Katharinefelt considerable hesitation about going to see Mrs. Ralston after John had told her that he had confided the secret of their marriage to his mother. She knew very well that they must meet before long, as they often did, and she felt that, since Mrs. Ralston knew the truth, it would be very disagreeable if the meeting took place in the presence of other persons. So far as any formality was concerned, too, it would naturally have been her duty to go and see her mother-in-law, though, in consideration of the young girl’s broken arm, any such questions of courtesy could well be overlooked.
Katharine’s sensations as she looked forward to the interview could not easily be described. She was, as usual, in a very exceptional position, for she was so placed that she should have to make something like an apology to Mrs. Ralston for having married John against his will. There was something absurd in the idea, and Katharine smiled, alone in her room, as she thought of it.
She was tired with all she had been through, and she put off the difficult moment rather weakly,telling herself that she would surely write and make an appointment on the following day, when she had collected herself and thought it all over. She was fond of Mrs. Ralston, and knew that her liking was returned. Mrs. Ralston had made her understand that well enough, and John had taken pleasure in telling her that his mother never wished him to marry any one else. Nevertheless Katharine felt shy and awkward, and was afraid of saying too much or too little.
Mrs. Ralston herself cut short all hesitation and came to see Katharine at the Brights’, and found her in her little sitting-room upstairs. The young girl was taken by surprise, as the elder woman had followed the servant and entered almost as soon as she had been announced.
“Oh—Mrs. Ralston!” she cried, sitting up on the lounge on which she had been lying after luncheon.
They exchanged greetings. Mrs. Ralston made her lie down again and sat beside her. There was a moment’s silence.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” said Katharine, breaking the ice.
“Of course I’ve come!” answered Mrs. Ralston. “If you’d not had this dreadful accident, you’d have come to me; but as it is, I’ve come to you, since we wanted to see each other.”
There was not much in what she said, but it gaveKatharine courage, which was precisely what the elder woman wished to do. That was one of her few secrets. She knew how to make what was the best thing to be done seem altogether natural, and even easy, for those who had to do it, while avoiding the appearance of ever giving advice unless it were asked of her. That is the rare gift of those who really influence others in the world. Their art lies in going so straight as to make any way but their own seem crooked by comparison.
“Yes,” said Katharine, “I wanted to see you very much. The fact is—” she hesitated and she felt the colour rising in her cheeks, though Mrs. Ralston could not see it. “The truth is that I—” she broke off again. “Oh, what’s the use of making phrases, cousin Katharine?” she exclaimed. “Jack and I are married—and you know it—and you must forgive me—that’s what I want to say!”
“And that’s the best and the simplest way of saying it, my dear,” answered Mrs. Ralston, smiling—for she was happy. “And now that it’s said, let’s talk about it.”
“How good you are!” Katharine put out her left hand, and turned, bending a little, so that her face was near her companion’s shoulder.
“I don’t know whether I’m good to be glad,” said Mrs. Ralston. “As for forgiving you—that’s for your father and mother, not for me. The onlything I didn’t like was that Jack shouldn’t have told me at once. I was hurt by that. We’ve been good friends, he and I, and he ought to have known that he could trust me.”
“We were afraid to trust anybody—except uncle Robert,” answered Katharine, simply. “And we had to trust him. That was the object of our getting married as we did.”
“Of course you could trust him perfectly, my dear. But it did no good. Jack told me all about that. If he had come to me and said it all beforehand, I could have helped a good deal. But that wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes, it was,” protested the young girl, anxious lest Ralston should be blamed unjustly. “It was altogether my idea from beginning to end—”
“Jack didn’t tell me that—”
“No?” Katharine’s face lightened softly. “No,” she repeated, in another tone. “He wouldn’t have told you that. He would have thought that it would be like blaming me. He left that out of the truth. But it’s true, and you ought to know it. You don’t know how hard it was for me to persuade him to marry me secretly. I used every sort of argument before he would promise. It was I who thought that if we went straight to uncle Robert with our secret, he would find it so easy to give Jack just what he wanted. But Jack was right. He knew more about it than I did. However,he yielded at last. But I want you to know how hard it was. He said it was like a begging speculation. He would rather have died than have accepted money from uncle Robert. I’d have taken it, and uncle Robert offered it to me, but Jack wouldn’t let me accept it.”
“Of course not, my dear,” answered Mrs. Ralston. “That’s exactly what it would have been—a begging speculation. There’s only one thing that can excuse a secret marriage, and that’s love.”
“Well—in that case—” Katharine did not finish her sentence, but smiled happily as she turned her face away.
“Yes—exactly!” And Mrs. Ralston laughed softly. “That’s the reason why I say that I’ve nothing to forgive you,” she continued, after a little pause. “You see, you’ve loved each other a long time—”
“Ages!” exclaimed Katharine, energetically.
“And your father objected. Of course he had a right to object, if he saw fit. And you couldn’t have told him what you had done unless you were prepared to leave him and come to me—which you wouldn’t do—no! I know what you’re going to say—that it would have been putting a burden upon me—and all that. But it wouldn’t. That’s what hurt me, that taking it for granted that I should not be ready—much more than ready—tomake a sacrifice for Jack’s sake. Do you know what he is to me—that boy—your husband?”
Her face changed suddenly, and the even lips set themselves in a look that was almost fierce, as she asked the question.
“I can imagine,” said Katharine, in a low voice. “I know what he is to me.”
“Yes. I know you love him. But it’s not the same thing. You’ll know some day. I hope you may. There’s another kind of love besides that of men and women.”
She spoke with a suppressed energy that Katharine hardly understood. The young girl mentally compared this woman’s love for her son with Alexander Junior’s parental affection for his daughter. It seemed to be a very different thing.
“No,” continued Mrs. Ralston. “You can’t guess what Jack is to me, and always has been. I don’t think he knows it himself. If he did, he’d have trusted me more when he was in trouble. I’d do a good deal to make him happy.”
As usual with her, there were no big words nor harmonious phrases. What she said was very simple. But at that moment she looked as though Katharine Ralston would have trampled on Katharine Lauderdale’s body, if it could have contributed to Jack’s happiness.
“You love him very much,” said the young girl. “So do I.”
“I know you do. I don’t mean to say that in your way you may not love him as much as I do. We shan’t quarrel about that. I only want you to understand why I was hurt because he wouldn’t tell me what he’d done. Since he was a boy I’ve thought his thoughts, I’ve lived his life, I’ve done his deeds—I’ve been sorry for the foolish ones and proud of the good ones—I’ve been his other self. It was hard that I shouldn’t have a share in the happiest moment he ever had—when he married you. It hurt me. I’d give my body and my soul—if I had one—for him. He had no right to leave me out and hide what he was doing.”
“It was my fault,” said Katharine. “It was foolish of me to make him marry me at all, as things were then. I’ve thought of it since. Suppose that we had changed our minds, after it was done—we were married, you know—we couldn’t have got out of it.”
“If you changed your mind, as you call it, I wouldn’t forgive you,” said Mrs. Ralston, as sternly as a man could have spoken.
Katharine looked at her in silence for a moment.
“Yes,” she answered, gravely. “I think that if I changed my mind now, you’d try and kill me. You needn’t be afraid.”
Mrs. Ralston returned her gaze, and her features gradually relaxed into a peaceful smile.
“In old times I should,” she said. “I believe I’m that kind of woman. But we’re not going to quarrel about which loves him best, my dear—though I believe we’re both capable of committing any folly for him,” she added.
“Yes. We are,” said Katharine. “And I don’t suppose that we could say so to any one else but each other in the world.”
“I’m glad you feel that. So do I. And Jack knows it all without our telling him. At least, he should, by this time.”
“Do men ever know?” asked Katharine.
“That’s hard to say. I think there are men who know what the women who love them would do for them. I’m sure there are. But I don’t think that any man that ever lived can understand what a mother’s love can be like, when it’s strongest. It belongs to us women—and to animals. Men can only understand what they can feel themselves, and they can never feel that. They understand anything that’s founded on passion, but nothing else.”
“Isn’t a mother’s love a passion, then?” asked Katharine.
“No—it can’t be jealous.”
Katharine wondered whether the saying were true, and whether Mrs. Ralston’s own words and looks had not disproved her proposition before she had stated it.
Itis not long since, upon the death of a well-known lawyer, it was found that he had made a long and elaborate will for himself, duly signed and witnessed, but no single clause of which was good in law, though he had been in the habit of drawing up wills for others during all his professional life. It is not an easy matter to dispose of property amongst a number of persons in such a way that no one shall be able to find a flaw which may invalidate the whole document, even if the signing and witnessing be in order and unassailable.
For a long time past Alexander Junior had been much interested in the subject, and he believed that he had mastered it unaided, in all its details, so as to be able to detect any technical illegality at a glance. Being quite unable to foresee the nature of Robert Lauderdale’s intentions, he had done his best to prepare himself at all points, in case the will should turn out contrary to his hopes and wishes, as had actually occurred. At first sight, however, his anticipations were disappointed. So far as he could judge, the will was unassailable, though it contained very unusual provisions. If itwere admitted to probate, it looked as though it would be unassailable.
It had of course been in the power of the testator to leave the whole property to whom he pleased, irrespective of relationship, or to divide it amongst such of the living relations as he chose to favour. But, in theory, he had favoured no one. He had willed as though the whole portion had belonged to his grandfather, and had descended from the first Lauderdale who had emigrated, to all the members of his family in its present ramifications. It was not easy to assail the justice of the idea upon which the will had thus been founded, and there could be no question of attacking it on the ground that the testator was not of perfectly sound mind.
Clearly, however, it would be vastly to Alexander Junior’s advantage if the will were not allowed to stand. Katharine Ralston would get half the fortune, indeed, but Alexander Senior would get the other half. This, in the estimation of Alexander Junior, would be tantamount to getting it himself. It would be more easy, considering his father’s age and infirmities, and especially in consideration of the old gentleman’s known tendency to give away everything he possessed, to have a trust constituted, at his own request, so far as the world should know, which trust should manage the property and pay him the income arisingfrom it during the remaining years of his life. In the ordinary course of human events, Alexander Senior could not be expected to live many years longer, and his son believed it would be very easy to influence him in the making of his will, or to prove that he had been of unsound mind in case the will were not satisfactory. Then the whole fortune would come to his son as next of kin.
But Alexander Junior was met at the outset by the difficulty of finding any fault with the will of Robert Lauderdale. It was clear from the date that it had been made during his last illness, in the interval between the day when he had first been very near death, on which Alexander had met Katharine in the house, and his ultimate demise. Several weeks had passed, during which it had been expected that he might recover, and he had found ample time to reconsider his last wishes. It was immediately clear to Alexander that this was probably not the will of which his uncle had spoken to his daughter. It might be. It was possible that he had told her what he intended to do, and had then done it. But it was improbable; for when she had seen him that first time, he had not been expected to live, and it was not likely that he then looked forward to the possibility of drawing up a document requiring considerable thought and great care.
It was quite clear that Alexander must put thematter into the hands of a keen and experienced man without delay, and he lost no time in doing so. If he had not acted quickly, the will might have been proved and administered in a few days, and his chance would be gone. Within twenty-four hours it was known that the will would be contested by Alexander Lauderdale Junior on behalf of the next of kin, being his father and Katharine Ralston.
At this news there was a great commotion in all the Lauderdale tribe, and sides and parties declared themselves immediately. The prediction that there would be a tremendous disturbance of the family elements was immediately realized, for the interests at stake on all sides were very large. The ranks were marshalled and the battle began.
Clearly it was to the interest of the Lauderdales and the Ralstons to invalidate the will if possible, while it was that of the Brights to sustain it, and the heads of the opposing parties were actually Alexander Lauderdale Junior and Hamilton Bright. It should have followed that the Brights should have stood alone against all the others, a state of things which Alexander believed should influence the court in his favour, since in common opinion it would not seem exactly fair that a small family of distant relations should get as much as all the nephews and nieces of the deceased together. In the matter of wills, the courts often have a considerablelatitude within which to exercise discretion, and no circumstance which bears upon the equity of the case is insignificant.
Though Alexander Junior had neither a very profound nor a very diplomatic intelligence, he saw at once, and his lawyer dwelt upon the point, that it would be greatly to his advantage if he could establish an evident solidarity amongst the next of kin as against the Brights, who would profit by the will as it stood. It became his object therefore to assure the coöperation of the Ralstons.
At first sight it seemed to him that Mrs. Ralston should without doubt support him. He could not easily conceive that she should hesitate between accepting a quarter of the fortune to be divided between her son and herself, and the half of it to be held in her own right. He judged her by himself, as people of strong passions judge others. He threw out of consideration any sentiment she might have in regard to the fulfilment of Robert Lauderdale’s wishes, and made it purely a question of money for her, as it was for himself. He did not believe that any enmity which her son might, and undoubtedly did, feel for him, could stand in the way of such a power as twenty millions of money to influence her. His lawyer, who did not know her well, agreed with him.
But when it became necessary to find out what Mrs. Ralston meant to do, Alexander was consciousthat he might be wrong in his calculations. Much against his will he secretly admitted that there might be other motives at work besides the love of money, especially in a case where a large fortune was a certainty, whatever happened, and where the choice lay not between much and nothing, but between much and more. Mrs. Ralston returned answer that she desired to consider the matter and wished to know how soon she must make a definite reply.
Then she consulted John.
“I don’t know what to do, Jack,” she said, seating herself in her favourite chair in his study.
It was late in the afternoon, and it was raining. But it was warm, and one of the windows was raised a little. The smell of the wet pavement and the soft swish of the shower came up from the street.
“Why should you do anything, mother?” asked Ralston. “However—I don’t know—” he checked himself suddenly and became thoughtful.
“What is it, Jack? Why do you hesitate?” asked his mother. “I hesitate, too. I want to know what you think about it.”
Ralston reflected in silence for a few minutes, before he spoke.
“There are so many ways of looking at it,” he said at last. “In the first place, you and I should naturally like to carry out the dear old man’s wishes, shouldn’t we? That’s our first instinct, I suppose. Isn’t it?”
“Of course it is. There can be no question of that.”
“Yes. You and I always agree. We were both fond of him, and we’re both grateful to him. We both want things to be done as he wished. He’s tried to be just all round, and if he hasn’t been quite fair in leaving the Brights so much, it’s because justice isn’t always exactly fair. Law is one thing and equity’s another, all the world over. His general idea was to make litigation impossible, and in carrying it out the principle happened to favour the Brights. It might have happened to favour us instead.”
“Yes. That’s plain,” said Mrs. Ralston. “That’s one side of the case. But there’s the other.”
“More than one other, perhaps. In the first place, if poor uncle Robert did anything that’s not good in law, I’ve no business to advise you to support his mistake out of sentiment, and to lose twenty millions by it.”
“Put that out of the question, Jack.”
“No—I can’t. It’s a first-rate reason against my giving you any advice at all. I ought not to influence you. You should act for yourself. Only, as we agree about things generally, we’re talking it over.”
“No,” answered Mrs. Ralston. “It’s not that.It’s your children. If I should stand out against Alexander on the ground of sentiment, I may be keeping money from your children, or their children, which they have much more claim to have than the Crowdies’ descendants, for instance. And you must think of that, too. Hamilton Bright’s getting on towards forty. I suppose he doesn’t marry because he’s still in love with Katharine, poor fellow. But if he doesn’t marry soon, he probably never will. At his age men get into grooves. He’s devoted to his mother, and with all her good qualities I don’t believe she’d be a pleasant mother-in-law, if Hamilton brought his wife to the house. He’ll see that, and unless he falls in love rather late, he won’t marry for any other reason. Well—he and aunt Maggie will leave their money to Hester’s children, if she has any. There’s no reason why they should have such an enormous amount. They’re very distant relations, anyhow. I wonder how uncle Robert didn’t see that. There’ll be an accumulation of money enough for twenty ordinary fortunes, if things turn out in that way.”
“Yes—but you wouldn’t leave the Brights out altogether, mother, would you? That’s what will happen, if the will won’t hold.”
“We’ll make a compromise and give them enough.”
“A few millions,” suggested Ralston, with alittle laugh. “Isn’t it funny that we should be talking about such sums in real earnest? But Alexander can’t see it in that light.”
“Well—if he doesn’t? We can do it alone in that case. What’s a million in forty?”
“Two and a half per cent,” answered Ralston, promptly, from sheer force of the new habit he had acquired at the bank.
“You’re turning into a business man,” laughed his mother. “I didn’t mean that. I meant it would be little enough.”
“Yes—but Ham wouldn’t take it. You know him as well as I do. He’ll have his rights or nothing. Honestly, there’s no reason on earth why you should make him a present of a million, if the law doesn’t give it to him. And there can’t be any comparison in this case, because Alexander means to have everything for his father, and then lock him up in Bloomingdale and manage the fortune in his own Trust Company. For the Brights it means forty millions or nothing—not a red cent.”
“I suppose you’re right about that. And Hamilton’s your friend, Jack.”
“He’s been a good friend to me. But he’s not the sort of fellow to turn on me because I’m opposed to him in a suit. Still—he couldn’t help feeling that it must make a difference. He wouldn’t be human if he didn’t. You mustn’t blame him for it.”
“Blame him! Of course not! Who would? He’s the one who has everything at stake. Well, Jack, what shall we do? We’ve got to decide.”
“It’s not easy. Mother—why don’t you send for Harry Brett and put the whole thing in his hands? He’s a perfectly honourable man—there aren’t many like him. Tell him what your position is, and then wash your hands of the matter. That seems to me to be by far the best thing to do. Tell him just how far you feel that you should like to carry out uncle Robert’s wishes, and all you’ve told me. He’s absolutely honest, and he’s a gentleman. If the law is plainly for us, and there’s no question about it, then let him take it. But if Alexander’s going to try and get round it by quibbling, Brett will stand up against him like a man. He’s a fine fellow, Brett. I like him. You can be sure that he’ll do the right thing.”
“I think that’s very good advice. I’ll see him and get him to answer the letter. I suppose the next thing will be that Alexander will come to see me and want to persuade me, especially if Brett’s for upholding the will. If he does, I won’t say anything. What I hate is the uncertainty of it all. Until it’s settled you and Katharine can’t consider yourselves married. At least, you could—but I suppose you won’t.”
“She shan’t go back to Clinton Place, at all events,” said Ralston. “The next time shegoes through that door, she shall go as my wife. That brute has ill-treated her enough, and he shan’t have another chance. Of course, she can’t go on staying at the Brights’ through all this. That’s another thing. It won’t be pleasant for her to feel that her father’s trying his best to keep them out of the fortune, and to have to sit down to dinner with them every day and hear it discussed. Besides—poor Ham’s deadly in love still, in his dear old heavy way. I wish she’d go to the Crowdies’. I tried to make her go the other day—”
“But that would be just as bad,” said Mrs. Ralston. “Worse, in fact. Crowdie wouldn’t be half so careful how he talked as Bright would be.”
“That’s true. Well—she’ll just have to go and stay with the three Miss Miners, then. It won’t be gay, but it won’t be unpleasant, at all events.”
“Upon my word, Jack, you’d better let me ask her here. At all events, we can keep her father away. Go and see her and try to persuade her to come. Or I’ll go. I can manage it better. If you’ll let me tell her that you’ve told me about your marriage, it will be easier. Otherwise she’ll have that on her mind as a reason for not coming. After all, there’s no especial reason why she should not know, is there? And then, Jack—you don’t know how I should like to feel as though she were really your wife! I’ve always wanted her for you.”
Ralston kissed his mother’s hand affectionately, and held it in his own a moment.
“There’s no reason,” he said, presently. “I think you’ll love each other as I love you both.”
“If she loves you, I shall,” answered Mrs. Ralston, and her face set itself oddly. “If she doesn’t—I think I could kill her.”
In this way they agreed as far as possible upon the position they would assume in the great family quarrel which was imminent, and, on the whole, they seemed to have chosen wisely.
Ineach household there was rumour of war and discussion of plans, and the nervous tension was already great. In Lafayette Place, the exceedingly unfashionable and somewhat remote corner where the Crowdies dwelt in one of the half-dozen habitable houses there situated, there was considerable disturbance. Walter Crowdie and his wife were in the studio, alone together, talking about it all. Crowdie had received a communication from his brother-in-law, telling him of Alexander’s contemplated attack and enquiring as to Crowdie’s opinion, more as a matter of form than because he expected any interference or needed any help.
Hester Crowdie was a nervously organized woman, almost insanely in love with her husband. She had one of those pale, delicate, passionate faces which are not easily forgotten, and which seem to bear the sign of an unusual destiny in each line and shade of expression. She had much of the hereditary beauty of the Lauderdales, but the regularity of her features was not what struck the eye first. She was slight, but graceful as a doe, alternately quick and then indolent as anOriental woman, strong, yet liable to what seemed inexplicable fatigue and weakness which overtook her without warning, and often sensitive as a fine instrument to every changing influence about her, yet constant as steel in her idolizing love for her husband.
To do him justice, he seemed to return all she felt for him in an almost like degree. They were well-nigh inseparable, and she spent every moment of the day with him which she could spare from her very slight social and household duties, when he himself was not occupied with a sitter.
The studio was a vast room occupying the whole upper story of the house, and lighted from above as well as by windows, the latter being generally closed. It contained a barbaric wealth of rich Eastern carpets, stuffs, and embroideries, which covered the walls and the huge divans, and were draped about the chimney-piece. There was an old-fashioned high-backed chair for Crowdie’s sitters, and there were generally at least two easels in the room, having unfinished canvases upon them. But there was nothing else—not a sketch, not a bit of a plaster cast, not the least object of metal. There were none of those more or less cheap weapons with which artists are fond of decorating their studios, there were no vases, no plants, no objects, in short, but the easels, the one chair, and the rich materials hung upon thewalls, spread upon the divans, covering the heaps of soft cushions. Even the high door which gave access to the room from the narrow landing was masked by a great embroidery. Crowdie kept all his paints and brushes in a large closet, cut off by a curtain, and built out, balcony-like, over the yard at the back of the house.
Hester Crowdie lay among the cushions on one of the enormous divans. She was dressed in black, and the garment—which was neither gown nor tea-gown, nor yet a frock—followed closely the lines of grace in which her bodily beauty ran, from her throat to her slender feet. One bloodless hand lay upon the dark folds, the other was pressed almost out of sight in the yielding coils of her rich brown hair; she supported her head, resting upon her elbow, and watching her husband.
Crowdie was standing before an easel near by, palette and brushes in hand, touching the canvas from time to time, mechanically rather than with any serious intention of doing anything to the picture.
“I don’t see why your brother takes the trouble to write,” he said. “It may be a sort of formality. He must know that I’d be dead against the Lauderdales in anything. They all detest me, and I hate them every one, with all my heart.”
“So do I,” answered Hester. “I hate them all—except Katharine. But you don’t hate her, either, Walter.”
“Oh—Katharine? No—not exactly. She’s too good-looking to be hated. But she can’t bear me.”
“It’s not so bad as that. If it were, she shouldn’t be my friend for a day. You know that. But she’s with the enemy in the present case. It can’t be helped. I hope we shan’t quarrel. But if we must—why, we must, that’s all.”
Crowdie touched his picture, looked at it, then glanced at his wife and smiled.
“After all,” he said, “what does that sort of friendship amount to?”
“Well—perhaps you’re right,” she answered, and she smiled, too, as her eyes met his, and lingered a moment in the meeting. “I don’t know—perhaps it fills up the little empty places in life—when you’ve got a sister, for instance. Besides—I’m fond of Katharine. We’ve always been a good deal together. Not that I think she’s perfection either, you know. I don’t like the way she’s gone and installed herself with mamma, as though she didn’t know perfectly well that Ham was in love with her, and that she was making him miserable.”
“Ham will survive a considerable amount of that sort of misery. Still, it must be unpleasant, especially just now. After all, it’s her fatherwho’s attacking you and your mother and brother. They can’t talk freely before her any more than you and I should.”
“No.” Hester paused a moment, and her face was thoughtful. “Walter,” she began again, presently, “I want to ask you a question.”
“Do you?” he asked, softly. “I have all the answers ready to all the possible questions you can ever ask of me. What is it?”
“Walter—weren’t you just a little tiny bit in love with Katharine, ever so long ago, before we were married? Tell me. I shan’t mind—that is, if it was very long ago.”
“In love with Katharine Lauderdale? No—never. That’s a very easy question to answer.”
He stood looking at her, and the hand which held the palette hung down by his side.
“Weren’t you? I sometimes think that you must have been. You look at her sometimes—as though she pleased you.”
Crowdie laughed, a low, golden laugh, and glanced at his picture again, but said nothing. Then, in the silence, he went and put away his paints and brushes behind the curtain on one side of the fireplace at the other end of the great room. Hester lay back among the cushions and watched him till he disappeared, and kept her eyes upon the curtain until he came out again. She watched him as a wild animal watches her mate when she fears thathe is going to leave her, with earnest, glistening eyes.
But he came back, bringing with him a small Japanese vase of that rare old bronze that rings under the touch like far-off chimes. He set it down upon the tiles before the fireplace, and poured something into it, and set fire to the liquid with a match. It blazed with a misty blue flame, and he threw a few grains of something upon it. A soft, white smoke rose in little clouds, and an intoxicating perfume filled the air.
Hester’s delicate nostrils quivered, as she lay back amongst her cushions. She delighted in rare perfumes which could be burned. The faint colour rose in her pale cheeks, and her eyelids drooped. Crowdie drove the white smoke with his hands, wafting it towards her.
“What a strange question that was of yours,” he said, suddenly, seating himself upon the edge of the divan, and touching the back of her hand softly with the tips of his fingers.
She withdrew her hand and laid it upon his as soon as he had spoken, caressing his in her turn.
“Was it?” she asked, in a dreamy voice. “It seemed so natural. I couldn’t help asking you. After all, there are days when she’s very beautiful. But that wasn’t it, exactly. It was something—oh, Walter! why did you sing to her the other night? You know you promised that you’d neversing if I wasn’t there. It hurt me—it hurt me all over when I heard of it. Why did you do it? And then, why didn’t you tell me?”
“And who did tell you?” asked Crowdie, gently, but his eyelids contracted with curiosity as he asked the question. “Not Griggs?”
“Oh, no! Mamma told me, yesterday. Why did you do it? And she said dreadfully hard things to me about trying to keep you all to myself, and locking up what gives people so much pleasure—and all that.”
“I’m sorry she told you. Why will people interfere and tell tales?”
“Yes—but, Walter darling—do I lock you up and try to keep you from other people? Am I jealous and horrid, as she says I am? If you think so, tell me. Have I ever interfered with your pleasure? Am I always getting in your way?”
“Darling! What nonsense you talk sometimes!”
“No, but seriously, would you like me any better if I were like Katharine Lauderdale?”
The passionate eyes sought his, and there was a quick breath, half suppressed, as her hand ceased to caress his passive fingers.
“I couldn’t like you better—as you call it, sweetest,” answered Crowdie.
And again his soft laugh rippled up throughperfumed air. With a movement that was almost girlish he dropped upon one elbow, and raising her diaphanous hand in his, tapped his own pale cheek with it. Hester laughed a little, too.
“Because if I thought you cared for Katharine Lauderdale—I’d—” She paused, and her fingers stroked his silky hair.
“What would you do to Katharine Lauderdale if you thought I cared for her?”
“I won’t tell you,” answered Hester, very low. “It would be something bad. Why did you sing for her if you don’t care for her?”
“I sang for everybody. Besides, it was so dull there. They’d been talking metaphysics and such rubbish, and there was a long pause, and aunt Maggie wanted me to. And then, when she said that I’d promised never to sing except for you, I didn’t choose to let them all believe it was true. Katharine begged me not to, I remember—when she was told that I’d made you a promise.”
“Did she?” Hester’s eyelids opened and then drooped again. “She knew that would be the way to make you sing, or she wouldn’t have said it. How mean women are! I’m beginning to hate her, too. Are you sorry?”
“Sorry? No. Why should I be sorry? Sweet—you’ve got this idea that I’ve a fancy for her—it’s foolish.”
“Is it? You look a little sorry, though, becauseI said I should hate her. She’s better looking than I am.”
“She!” Crowdie laughed again, the same gentle, lulling, golden laugh. “Besides—I told you—she can’t bear me.”
“I hate her for that, too—for loving your voice as she does, and not liking you. And I shall hate her if her father gets all the money that ought to come to us, because if I ever get it, I’m going to make you do all you’ve ever dreamed of doing with it. You shall build your palace like the one at Agra—Griggs will help you, for he knows everything—you shall do all you’ve ever dreamed—we’ll have the alabaster room with the light shining through the walls—you shall sing to me there, by the fountain—but you shan’t sing to Katharine Lauderdale—there, nor anywhere else—Walter, you shan’t—”
“She’s got into your head, love—” Crowdie’s red lips kissed the bloodless hand, and his beautiful eyes looked up to Hester’s face. “It’s a foolish thought, sweet! Let me kiss it away.”
Hester said nothing, but her own eyes burned, and her nostrils quivered like white rose leaves in the breeze, delicate, diaphanous, passionate. A little shiver ran through her, and she sighed.
“Sing to me,” she said. “Sing what you sang to her the other night. Make the song mine again. Make it forget her. Sing softly, very softly—soft, soft—you know how I love the notes—”
She closed her burning eyes, but not so wholly but what she could see him, as she threw back her head upon the cushions.
Crowdie sat motionless beside her, watching her. His lips were parted as though he were just about to sing, but no sound escaped them. In the heavy, perfumed air the stillness was intense, and it was warm.
“Sing,” said Hester, just above a whisper, as though she were murmuring in her sleep.
But still no single note came from his lips, and still his eyes rested on her face.
“I can’t!” he exclaimed, suddenly, as though his own breath oppressed him.
Slowly she raised her lids, and her eyes met his, wild, dark, almost speaking with a voice of their own.
“Why did you sing for her?” she asked, whispering, as he gradually bent down towards her. “Do you love me?”
“Like death,” he answered, bending still.
“Do you hate Katharine Lauderdale?” she asked, very near his face.
“I hate everything but you, sweet—”
The two transparent hands were suddenly raised and framed his eyes, and held him a moment.
“Say you hate her!” The whisper was short, fierce, and hot.
“Yes—I hate her.”
Then the hands dropped.
Far off before the great chimney-piece, the little cloud of white smoke curled slowly from the censer upwards through the soft, love-laden air—and the perfume stole silently everywhere, in and out, half poisonous with aromatic sweetness, all through the great still room.
Katharinefound herself in a very difficult position. During the next few days she realized clearly that she could not continue to stay with the Brights indefinitely, both on account of their attitude in the matter of the will, and because Hamilton Bright was in love with her. She felt that the friendships to which she had been accustomed all her life were slipping away under the pressure of circumstances, and that some of her friends were becoming her enemies. Reflections she had never known before now rose in her mind, and in a few days she had reached that state of exaggerated cynicism and unbelief which overtakes the very young when those with whom they closely associate change their minds upon very important points. In the meantime, Katharine went every day to see her mother in Clinton Place while her father was down town.
The bond between mother and daughter, which had been so violently strained during the previous winter, and again within the past few weeks, was growing stronger again. The events which were breaking up Katharine’s intimacy with HesterCrowdie and the Brights had the effect of drawing her and her mother together. So far as Hester Crowdie was concerned, Katharine’s friendship for her had existed upon a false basis, as has been seen. The elder woman’s ardent and sensitive nature reflected itself in her minor actions and relations, lending them an appearance of depth which she herself was far from feeling. Katharine was indeed sympathetic to her, and there had been much confidence between the two, which had not been wholly misplaced on either side. But Hester did not wish the young girl to see too much of Crowdie. How far she understood him it is impossible to say, but that she loved him desperately and was jealous of every glance he bestowed on any passing figure that pleased him, there could be no doubt. Her vanity was not proof against that jealousy, and she feared comparison. That Crowdie should have broken his promise about singing, and should have sung to please Katharine, had hurt her even more deeply than she herself realized.
On the other hand, Mrs. Lauderdale’s confession to her daughter on the morning after Robert Lauderdale’s death had produced a profound impression upon the young girl. Being quite unable to realize a state of mind in which her mother could really be envious of her, Katharine readily believed that Mrs. Lauderdale had greatly exaggerated in her ownjudgment the fault of which she had been guilty, and that much of what had seemed to be her unkindness and heartlessness toward Katharine had really been the result of her unjust self-accusation, leading her to avoid the person whom she believed that she had injured. All that was a little vague, but that did not matter. The two had always been allies in family questions, and had been devotedly attached to one another until this year. And after the first violent scene with Alexander Junior, the mother had taken the daughter’s side again, had released her from imprisonment in her own room, and had approved of her taking shelter with uncle Robert. The confession she had made on that morning had been in reality a complete reconciliation. Katharine did not understand how much her absence from home during twenty-four hours had to do with the subsidence of her mother’s unnatural envy.
The result was that at the present juncture Katharine desired earnestly to return to her home, and would have done so in spite of Ralston’s objections, had she been assured of finding any condition approaching even to an armed peace. But of this she had little hope. She learned that her father was morose and silent, and that he never referred to her. His attention was naturally preoccupied by the uncommon interests at stake in the approaching conflict, and he grew daily moretaciturn. His old father watched events with that apparent indifference of old age, which often conceals a curiosity not without cunning in finding means of satisfying itself. Mrs. Lauderdale also told Katharine that Charlotte and her husband were coming up from Washington for a few days, in order that Slayback and Alexander might talk matters over. Contrary to the latter’s expectations, Slayback did not seem inclined to agree with the Lauderdales about the attempt to break the will, though his wife and his children would ultimately profit largely by the result, if it proved successful.
Katharine returned one afternoon from Clinton Place, after discussing these matters with her mother, and found Hamilton Bright in the library in Park Avenue. She always avoided as much as possible being alone with him, and when she caught sight of his flaxen head bending over the writing-table, she was about to withdraw quietly and go to her own room. But he looked up quickly and spoke to her.
“Don’t run away, cousin Katharine,” he said. “And you always do run. You know it’s not safe, with your arm in a sling.”
“But I wasn’t running,” answered the young girl. “Of course I’ll stay if you want me. I thought you were busy.”
“Oh, no—I was only writing a note. I’ve finished—and—and I should be awfully glad if you’d stay a little while.”
Katharine glanced at his face and saw that he was embarrassed. She wondered what was in his mind as she sat down. He had risen from his seat and seemed to hesitate about taking another. When a man hesitates to sit down in order to talk to a woman, only two suppositions are possible. Either he does not wish to be caught and obliged to stay with her, or he has something important to say, and thinks that he can talk better on his legs than seated, which is true for nine men out of ten. Bright at last decided in favour of standing by the fireplace, resting one elbow upon the shelf and thrusting one hand into his pocket. Katharine could hear the soft jingle of his little bunch of keys. She expected that he meant to say something about the difficulty of their relative positions in regard to the will, which must lead to her putting an end to her visit immediately. So long as the subject had not been mentioned the position had been tenable, but if it were once discussed, she felt that she should be obliged to go away at once. She could not well accept the hospitality of her father’s bitterest opponents, though they were her friends and relations, if once the position were clearly defined.
“What is it?” she asked, after a short pause, by way of helping him, for by this time she was sure that he had something to say to her.
“Oh—nothing—” He hesitated. “That is—I only wanted to talk to you a little—that is, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all!” answered Katharine, with a smile in which she tried to turn her amusement into encouragement.
Except at great moments, almost all women are wickedly amused when a man is embarrassed in attacking a difficult subject. The more kind-hearted ones, like Katharine, will often help a man. The cynical ones get all the diversion they can out of the situation and give a graphic account of it to the first intimate friend who turns up afterwards. Katharine really thought he meant to speak of the will, and the position struck her as absurd. She was in the position of having forced herself upon the hospitality of her father’s enemies. She wondered how Bright would put the matter, and, woman-like, at the same moment she catalogued her belongings as they lay about her room upstairs and calculated roughly that it might take her as much as an hour to pack all her things if she decided to go that evening. Still Bright said nothing.
“It seems to be rather a serious matter,” she said, assuming that he had not asked her to stay in order to talk about the weather.
“Well—it is pretty serious for me,” he answered. “It amounts to this. I don’t knowwhether you’ve ever noticed anything, so I’m not sure just how to begin. I’d like to make a straight statement if you wouldn’t mind—that is—if I were sure of not offending you.”
“I don’t exactly see how you can offend me,” answered Katharine, gravely. “If it’s about the will, I suppose we think alike, only I’d hoped that we might not bring it up and talk about it just yet. But if you’re going to do that, I’d rather you’d let me speak first. I think I should anticipate what you were going to say. I’d rather—and it would be less trouble for you.”
“Well,” replied Bright, doubtfully. “I don’t know that I meant to talk about that exactly. But there’s a certain connection. If you’ve anything on your mind to say about it, why, go ahead, cousin Katharine—go ahead. I daresay you’ll put it much better than I shall.”
“I’m not so sure of that. But it may seem to come better from me. I’ll say it, at all events, and if you don’t think as I do, tell me so. Of course I know how strange it must have seemed to you and aunt Maggie that I should have come here, out of a clear sky, the other day, without so much as giving you half an hour’s warning. No amount of charity and hospitality can make that look natural to you,—to either of you,—and I daresay you’ve wondered about it. And then, to stay on in this way, after my father has behaved inthe way he has—it’s not exactly delicate, you know—”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Bright, emphatically. “You’re mistaken if you think that’s my view of the case.”
“I don’t think I’m mistaken, cousin Ham. I daresay you may like to have me, but that doesn’t explain my coming, does it? But I’m in an awfully hard position just now, and the other day—do you know? I was driving to the Crowdies’, and then I changed my mind and came here instead.”
“I’m glad you did. So’s my mother. As for not thinking it natural, when your father’s tearing about like wild and rooting up everything like a mad rhinoceros—oh, I say! I beg your pardon—”
Katharine did not smile, for there was good blood in her veins, of the kind that does not play false at such moments. But the temptation to laugh was strong, and she looked fixedly at her left hand.
“No,” she said. “Please don’t speak of my father like that. I suppose you both think you’re right in this horrible question of money. I myself don’t know what I think. He’s wrong in one way, of course. Whether there’s a flaw in the will or not, it represents poor uncle Robert’s last wish about his fortune. If he changed his mind, that’s none of our business—”
“How do you mean?” said Bright, quickly, andforgetting his embarrassment. “Did you say he changed his mind?”
“I didn’t mean to say that, positively,” answered Katharine, who had forgotten herself for a moment. “As the will was made almost at the last moment, perhaps there had been—others, before it. People often make several wills, don’t they? That’s all I meant. My own feeling would be to carry out his wishes. But I suppose men feel differently—and it’s an enormous fortune, of course. The main point is that you and your mother are legally my father’s enemies—well, call it opponents—and I’ve no business to be eating your bread while it lasts. That’s what it comes to, in plain language.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk in that way, cousin Katharine,” said Bright, in a low voice. “I don’t think it’s exactly kind.”
“It’s true, at all events,” answered Katharine. “As for being kind—it’s not a case of kindness on my part. It’s gratitude I feel, because you and aunt Maggie have been so awfully kind to me, just when I was in trouble.”
“Oh—if you’re going to look at it in that way!” Bright paused, but Katharine said nothing. “Well, I don’t see where the kindness lies,” he continued. “Of course, if you choose to put it so—but it’s a long way on the other side. It’s a pretty considerable kindness of you to come and stop in my house. If that’s what you’ve got tosay about the will business, cousin Katharine, I hope you won’t say any more, because I don’t like it. I appreciate—I suppose that’s the word—I appreciate your motives in trying to twist things inside out and to make martyrs of us because we’ve accepted your company without saying, ‘Look here, cousin Katharine, this is our bread, and you’re eating it, and we don’t exactly mind, but we’d rather you’d go and eat your own.’ I suppose that’s what you make out that we’re thinking all the time. I don’t know whether you call that being kind to me, exactly, but I know pretty well what it feels like. It feels as if you’d slapped my face.”
“Ham! Cousin Ham!” cried Katharine. “You know how I meant it—please, please don’t think—”
“No; I know I’m an idiot. I suppose it’s just as well you should know it, too. It may make things more comfortable. But I’ll tell you. Don’t talk that way, please, because we don’t feel that way, and we’re not going to. I’d rather have you know that this is just as much your home as Clinton Place is than—well, than lots of things. And since we’re saying everything right out, like this, and we’re either going to be friends—or not—I’d like to ask you one question, if you don’t mind. You may be offended, but you’ll know I didn’t mean to be offensive, because I’ve said so. May I?”
He spoke roughly, relapsing under excitement and emotion to habits of speech which had been formed and strengthened in his early years in the West. Katharine had occasionally heard him talk in that way with men, losing all at once the refinements of accent and speech which had been familiar in childhood and again in maturity, but which ten years of California and Nevada had lined, so to say, with something rougher and stronger that occasionally broke through the shell. Katharine was by no means sure of what he meant to say, and would very much have preferred that he should not ask his question just then, whatever it might prove to be. But she saw well enough that in his present mood it would not be easy to control him.
“Yes,” she said. “Ask me anything you like, if you think I can answer. I will if I can.”
“Well—are you going to marry Jack Ralston or not, cousin Katharine? It would make a difference to me if you’d tell me.”
Katharine was taken unawares, both by the question and its form. Not to answer it was very difficult, under the circumstances. She had risked trouble in letting him speak, and it would not be true either to say that she was going to marry Ralston or that she was not, since she was married already. But she had never contemplated the possibility of telling Bright the secret, and she did not wish to do so now. She was very truthfuland also very reticent—qualities which she inherited, and which were therefore the foundation of her impulses and not acquired virtues from which there was at least a chance of escape under very trying circumstances. She hesitated a moment, and then made up her mind.
“I’d rather not answer the question just now,” she said, but she felt the blush slowly rising to her cheeks.
Bright glanced at her with a look almost expressing fear. Then he turned his eyes away, and grew red. He jingled his little bunch of keys in his pocket, in his emotion. Once or twice he opened his lips and drew breath, but checked himself and kept silence. Seeing that he said nothing, Katharine rose to her feet, hoping to put an end to the situation. He pretended not to see her, at first. She felt that she should not go away in silence, for she did not wish to seem unkind, so she stood still for a moment, keeping herself in countenance by adjusting the little cape she wore over her injured arm. Still he said nothing, and at last she made a step as though she were going away, purposely trying to put on a kindly and natural expression.
“Where are you going?” he asked, almost roughly.
“I was going to my room,” she answered, quietly. “I haven’t even taken off my hat, yet, you see. I’m just as I came in.”
She lengthened the short explanation unnecessarily in order to seem kind, and then regretted it. She made another step.
“Don’t go just yet!” he exclaimed.
His throat was dry, and the words came with difficulty. Katharine knew that there was nothing to be done now but to face the situation. She stopped just as she was about to take another step, and came back to him as he stood by the fireplace.
“Please don’t say anything more,” she said. “I hadn’t any idea what question you were going to ask. Please don’t—”
“Just hear me, please,” he answered, paying no attention to what she said. “It isn’t going to take long. You know what I meant. Well—I’ve thought for some time that things had cooled off between you and Jack, and that you’d settled down to be friends. So I thought I’d ask you. Of course, if you said right out that you were going to marry him or you weren’t—well, that would rather simplify things. But of course, if you can’t, or won’t, I’ve just got to be satisfied, that’s all. You’ve got a doubt, anyhow. And Jack’s my friend. He had the first right, and he has it until you say ‘no’ and send him off. I don’t want you to think that I’m not acting squarely by him.”
For a moment Katharine hesitated. She was much tempted to tell him of her marriage, seeinghow he spoke, but again her natural impulse kept her silent on that point.
“There’ll never be any chance for any one else, Ham,” she said gently. “Put it out of your mind—and I’m grateful, indeed I am!”
“Never?” he asked, looking at her—and a nervous smile that meant nothing came into his face.
She shook her head in answer.
“There’ll never be any chance for any one else,” she repeated gravely.
He looked at her a moment longer, his face growing rather pale. Once more he jingled his keys in his pocket, as he turned his head away.
“Well—I’m sorry,” he said. “Excuse me if I spoke—you see I didn’t know.”
There was a tone with the commonplace words that took them straight to Katharine’s heart. She saw how the strong, simple, uneloquent man was suffering, and she knew that she should never have come to the house.
“I’m more sorry—and more ashamed—than you can guess,” she said, and with bent head she left him standing by the fireplace, and went to her room.
He did not move for a long time after she had gone, but stood still, his face changing, though little, from time to time, with his thoughts. He jingled his keys meditatively in his pocket every now and then. At last he sighed and uttered onemonosyllable, solemnly and without undue emphasis.
“Damn.”
Then he shook his big shoulders, and got his hat and went for a solitary stroll, eastwards in the direction of the river.
But Katharine had not such powerful monosyllables at her command, and she suddenly felt very much ashamed of herself, as she shut the door of her room and looked about, with a vague idea that she ought to go away at once. It was not as though she had not been warned of what might happen, nor as though she had been forced into the situation against her will. She had deliberately chosen to come to the Brights’ rather than to go anywhere else, and had obliged John Ralston to let her do so when she had been with him in the carriage. If she ever told him what had just happened he would have in his power one of those weapons which, in a small way, humanity keenly dreads, to wit, the power to say “I told you so.” It is not easy to explain the sense of utter humiliation which most of us feel—though we jest about it—when the warning of another proves to have been well founded.
Katharine saw, however, that her wandering existence could continue no longer, and that if she left the Brights’ she must go home. She could not continue to transfer herself from the home of onerelation to that of another, with her box and her valise, for an indefinite period. In the first place, she was inconveniencing people, and secondly, they would ultimately begin to wonder what had happened in Clinton Place to make it impossible for her to stay in her father’s house. On the other hand, she was not prepared to go there at a moment’s notice. She could hardly expect a very hearty welcome from her father, considering how they had parted on that afternoon at Robert Lauderdale’s house more than a week earlier.
She hesitated as to whether she should not pretend to be ill and stay in her room until the next morning, when she could go back quietly to Clinton Place. But she knew that Mrs. Bright would come and sit with her and would very soon find out that there was nothing the matter. She might have saved herself the trouble of thinking of that, for Bright himself did not wish to meet her, and went out and dined at his club as the surest way of avoiding her. It was as well, at all events, that she did not attempt to go to the Crowdies’, for her appearance there just then would not have pleased Hester, and would have considerably disturbed Crowdie’s own peace of mind.
She was immensely relieved to find herself alone at dinner with Mrs. Bright, who made Hamilton’s excuses, and she looked forward to spending a quiet evening and going to bed early, unless Ralstoncame. This, however, was not probable, for he had come on the previous evening, and he hesitated to come every day on account of the Brights.
He came, however, not long after dinner. Katharine did not understand his expression. He smiled like a man in possession of an amusing secret which he was anxious to communicate as soon as an opportunity offered. At last Mrs. Bright left the room.
“Look here,” said Ralston. “I’ve got this thing—I wish you’d look at it and tell me what you think.”
He produced a letter and handed it to her, with a short laugh. She saw that it was in her father’s handwriting.
“Read it,” said John. “It will make you open your eyes. He has a most—peculiar character. It’s coming to the surface rapidly.”
Katharine held out the envelope to him.
“You must take it out,” she said. “I’ve only got one hand, and that’s my left.”
“Poor dear!” he exclaimed. “I suppose you’ll have at least ten days more of this.”
He had opened the letter while speaking and handed it to her.
“Why don’t you read it to me yourself?” she asked.
“Because—I’d rather you should read it. It’s a very extraordinary production. He’s not diplomatic—your father. It’s lucky he’s not an ambassadoror one of those creatures. He wouldn’t cover his country with glory in making treaties.”
Katharine was already running her eye over the page, and her face expressed her surprise. She even turned the sheet over and looked at the signature to persuade herself that her father had really written what she was reading, for it was hard to believe. As she proceeded, her brows bent, and her lip curled scornfully. Then all at once she laughed with genuine, though bitter, amusement—the laugh that comes from the head, not from the heart. Then she grew grave again and read on to the end. When she had finished, her hand with the letter in it fell upon her knee and she looked into Ralston’s face with parted lips, as though helpless to express her astonishment.
In any jury of honour the communication would have been accepted as a formal apology for everything her father had done, and for anything he might have done inadvertently. Ralston was wrong in saying that Alexander Junior had no talent for diplomacy. Consciously or unconsciously, he had succeeded in writing a letter in which he took back every insulting word he had spoken of Ralston, either to his face or behind his back, without exactly saying that he meant to do so. He took the position of considering it a matter of the highest importance to sift the truth out of what he called the labyrinth of evil speaking,lying, and slandering, by which he was assailed on every side. The confusion of similes at this point was almost grand in its chaotic incoherence, and it was here that Katharine had laughed, as well she might. The honour of the family, said Alexander, was at stake, and he had accordingly performed the operation of sifting the attacking and mendacious labyrinth. The result of his labour of love for Ralston’s reputation, in the interests of the family honour, was much simpler than his alleged mode of getting at it. For he did not hesitate to say that he had ascertained, beyond the possibility of doubt that the stories concerning John’s intemperance were lies—and the word was written with conscientious calligraphy. There was to be no mistake there. Alexander thought it due to Ralston, as indeed it was, to make the statement at once, as the ultimate expression of a carefully formed opinion. With regards to any other differences which there might have been between them, he thought that amicable settlements were always more Christian, and generally more satisfactory in the end. He should never forget that he had parted from his dear uncle in wrath. Here Katharine’s lip curled as she remembered what the nature of that parting had been. He was sure that the wish of the dear departed would have been that all parties should seek peace and ensue it. “To ensue” wasa verb which Katharine had never understood, and she had always suspected that it was a mistake in the printing, but the quotation sounded well, and brought up the rear with a clang of armour of righteousness, so to say. The phrase appeared to be thrown out as a suggestion—as a very broad hint, in fact, seeing that it came from him who had received the blow, and not from him who had dealt it.
There was much more to the same effect. It was a very long letter, covering two sheets of the Trust Company’s foolscap—very fine bond paper with a heading in excellent good taste. But the most remarkable point of all had been reserved for the last paragraph. Therein Alexander Lauderdale said that he did not abandon all hope, even after what had occurred, of cementing a union between the two surviving branches of the Lauderdales, upon the worldly advantages of which his delicacy would not allow him to dwell, but in which he thought it possible and even probable, that all family differences might be forgotten on earth. Whether he expected that they should afterwards be revived in heaven, or in a place more appropriate, he did not add. But he signed himself sincerely John Ralston’s cousin, Alexander Lauderdale Junior, and it was quite clear that he wished all he had said to be believed.
“Now isn’t that the most remarkable productionof human genius that you’ve ever seen?” asked John, as Katharine dropped her hand.
She slowly nodded her head, her lips still parted in wonder, and her eyes looked far away.
“It came over to the bank by a messenger of the Trust Company,” said John. “So I wrote an answer on the bank paper—”
“What did you say?” asked Katharine, with sudden anxiety, dreading lest he had given way to some new outburst of temper.
“What should I say? I said it was all right. That I was glad he had found that I wasn’t quite so bad as he’d thought. And I added at the end—because he’d put it there—that if there was any thing that I hankered for and believed I was fitted for, it was to be used up as cement for the family union—‘apply while fresh’—that sort of thing. Only of course I put it nicely. Oh—you needn’t be afraid! I wasn’t going to do anything idiotic. Besides, I see what he’s driving at. It’s as plain as day.”
“What? I can’t understand it, myself—it all seems so strange and unexpected, and unlike him.”
“It’s as clear as day, dear. He knows he must come round some day, and he’s doing it now, so that we may be all patched up and peaceful before the hearing about the will—that’s it. You know if all the next of kin appear together against the distant relations, it influences the court’s opinion,when the court has a choice of opinions, as it very likely will have in this case.”
“Then you think the will is likely to be broken?”
“I don’t know. They’re saying to-day that one of the witnesses is mentioned in the will—in the list of servants who get annuities, and that if the witnessing’s wrong, the will can’t be probated, as they call it. I don’t understand those things.”
“And the Brights will get nothing.”
“Nothing.”
“Poor Ham!”
“Yes—well—he’s got enough to live on without forty millions more.”
“It would have been a consolation to him—oh Jack! You were right—don’t say, ‘I told you so’—please! This afternoon he wanted to—well he did ask me—he thought it was off between you and me.”
“I told you—no, darling, I won’t say it,” answered Ralston. “Give me a kiss, and I won’t say it.”
He did not say it.