the happy people, after all.”
“Do you think so? I don’t know. People who are always happy can’t ever feel how happy they are sometimes, as unhappy people do. That’s what’s so nice about being sad—now and then, when one feels gay, the world’s a ball of sunshine. Haven’t you felt like that sometimes? I do.”
“Sometimes—sometimes,” repeated the old man, with a faint smile. “Not lately. I’ve had so many cares. Great wealth complicates the end of life, Katharine. You’ll be very rich. Remember that. Have your fortune settled so that it can be easily handled when you’re old. That’s what I’ve done, and it’s something, at all events. If I had to be picking up odds and ends and loose threads now, it would be harder than it is. And perhaps I’ve made a mistake. Perhaps it’s better to tell people just what they have to expect. People worry so! Now there are all the Miners’ rich relations, you know—the Thirlwalls and the Van De Waters, and all that set. I don’t know what they think, I’m sure. They’ve got heaps of money, and there’s no reason on earth why I should leave them a dollar. But they worry. Ruth Van De Water comes and brings flowers—always flowers—I make Leek take them away—I suppose he decorates the pantry with them—and she says her mother would so much like to take me to drive when it’s warmer. Why? What for? And one of the Thirlwalls sent me some cigars he’d brought from Havana with him, and old Mrs. Trehearne—the one who’s ‘old’ Mrs. Trehearne now, since her sister-in-law died—didn’t she toddle in the other day and say she wanted to talk about old times!—she’s another of those holy scarecrows that hang round death-beds. Now, she’s nothing on earth to expect of me. It’s sheer love of worry, I believe.”
“People may be fond of you for your own sake,” suggested Katharine. “You don’t know how nice you are! That is—when you like!”
“Well—I don’t know. It may be—but I doubt it. You see, I’ve had a good deal of experience in the way of being liked.”
“Has it been all a bad experience? You can’t tell me that nobody ever liked you for your own sake—never, at all. I shouldn’t believe it. The world can’t be all bad, right through.”
“Oh, no! I didn’t say that. And I suppose I shouldn’t say anything that looks like cynicism to you, child. Still, I must say there’s a good deal of personal interest in the affection a rich man gets. I used to hear that said when I was a boy, and there’s a good deal about it in old-fashioned books, but I didn’t believe it. It’s money that makes the world go, Katharine, my dear. It’s love for one year, perhaps, but it’s money all the other sixty-nine out of the seventy. I’ve seen a deal of money earned and squandered, and stolenand wasted in my time, and there’s no denying it—money’s the main object. It keeps the world going, and when it gets stuck in one place, as it has in my hands, there’s an attempt—a natural attempt, I suppose—to distribute it again. And if it doesn’t get distributed, there’s a howl of pain from all the relations. It’s natural—it’s natural—but it doesn’t make dying easier.”
“Don’t talk about dying, uncle dear—there’s no reason for—”
The door opened, and Leek, the butler, appeared.
“Mr. Crowdie asks if you’ll see him, sir,” he said. “He says he wrote that he was coming this morning, sir.”
“Yes—yes. I know. Show him in, Leek.” The butler disappeared. “I’m sorry we don’t like him,” added the old gentleman, with a rather weary smile. “But I want to see your picture. You said it was good?”
“Very.”
There was the short silence of expectancy which precedes the entry of a visitor, and then the door opened again and Crowdie came in. He was of average height, but ill made, slightly in-kneed and weak-shouldered, neither thin nor stout; pale, with a pear-shaped face and bright red lips, beautiful brown eyes and silky brown hair which was a little too long. His hands and feet were small—thehands being very white, with pointed fingers, and they looked soft. He dressed well.
“It’s so kind of you to let me come, sir,” he said, as he shook hands. “I hope you’re really better. Why, Miss Lauderdale, I didn’t expect to see you! How do you do?”
“Thanks—how do you do? I’m staying here, you know.”
Old Lauderdale pointed to a seat. He had shaken hands with the painter, but had not spoken.
“Yes,” he said, as Crowdie sat down, “as my niece is here, we can compare her with her portrait. I’m very much obliged to you for thinking of giving it to me, I’m sure. I hope you’ve brought it.”
Crowdie had grasped the situation at a glance.
“It was meant for my wife—she’s Miss Lauderdale’s most intimate friend, you know,” he said, with fine frankness. “But we consulted about it, and we decided that I should offer you this one and do another for her from the sketches I have. May I have it brought in? It’s rather a big thing, I’m afraid.”
“By all means, let’s see it,” said the old man, touching the bell at his elbow as Crowdie rose. “The men will bring it in all right—you needn’t go, Mr. Crowdie.”
Crowdie went towards the door, however, with an artist’s instinctive anxiety for the safety of hiswork, and while he was turned away Robert Lauderdale’s eyes met Katharine’s. They both smiled a little at the same moment, admiring the quick-witted ingenuity with which Crowdie had turned the difficulty of presenting the portrait to the old man while Katharine, to whom he had said that it was for her friend,—his wife,—sat looking on.
Two footmen, marshalled and directed by Leek, brought in the picture.
“Set it up on this arm-chair,” said Crowdie. “It will be quite steady—so—a little more to the light—the least bit the other way—that’ll do—thanks. Can you see it well?” he asked, turning to the other two.
“It’s a good picture, isn’t it?” asked Katharine, after they had both gazed at it in silence for a full minute.
“It’s wonderful!” exclaimed the old man, in genuine admiration. “It’s a great picture, Mr. Crowdie. I congratulate you—and myself—and the young lady here,” he added, laying his hand on Katharine’s arm as she sat beside him.
Crowdie was pleased. He knew very well, by long experience, when admiration was real and when it was feigned. Of late years, the true note had rarely failed in the chorus of approval. Whatever he might be as a man, he was a thorough artist, and a very good one, too.
“I’m so glad you like it yourself, Miss Lauderdale,” he said, coming nearer to her as he spoke. “That’s always a test.”
“Yes—I do like it. But—I suppose I ought not to criticise—ought I? I don’t know anything about it.”
“Oh, yes, you do. I should like to hear what you think. You’ve not seen it for two or three weeks, and then it was in the studio. You’ve got a new impression of it now. Tell me—won’t you?”
“Well—you don’t mind? Really not? Then I’ll tell you. I think you’ve put something of Hester into me. Look at it. Do you see it yourself?”
“No—frankly, I don’t,” answered Crowdie, but a change came over his face as he spoke—a mere shadow of amusement, a slight thickening of the heavy red lips.
“It’s in the eyes and the mouth,” continued Katharine. “I don’t know exactly what it is, but it reminds me of Hester in such an odd way—as I’ve seen her look sometimes. There’s a little sort of drawing down of the eyelids at the corners and up in the middle, with a kind of passionate, longing look she has now and then. Don’t you see it? And the mouth—I don’t know—it reminds me of her, too—the lips just parted a little—as though they wanted something—theway one looks at big strawberries on the table before they’re served—” Katharine laughed.
“Yes—but that’s just the way you looked,” protested Crowdie. “Doesn’t Miss Lauderdale raise her eyes just in that way, Mr. Lauderdale?” he asked, turning to the old gentleman.
“Oh, no!” laughed Katharine. “I never look like that. I keep my mouth shut and glare straight at people.”
“It seems to me to be very like,” said the old man, bending forward with his great head on one side and his hands on his knees, as he looked at the portrait.
“It’s a great picture, anyway—whether it’s like me or not,” said Katharine.
She was too unaffected to make any foolish remarks about being flattered too much. She accepted the fact that she was good-looking, and said nothing about it. Crowdie reflected for a moment, wishing to turn a graceful compliment upon her last speech, but he could think of nothing new. His mind was preoccupied by the discovery she had made of a fact by no means new to himself nor, perhaps, wholly unintentional.
“Where shall we hang it, Mr. Crowdie?” asked the old gentleman, at last.
“Ah—that’s an important question. Where should you like it, sir?”
Crowdie occasionally introduced a ‘sir’ whenhe addressed the millionaire, by way of hinting, perhaps, that he considered him to be the head of the family, though his only connection was through his wife, and that was a distant one. Hester Crowdie’s maternal great-grandfather had been Robert Lauderdale’s uncle.
“I should like it near me,” said the old man. “Couldn’t we have it in this room?”
“Why not? Just where it is, if you like it there. I’ll get you an easel and a bit of stuff to drape it with in an hour.”
“An easel? H’m—that’s not very neat, is it? An easel out in the middle of the room—I don’t know how that would look.”
“What difference does it make—if you’d like it here?” asked Katharine.
“That’s true, child—why shouldn’t I have what I like?” asked the old millionaire.
Crowdie laughed.
“If anybody has the right and the power to please himself, you have,” he said. “Miss Lauderdale, would you mind sitting down beside the picture for a moment? I want to have a good look at it once more—I should just like to see if I can find that resemblance to Hester.”
“Certainly.”
Katharine sat down, assuming easily enough the attitude she had been accustomed to during a number of sittings. Crowdie drew back andlooked at her. Then he came to her again and put out his hand towards her hair, but instantly withdrew it.
“I remember,” he said, quickly, but in a low voice. “You don’t like me to touch it. Would you raise your hair a little—on the sides? You know how it was.”
She looked up into his face and saw the expression she detested—a sort of disagreeable smile on the heavy red lips. The feeling of repulsion was so strong that she almost shivered. Crowdie drew back and looked again.
“I can’t see it—for the life of me!” said Crowdie, with a little laugh. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Lauderdale, I’ll go and get the easel at once.”
“Yes—do!” said Katharine.
“Well—but—won’t you stay to luncheon, Mr. Crowdie?” asked the old man.
“Thanks—I should like to—but I’ve got a sitter coming. You’re very kind. I’ll bring the easel myself.”
“Thank you very much. See you by and by, then,” answered Mr. Lauderdale.
When Crowdie was gone, the old man looked long and earnestly at the picture. Gradually what Katharine meant by the resemblance to Hester dawned upon him, and he knit his bushy white eyebrows.
“I’m sorry you told me,” he said, at last. “I see it now—what you mean—and I don’t like it.”
“Somehow—I don’t know—it looks like a woman who’s been through something—I don’t know exactly what. Perhaps it is like an older woman—a married woman.”
“H’m—perhaps so. I think it is. Anyhow, I don’t like it.”
Itwas the habit of Robert Lauderdale, since he had been ill, to rest two hours before dinner, a fact of which Katharine was well aware, and she had sent a message to John Ralston begging him to come and see her when he came up town after business hours. But she did not mean to let him come without informing the old gentleman. Before he retired to his room late in the afternoon, she spoke to him about it.
“Of course, of course, my dear,” he answered quickly, in his hollow voice. “He may spend the day here, if he likes—and if you like.”
“Well, you see,” said Katharine, “I’ve not seen him since yesterday morning. You know, since he’s been going regularly to business, he’s not free in the daytime as he used to be. And as for letting him come to Clinton Place when papa’s at home, it’s simply out of the question.”
“Is it? Do you mean to say it’s as bad as that?”
“Yes—it’s pretty bad,” Katharine answered, thoughtfully. “We’ve not been getting on very well, papa and I. That’s why I came to you sosuddenly to-day, without warning. My mother thought it would be better.”
“Oh—she did, did she?” The old man closed his eyes, as though thinking it over. “And she’s generally a peacemaker,” he continued, after a moment. “That’s a sign that she thinks the situation strained, as the politicians say. What’s happened, little girl?”
“I don’t want to tell you all the details. It’s a long story, and wouldn’t interest you. But they got it into their heads that I ought to marry Mr. Wingfield—you know—Archie Wingfield—the beauty—and of course I refused him. That was yesterday afternoon. And then—oh, I don’t know—there was a scene, and papa got angry, and so this morning after he’d gone down town I consulted with my mother and came here. I only wanted you to know—that’s all.”
The old gentleman was silent for some time after she had finished speaking.
“I wish you’d induce Jack to stay here, and announce your marriage under my roof,” he said at last, in a low voice. “I’d like to see it all settled before—Katharine, child, feel my pulse, will you?”
Katharine started a little, and leaned forward quickly, and laid her firm white fingers on the bony wrist.
“Can you find it?” he asked, rather anxiously.
“No—yes—wait a moment—don’t speak!” She held her breath, her eyes fixed upon his grey face as she pressed the point where she thought the pulse should be. “Yes—there it is!” she exclaimed suddenly, in a tone of relief. “It’s all right, uncle Robert, only I couldn’t find it at first. I can feel it quite distinctly now. Does it always go so fast as that?”
“It’s going very fast, isn’t it? I have a little fluttering—at my heart.”
“Shan’t I send for Doctor Routh?” asked Katharine, with renewed anxiety.
“Oh, no—it’s no use.” His voice was growing perceptibly more feeble. “I shall be better presently,” he whispered, and closed his eyes again. Then, as though fearing lest his whisper should frighten her, he made an effort and spoke aloud again. “It often happens,” he said. “Don’t be afraid, little girl.”
Katharine had no experience of sickness, and did not know the danger of that fluttering at the heart in such a case. She thought he knew better than she whether he needed anything or not, and that it would be wiser not to annoy him with questions. She was used to manly men who said what they wished and nothing more. He lay back in his big chair, breathing with some difficulty. A deep furrow appeared between his eyebrows, which gave his face an expression of pain,and his jaw dropped a little, making his cheeks look more hollow. Katharine sat quite still for several minutes.
“Are you suffering, uncle dear?” she asked at last, bending to his ear.
He shook his head slowly, opened his eyes a little and closed them again.
“I shall be better in a minute,” he said, a moment later.
He revived very slowly, as she sat there watching him, and as the furrow disappeared from his brow and his mouth closed, the look of life came back to his face. He was a strong old man, and, though little attached to life, was to die hard. He opened his eyes at last and looked at Katharine, smiling a little.
“I think I’ll go to my room,” he said. “It’s my time for resting, you know. Perhaps I’ve been up a little too long.”
To Katharine’s surprise, he was able to stand when Leek and the footman came to help him, and to walk without much difficulty. She followed the little procession to the door of his bedroom and saw Mrs. Deems come and take charge of him. He turned his head slowly towards Katharine and smiled before the door closed.
“It’s all right, little girl,” he said.
She went downstairs again and returned to the library. It faced the south and was still warmwith the sunshine. She sat down again in the chair she had occupied before. Presently her eyes turned instinctively to her portrait. Crowdie had brought the easel while she and her uncle had been at luncheon, and had arranged it himself. He had come into the dining-room, and after exchanging a few more words, had gone away again.
She gazed at the beautiful features, now that she was alone with it, and the feeling of dislike and repulsion grew stronger, till she felt something like what she experienced when she looked at Crowdie’s pale face and red mouth. She felt that he had put something into the painting which had no right there, which he had no right to imagine—yet she could not tell what it was. Presently she rose and glanced round the room in search of a looking-glass. But old Lauderdale did not like mirrors, and there was none in the library. On the table, however, stood a photograph of herself in a silver frame. She seized it as soon as she saw it and held it up in her hand, comparing it with the portrait. She found it hard to tell where the difference lay, unless it was in the eyelids and the slight parting of the lips, but she felt it and disliked it more and more.
At that moment the door was opened by one of the footmen.
“Mr. Ralston,” said the man, announcing John, who entered immediately afterwards.
The door closed behind him as he came forward. Katharine’s heart jumped, as she became conscious of his presence. It was as though a strong current of life had been turned upon her after having been long alone with death. Ralston moved easily, with the freedom that comes naturally of good proportions. His bright brown eyes gleamed with pleasure, and the hard, defiant lines of the lean face relaxed in a rare smile.
He kissed her tenderly, with a nervous, passionate lightness that belongs only to finely organized beings, twice or three times. And then she kissed him once with all her heart, and looked into the eyes she loved.
“How good it is to have this chance!” he exclaimed, happily. “This is better than South Fifth Avenue at nine o’clock in the morning—isn’t it? Why didn’t we think of it before?”
“I can’t be always stopping with uncle Robert, you know,” answered Katharine. “I wish I could.”
Something in the tone of the last words attracted his attention. With a gentle touch he made her turn her face to the light, and looked at her.
“What’s happened?” he asked, suddenly. “There’s been some trouble, I know. Tell me—you’ve had more worry at home, haven’t you?”
“Oh—it’s nothing!” Katharine answered, lightly. “You see how easy it is for me to get away. What does it matter?”
“Yes—but there has been something,” insisted John, shaking his head. “I don’t like this, Katharine.”
He turned away from her, and his eyes fell upon the portrait. It instantly fixed his attention.
“Holloa!” he exclaimed. “Why is it here? I thought it was for Hester.”
Katharine laughed.
“He brought it this morning,” she answered. “He’s changed his mind, and has given it to uncle Robert. How do you like it?”
John looked at it long, his eyelids drooping a little. When he turned his head, he looked directly at Katharine’s mouth critically.
“You haven’t got a mouth like that,” he said, suddenly. “And I never saw that expression in your eyes, either,” he added, a moment later. “What’s the fellow been doing?”
“I don’t know, Jack. But I don’t like it. I’m sure of that, at all events.”
“Does uncle Robert like it?”
“No. He’s anything but pleased, though he thought it splendid at first. Then he saw what you and I see. It wasn’t so in the studio, it seems to me. He’s done something to it since. Never mind the picture, Jack. Sit down, and let’s talk, since we’ve got a chance at last.”
John’s eyes lingered on the portrait a moment longer, then he turned away with an impatientmovement, and sat down beside Katharine. He stroked her hand gently two or three times, and neither said anything. Then he leaned back in his straight chair and crossed one knee over the other.
“Somebody’s trying to get me out of Beman’s,” he said, and his face darkened. “I wish I knew who it was.”
“Trying to get you out of the bank?” repeated Katharine, in surprise. “Oh, Jack, you must be mistaken.”
Jack laughed a little without smiling.
“There’s no mistake,” he said. “Mr. Beman as good as told me so this morning. We came near having a row.”
“Tell me all about it,” said Katharine, anxiously, and leaning forward in sympathy. “It’s outrageous—whoever has done it.”
“Yes, I’ll tell you,” said John. “It was this way. In the first place, I went to the Vanbrughs’ last night, after all.”
“But you said you weren’t asked! I’d have gone, too—why didn’t you send me word? At least—I’d have tried to go,” she added, recollecting that she had spent the evening in her room.
“I found a note when I came up town. It was very informal, you know.”
“Yes—they only asked me the day before,” said Katharine. “It must have been very amusing. They were going to do all sorts of things.”
“If you’d been there, I should have enjoyed it,” answered John. “Yes, they did all sorts of things—improvised charades and tableaux—Crowdie was there, and Griggs, and the set. The best thing was a tableau of Francesca da Rimini. Hester was Francesca—you know her eyes. There they are!” he exclaimed, looking at the portrait. “And they made me do Paolo, and Griggs murdered me—”
“Fancy your acting in a tableau!” exclaimed Katharine.
“I never did before—but it was all improvised. Griggs looked awfully dangerous with a black beard and a dagger. Of course I couldn’t see myself, but they said I was dark and thin and would do; so I did it, just to make the thing go. It was rather fun—but I kept watching the door to see if you weren’t coming. Well—the end of it was that we stayed very late. You know what a fellow Vanbrugh is—he’s a criminal lawyer, of all things—and he knows all kinds of people. There was an actor and any number of musical people, and that Russian pianist—what’s his name?—Bezpodobny, or something like that. And we had supper, and then we got to smoking—two or three of the women stayed. You know Dolly Vanbrugh likes smoke, and so does Hester. I smoked some horrible Caporal cigarettes, and they gave me a headache. But I didn’t drink anything—”
“I know, dear,” said Katharine, softly.
No one knew better than she what he had done for her sake, and how faithfully he was keeping his word.
“Well—I got a headache, much worse than if I’d had a lot of champagne and things. I shall have to live on milk and water and barley sugar if I get much worse. I’m so nervous since—since I gave up all those things. But it will go off—I’ve asked Routh, and he says it’s natural—”
“You didn’t tell me,” said Katharine, anxiously. “Why didn’t you?”
“Oh—why should I? He came to the house—he adores my mother, you know, dear old man—so I just asked him. Well—this morning I felt rather fuzzy in the head—woolly, don’t you know. And of course I got up early, as usual, though it was awfully late when I got to bed. And then I saw no red ribbon in your window—and that put me into a bad temper, so that altogether I wasn’t in the humour to be bothered much when I got to the bank. It happened that there wasn’t much for me to do at first, and so I did it, and got it out of the way, and I sat doing nothing—just like this—look here!”
He rose, and went and sat down at the chair before the great writing-table, on the side away from Katharine. He planted his elbows on the big sheet of blotting paper, and bending down hishead, clasped his hands over his forehead in the attitude of a man whose head hurts him.
“Do you see?” he asked, looking up at Katharine. “My head really ached, and I’d nothing to do for a quarter of an hour, so it was quite natural.”
“Of course! Why not? Do you have to sit up straight at the bank, like school-children?”
“Well—old Beman seemed to think so. He came loping along—he has a funny walk, you know—and I didn’t see him. He doesn’t often come out. So he’d stopped right in front of me before I knew he was there. I looked up suddenly when I heard him speak, and I jumped up. He asked what the matter was, and I told him I had a headache, which was rash, I suppose, considering my reputation. Then he asked me why I was doing nothing, and I told him I’d finished what had been given me and was waiting for more. He grunted in a displeased sort of way, and went off. Then my head hurt me worse than ever, and I put my hands up to my forehead again. In about five minutes, back comes old Beman, and wants to see me in his room. What do you think he said? ‘An old and valued friend had warned him that I had intemperate habits.’ That was a pleasant way of opening the interview. Then he went on to say that he had paid no attention to the old and valued friend’s warning, but that I was so evidently suffering from the effects of over-indulgence this morning that he felt it his duty to say that he could not tolerate dissipated idlers in his house—or words to that purpose—and that as he had already convinced himself by a previous trial—that was a year ago, you know—that I had no taste for work, he begged me to consider myself as free from any engagement on the first of next month—which struck me as unnecessary warning, considering that I get no salary. That’s what happened.”
“It’s abominable!” cried Katharine. “It’s outrageous! But you didn’t take it quietly, like that, Jack? You said something?”
“Oh, yes—I said something—several things. I told him quite frankly about myself—how I’d been rather lively, but had given it all up months ago. It’s awful, how a thing like that sticks to one, Katharine! He was virtuously civil—but I can’t help liking old Beman, all the same. He didn’t believe a word I said. So I told him to ask Ham Bright, who’s their junior partner and is privileged to be believed. Unfortunately, Ham didn’t go to the Vanbrughs’ last night and couldn’t have sworn to the facts. But that makes no difference. Of course, a year ago I’d have walked out of Beman’s then and there, if he’d said such things to me, though I suppose they were true then, more or less. It’s different now—a gooddeal depends on it, and I mean to convince the old gentleman and stay. I don’t want him to bring any tales—lies, especially—to uncle Robert, who got me in. But it’s a wonder we didn’t throttle each other in his office this morning. I take some credit to myself for having behaved so well. But I confess I should like to know who the ‘old and valued friend’ is. I’d like to be alone with him for a few moments.”
“Yes,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “I wish I knew. Oh, Jack, what a shame!” she cried, with sudden vehemence. “When you’ve been trying so hard, and have succeeded so well! Oh—those are the sins people are burned everlastingly for—those mean, back-biting, busy-body sins, dressed up in virtue and friendship!”
“I hadn’t thought about the everlasting side of it. I should be quite satisfied to see the individual burn for three-quarters of an hour here.”
“Jack—” Katharine’s face changed suddenly, as though something that shocked her had been forced upon her mind.
“Yes—what is it? Have you guessed who it is? Do you know anything about it? Tell me!”
“I think I know,” she answered, in a low voice, as though horror-struck by the discovery. “I’m not sure—oh, Jack! It’s awful!”
“What’s awful? Who do you think it is?”
“No—I won’t tell you. I may be wrong, youknow, and one has no right to condemn people on a guess. But if it were—” She stopped.
“You mean your father?” asked Ralston. “Don’t you?”
Katharine was silent. She gave no sign of assent or dissent, but looked straight into John’s eyes.
“Of course you do!” he exclaimed. “He was in the bank the day before yesterday. Don’t you know? I told you I saw him. And he was alone with Mr. Beman in his room. I say—Katharine—if it is, you know—”
He did not complete the sentence, but his lower jaw went out viciously as his lips closed. Not knowing all that had passed between Katharine and her father, he had not suspected the latter at first. It was only when he remembered that he had told Katharine of his appearance at the bank, which she must remember, that he understood what she meant.
“I’m not sure, Jack,” she said. “Don’t imagine that I’m sure.”
“All right—I’ll ask Mr. Beman—”
“Don’t!” cried Katharine, in sudden anxiety.
“Why not? He’s got no right to conceal the name of a man who libels me. I shall tell him that I wish to be confronted with his informant, and that as a gentleman he’s bound to give me the chance of justifying myself. Of course he’ll saythat he can’t send for Mr. Lauderdale to discuss a clerk’s character. Then I think I’ll take Ham Bright with me and go round to the Trust Company. It won’t take a quarter of an hour.”
“Of course you have a right to, Jack,” said Katharine. “Only, I hope you won’t do that. I’m not cowardly, you know, am I? But if you knew what it meant to live in a permanent tempest—”
“Has he been tormenting you again?” asked Ralston, quickly, and forgetting his own troubles at the mention of hers.
She would have told him everything, and it might have been better if she had. But he had frightened her on the previous day by threatening to insist on announcing their marriage if she were further troubled at home. She thought it wiser to turn back to the original point.
“If I were sure that it was papa who spoke to Mr. Beman, I could never be civil to him again,” she said. “Can you imagine anything much worse? I can’t. But you’re quite right to try and stay at Beman’s. It means a great deal to uncle Robert—your sticking to regular work, don’t you see?”
“I don’t know what will happen when he dies,” said Ralston, thoughtfully. “Nobody else will ever do anything for me, when he’s gone.”
“No,” answered Katharine, suppressing a smileat the thought of what she knew, “nobody else will do anything. Let’s hope that uncle Robert will live long enough to see you succeed. But do you know, Jack, I’m anxious about him. Of course Doctor Routh tells him he’ll get quite well again, and I daresay he will, but I can’t help feeling sometimes, when I’m with him—” she hesitated. “He’s very old, you know,” she added.
They talked for some time of the old gentleman’s condition, and he would have been pleased, could he have heard them, at their genuine hope for his recovery. It would have balanced the sentiments of some other members of the family as he had described them to Katharine that morning. They had much to say to one another, and as there was no especial reason why John should go away, he stayed, overjoyed at his good fortune in being able to talk with her at last without the fear of interruption and of exciting attention, which beset them when they met at parties.
It was growing late, and the sunshine had turned red and was fading from the splendid old books on the east wall of the room, when the door opened and Leek appeared.
“Mr. Alexander Lauderdale wishes to speak with you, Miss Katharine,” he said, and then glanced discreetly at Ralston.
It is necessary to say that Leek was almost as thoroughly acquainted with the state of the family’s affairs as any member of it, and that Alexander’s dislike of John was perfectly well known to him.
Katharine stopped in the middle of a phrase, as though she had been struck. Ralston looked at the butler and then at Katharine, wondering what she would say. The library, constructed with a view to avoiding draughts, had only one door, which led into the hall, so that John could not go out without meeting Alexander. Katharine had not believed that her father would come to make trouble under his uncle’s roof, but he was well acquainted with the old gentleman’s habits, and knew that he would be resting at that hour. It was a difficult situation.
“I don’t know what to do,” said Katharine, in a low voice, helpless, at first. “I can’t refuse to see him, since he knows I’m in. Can’t you get out of the room, Jack?”
“There’s no other door,” answered Ralston, looking about. “Face it out. Let him come in!”
“I daren’t—he’ll make another scene—”
“Not before me—if he begins, I’ll make him stop. You can’t send him away,” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Imagine what that man would think, and what he’d tell the other servants. That settles it.”
Leek stood motionless by the door during the colloquy, which he could not overhear, though heknew exactly what the two were saying. Katharine hesitated a moment longer, and then gave the order.
“Ask my father to go into the drawing-room,” she said. “I’ll come in a moment.”
Ralston laughed softly as Leek disappeared.
“What idiots we were—of course!” he said. “As though there were only one room. Look here, Katharine,” he continued, taking her hand as she rose, “I could slip out while you’re in there, but I’m not going to. I want to see you afterwards. I’ll wait here.”
“Do!” answered Katharine. “I shall feel better if I know you’re here. Not that I’m frightened—but—you understand.”
“Perfectly,” answered Ralston, looking at her.
She left the room and he closed the door behind her. She found her father standing in the middle of the great drawing-room, in the evening light, holding his hat, and still wearing his thin black overcoat, as though he did not mean to stay long—an observation which reassured her. But his face was dark and angry and his lips looked dry and cold. She stood still at a little distance from him.
“Katharine, what is the meaning of this?” he asked, sternly. “Why are you here?”
“You know why I’m here, papa,” answered Katharine, quietly, for she was determined, if possible, to avoid an angry altercation.
“I suppose you mean that you’ve come here because I locked you in your room this morning. I don’t consider that a reason.”
“I think you’ll admit that you acted hastily,” said Katharine. “Besides, have you any objection to my paying uncle Robert a visit? I’ve been here before in the same way, you know. You always seemed pleased. Won’t you sit down?”
She was trying to be civil, but he was in no humour to court civility. He paid no attention to her invitation, but remained standing in the middle of the room.
“You understood perfectly well why I locked the door this morning,” he said. “It’s of no use to say that I acted hastily. I intended that you should feel my authority, and you shall. One of us two must be master. I’ll not be browbeaten, and contradicted, and disobeyed by my own daughter, besides submitting to any language she chooses to apply to me.”
“Do you propose to take me back by force?” asked Katharine, with a smile. “You know it’s impossible. Or do you mean to argue with me? You won’t convince me, and you ought to see that you can’t.”
“In other words, you’ve left your father’s house without warning, and not meaning to come back,” answered Alexander Junior, coldly.
“Not at all. I came here, with my mother’s consent, to make a visit. When you agree to treat me properly, I’ll come back. I certainly won’t stay where I’m liable to be locked up in my room by you at your discretion. It’s not safe. You didn’t even leave the key in the house, so that they might have brought me something to eat if I hadn’t been able to get out.”
“You did get out.”
“By a mere chance. There happened to be a key which fitted the lock, or I might be there still.”
“It’s where you should be. How long is this state of war to last? Do you think I’ll endure it much longer? You’re mistaken.”
“I don’t see what you can do, if you won’t treat me like a human being. Possibly you may get to the end of my patience, too.”
“Do you mean to threaten me? Me!” Alexander’s face darkened visibly, and he drew himself up to his full height.
“I don’t know,” answered Katharine, keeping her temper. “I might think it worth while to explain to uncle Robert, you know. I don’t think that he’d be particularly pleased if he knew all you’ve done. I merely told him that it wasn’t very peaceful in our house just now, as you wanted me to marry Mr. Wingfield, and I wouldn’t. I’ve not told him anything else—but I might, you know. I’m likely to be with him most of theday. I imagine you’d rather not offend uncle Robert.”
Katharine was not prepared for the effect produced by this speech, which was diametrically opposite to the result she had expected. She had imagined that a reference to the will would act directly upon her father’s love of money and make him cautious. Instead of this, however, he grew more angry.
“If you insult me in this way again, I shall certainly use force,” he said, in a harsh way. “You’re not of age, and I believe that the law can constrain you to obey me, and the police will act with the law. How do you dare to tell me that you can frighten uncle Robert into changing his will! You’re going a little further than yesterday. I’ve warned you to be careful. It’s your own fault if you go too far. The nearest Justice of the Peace will give me an order to remove you to your home in an hour. Don’t exasperate me! Put on your things and come quietly with me. If you refuse, I’ll act at once. You shall come. I say it, and I won’t be disobeyed.”
“And I won’t be threatened,” answered Katharine, with a rising intonation. “As for your getting any order to remove me, as you call it, I doubt whether you could. I rather think that uncle Robert is a much more powerful person than you are, and that your policemen would think twicebefore trying to force their way into his house. Don’t you think so yourself?”
Her anger was up, too, and her mother was not there to come between them. She forgot that the door of the drawing-room opened upon the same hall as the library, but that it was not closed except by a heavy curtain.
“And as for your saying that I’ve gone a little further than yesterday,” she continued, her deep voice rising strong and clear in the big room, “you’ve gone further, too. You’ve been trying to hurt me by hurting the man I love. You’ve been to Mr. Beman, and you’ve told him that Jack is dissipated. Yes—I thought so—it was you who said it. You can’t deny it.”
“Certainly not!” exclaimed Alexander. “I was quite right to warn an old acquaintance against employing such a fellow. He’s a discredit to the bank, he’s a—”
“Stop, papa! I forbid you to say such things—”
Alexander’s great voice suddenly broke out like thunder.
“You! You forbid me to say what I please! I say that John Ralston’s a reprobate, a man not fit to be received in decent society, a low drunkard—”
“Oh! Is that what you say?” John Ralstondrew aside the curtain, and entered the room as he spoke.
Katharine turned pale, but her father was no coward. His steely eyes fixed themselves on John’s face.
AsAlexander Junior came towards him, John Ralston advanced from the door. Katharine placed herself between them, very much as her mother had come between her father and herself on the previous afternoon. But Ralston laid his hand gently on her arm, and drew her back.
“Please go into the library, Katharine,” he said.
“No, no!” she cried, in answer. “I can’t leave you together—so.”
“Please go!” he repeated. “I’m angry—I must speak—I can’t before you.”
He pushed her with tender anxiety towards the door, and she felt his hand tremble on her arm. She yielded after a little hesitation, but paused as she reached the curtain, and looked back. John went on and faced Alexander, supposing that Katharine had left the room.
“So it was you who spoke to Mr. Beman about me,” said Ralston, in a tone of menace.
“You’re an eavesdropper, sir,” answered Alexander Junior, with contempt.
“As you were shouting, and the door was open, I couldn’t help hearing what you said, Mr. Lauderdale.I was anxious about Katharine, and had come into the hall.”
“Then you’ve heard my opinion of you. You’re not likely to change it by trying to browbeat me.”
“I’m not browbeating you, as you call it. You’ve been saying things about me which are untrue. You’ve got to take them back.”
Alexander Lauderdale drew himself up to his height, resting one clenched hand upon his hip. The other held his hat. He looked a dangerous adversary as he stood there, lean and steely, his firm face set like an angry mask, his broad shoulders square and black against the evening light.
“It occurs to me to ask how you propose to make me take back anything I’ve said,” he answered.
Ralston looked at him quietly for several seconds, as a man looks who measures another’s strength. Not that he had the slightest thought of violence, even then; but he was a born fighter as much as Alexander, if not more so. His instinct was always to strike rather than speak, in any quarrel. In a hand-to-hand encounter he would have been overmatched by the elder man, and he knew it. But that was not the reason why he lowered his voice and tried to speak more calmly, instead of growing hotter in altercation.
“You’ve done me a very great injustice, andyou’ve almost done me a serious injury—perhaps you really have, for Mr. Beman has turned me out,” he said. “It’s customary, I think, for people like us to repair such injuries as well as they can.”
“You’ve injured yourself by your habits,” answered Alexander. “I’ve a perfect right to say so. Don’t contest it.”
“It’s contestable, at all events. I’m willing to admit that I’ve been what’s called dissipated. More than most men, I daresay.”
“That’s undeniable, and that’s precisely what I said, or words to the same effect.”
“I think not. You were telling Katharine just now that I was a drunkard and a reprobate. I’ve not touched wine for months, and as for being a reprobate—it’s a strong word, but rather vague. Since you’ve used it, please define what you mean by it.”
“It’s a general term of disapprobation which I applied to you because I think you’re a bad character.”
“Accusations of that sort have to be supported. You must go with me to Mr. Beman to-morrow, and repeat what you’ve said.”
“Indeed? I shall do nothing of the kind.”
“If Mr. Beman asks you to do it, you’ll have to—at the risk of losing your character for truthfulness.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” asked Alexander, and his voice rose angrily as he stepped forward.
“No,” answered Ralston, calmly, but in a doubtful tone. “I’m not. But you’ve made an accusation, and if you fail to prove it, Mr. Beman will form his opinion about you. I formed mine long ago. I’m turning out to be right.”
“I’m quite indifferent to your opinion,” said Alexander, contemptuously. “And you’re not in a position to influence that of lifelong friends like Mr. Beman. We’d better end this discussion at once. It can lead to nothing.”
Katharine, who still stood by the door, her hand on the curtain, devoutly wished that in this, at least, John would follow her father’s suggestion. She had a woman’s instinctive fear of violence between men—a fear, strange to say, which has a fascination in it. If John had been inwardly as calm as he outwardly appeared to be, he would undoubtedly have seen that Alexander was right in this. But the insulting words which he had inevitably overheard rankled, as well they might, and against all probability of success, he still hoped that Alexander would make some acknowledgment of having been in the wrong. He thrust his hands into his pockets and made two or three steps, his head bent in thought. Then he turned upon his adversary suddenly again.
“Do you know—or don’t you—that I’ve given up wine since last winter?” he enquired.
“I’ve heard it stated,” answered Alexander. “I don’t know it.”
“Well—it’s true. I tell you so now. I suppose you’ll make no further difficulty about taking back what you said to Katharine just now—that I’m a drunkard?”
“If you have given up wine, you are certainly not a drunkard—at present. That’s axiomatic.” Alexander sneered.
“Will you remove the condition? I say that I have given up wine.”
“I should hesitate to accept your unsupported evidence.”
“In other words, you don’t admit that I’m speaking the truth? Is that what you mean to say? Yes, or no.”
“I don’t accept your unsupported evidence,” repeated Alexander, pleased with his own phrase.
“Do you know what you’re saying? It’s simply stating that I’m not to be believed. You can’t put any other meaning upon your words.”
“I don’t wish to,” answered Alexander, driven to stand by what he had said, but conscious that he had gone too far.
A pause followed. John was very pale. Alexander Lauderdale’s face was dark with the blood that rose slowly under the grey olive skin. The hand that held his hat swung quickly by his sideonce or twice. Ralston’s fingers twitched nervously. By the door, Katharine held her breath.
“Look here, Mr. Lauderdale,” said John, in a low voice. “I’m not going to strike you here, but when I meet you in the street I will.”
“Jack! Jack!” cried Katharine, rushing forward and catching his arm, and throwing the other of her own round his neck.
She knew how much stronger her father was than he. At the sight of her, the deep red colour appeared at last in Alexander’s face, and his anger got the better of him altogether.
“Take your arms from that man’s neck!” he cried, furiously. “Don’t touch him, I say!”
But Katharine did not release her hold. A woman’s idea of protecting a man is to wind herself round him, so as to make him perfectly helpless to defend himself.
“Let me go, dear,” said Ralston, in a voice suddenly tender, but trembling a little.
“Katharine! Go, I say!” The white of Alexander’s eyes was bloodshot.
But Katharine tried to drag John back from him as he advanced.
“Go! Leave the room!” cried Alexander, roughly.
With a quick movement he seized her arm, almost where he had grasped it on the previous day, and he tried to pull her away from Ralston. His strong hand hurt her. At the same time Ralston,not seeing how tightly Alexander held her, tried to disengage himself from her, as gently as he could. The struggle was not apparently violent, yet Katharine was exerting all her strength to cling to Ralston.
The floor, under the Persian rug, was highly polished. As Katharine stood, overbalanced in her strained position, the carpet slipped under her feet. With a short, half-suppressed cry, more of surprise than of fear, she relaxed her hands, fell sideways, and swung downward, her arm still in her father’s iron grip. To tell the truth, he was trying to hold her up, though in reality he had thrown her down. Suddenly she uttered a piercing scream, and turned livid, as she fell upon the floor, and her father let go her arm.