Mrs. Lauderdale’s face grew pale again. For a few moments she said nothing, and once or twice she bit her lip.
“I’m going to tell you what it was,” she said, with a sudden impulse—unwise, perhaps, but generous and even noble in its way. “I envied you, dear. That’s why I behaved as I did.”
“Envied me? Envied—me?” Katharine repeated the words slowly and with a wondering emphasis. “Why? What for?”
Mrs. Lauderdale stared at her a moment in surprise at not being understood immediately.
“What for?” she repeated. “For your beauty—because you’re young. Don’t you know how beautiful you are?”
Katharine stared in her turn, in genuine astonishment. The idea that her mother could envy her had never crossed her mind.
“Yes—but—” she hesitated, and the rich young blood rose slowly under her white skin. “I know—at least—” she stammered, “people sometimes tell me I’m good-looking, of course. But—but the idea—of your envying—me! Why—it never occurred to me!”
“It’s true,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, looking down and pulling at the lace on the pillow, with a regretful smile.
“Oh, I don’t believe it!” cried Katharine, suddenly. “It’s impossible—you may have thought you did, once—”
“No, it’s true,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, and the smile faded and was lost in the contrite expression which came into her face.
She had made her confession and wished to go to the end of it. She was trying to make a reparation, being a good woman, and she found it hard, especially as her daughter did not half understand what she meant.
“I’m losing my beauty, Katharine,” she said, and every word of the acknowledgment cut her. “It’s going, day by day, little by little. You don’t know—it’s as though my life-blood were being drained—it’s worse—sometimes. I’d rather die than grow old and faded. You see, it’s all I had. I know now how much I’ve cared for it—now that it’s so hopeless to try and get it back. And one evening last winter—Crowdie was there—he kept looking at you while I was talking to him, and then I caught sight of my face in the little glass that hangs from the mantel-shelf. I shan’t forget how I looked. I knew then.”
Her face grew suddenly weary and half-desperate now, as she told the little story of the hardest moment in her life. Katharine listened in wondering silence, knowing that she was learning one of the secrets of the human heart. Mrs. Lauderdalepaused a moment, and shivered a little, perhaps with the last after-sob of her convulsive weeping.
“Yes—I knew then,” she continued, in a low voice and still looking down. “I knew how much it had all meant. And I began to hate you. Don’t be horrified, child. I loved you just as much, but I hated you, too. How funny that sounds! But I can’t say it any other way. It wasn’t you I hated—at least it wasn’t the same you that I loved. It was your face, and your freshness, and your youth—and that walk of yours. I wanted you to be all covered up, so that no one could see you—then I should have loved you just as much and in just the same way as ever. Do you understand? I want you to understand. You must, or I shall never be a happy woman again. What I suffered! So I made you suffer, too. Do you know what I thought? You must know everything now. I thought that if I could separate you and Jack and make you marry some one else—since you couldn’t marry him—why, then you’d have been away somewhere else, and I could feel again that I was quite beautiful. Only for a month—one month! If I could only have that feeling of being perfectly beautiful again—just for one month.”
She bowed her head again and hid her face in the pillow, for she was blushing with shame—thegood red shame that honest blood brings from a sinful heart. The sight of the blush pained Katharine far more than the thought of what caused it.
“Mother dear—” she stroked the golden hair—“it’s all over now. What does it matter? You don’t hate me now!”
“Hate you! Ah, Katharine—I never hated you without loving you just as much. I never said those hateful things but what the loving ones fought them and came out when I was all alone. The moment you were gone, it was all different. The moment I didn’t have to look at you—and think of myself, and the little wrinkles. Oh, the vile, horrid little wrinkles—what they’ve cost me! And what they’ve made me do! And they’re growing deeper—to punish me—pity me, dear, if you can’t forgive me—”
“Ah—don’t talk like that! I never guessed it, and now—why, I shall never think of it again. Unless I have a daughter some day—and then I daresay I shall feel just as you’ve felt. It seems so natural, somehow—now that you’ve explained it.”
“Does it? Does it seem natural to you? Are you sure you understand?” Mrs. Lauderdale looked up anxiously.
“Of course I understand!” answered Katharine, reassuring her. “You’ve always been the most beautiful woman everywhere, and just for a littlewhile you thought you weren’t, because you were tired and not looking well. You remember how tired you used to be last winter, mother, when you were working so hard and then dancing every night, into the bargain. It was no wonder! But you are, you know—you’re quite the most beautiful creature I ever saw, and you always will be.”
Yet Katharine in her heart, though she was comforting her mother and really helping her with every word she said, was by no means sure that she quite understood it all. At least, it was very strange to her, being altogether foreign to her own nature. With all his faults, her father had scarcely a trace of personal vanity, and she had inherited much of her character from him. The absence of avarice, as a mainspring which directed his life, and the presence of a certain delicacy of human feeling, together with a good share of her mother’s wit, were the chief causes of the wide difference between her and Alexander. It was hard for one so very proud and so little vain to understand how, in her mother, vanity could so easily have driven pride out. Yet she did her best to imagine herself in a like position, and was quite willing to believe that she might have acted in the same way.
“Thank you, dear child,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, simply. “I don’t know why I’ve told you all this just this morning. I’ve been trying to for a longtime. But I hadn’t the courage, I suppose. And now—somehow—we’re more alone in the world than we were, since the dear old uncle has gone—and we shall be more to each other. I feel it. I don’t know whether you do.”
“Yes—I do.” And Katharine’s thoughts again went back to that strange death-scene in the night, in the white room with the soft, warm light. “We shall miss him more, by and by. He was a very live man. Do you know what I mean? Whatever one did, one always felt that he was there. It wasn’t because he was so rich—though, of course, we all have had the sensation of a great power behind us—a sort of overwhelming reserve against fate, don’t you know? But it really wasn’t that. He was such a man! Do you know? I can’t fancy that uncle Robert ever did a bad thing in his life. I don’t mean starchy, stodgy goodness. He swore at papa most tremendously yesterday—only yesterday—just think!” She paused a moment sadly. “No,” she continued, “I don’t mean that. He always seemed to go straight when every one else went crooked—straight to the end, as well as he could. Oh, mother—I saw him die, you know! I didn’t know death was like that!”
“It must have been dreadful for you, poor child—”
“Dreadful? No—it was strange—a sort of awe. He looked so grand, lying there amidst thewhite velvet! I see it now, but I didn’t think of it then—the picture comes back—”
“Yes—I’ve seen him,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, softly. “His face is beautiful now.”
“It wasn’t beautiful then—it was something else—I don’t know. I felt that the greatest thing in the world was happening—the great thing that happens to us all some day. I didn’t feel that he was dying exactly—nor that I should never hear him speak again after those last words.”
“What did he say?” asked Mrs. Lauderdale. “No,” she added, contradicting herself quickly. “If it’s anything like a secret, I don’t want to know.”
“It wasn’t. He looked at me very strangely, and then he said, quite loud, ‘Domine quo vadis?’ ”
“Lord, whither goest Thou,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, translating the familiar words to herself. “Did you say anything?”
“I answered, ‘Tendit ad astra.’ We had both said the same things once before, some time ago. He heard me, and then he died—that was all.”
At this point some one knocked at the door. Mrs. Lauderdale rose and went to see who was there. Leek, the butler, clad in deep mourning already, stood outside. There was a puzzled look in his face.
“If you please, Mrs. Lauderdale, I don’t know what to do, and I’d wish for your orders—”
“Yes—what is it?”
“There’s Mr. Crowdie downstairs, madam, wanting the picture of Miss Lauderdale that he brought yesterday for poor Mr. Lauderdale, and desirin’ to remove it. But the impression downstairs seems to be that Mr. Crowdie presented it to poor Mr. Lauderdale yesterday, in which case it appears to me, madam, to be part of poor Mr. Lauderdale’s belongings.”
“Oh! Well—wait a minute, please. I’ll ask my daughter if she knows anything about it.”
Mrs. Lauderdale re-entered the room.
“I heard what he was saying,” said Katharine, before her mother could speak. “He distinctly said he gave the picture to uncle Robert. I was there when he brought it. Isn’t that just like them—coming to get what they can when he’s hardly dead!”
“Yes—but what shall we do?”
“I don’t care. He’ll give it to Hester, as he meant to do at first. Let him take it.”
Mrs. Lauderdale went to the door again.
“Let Mr. Crowdie have his picture, Leek. I’ll be responsible.”
“Very good, madam.”
Thedeath of Robert Lauderdale was the news of the day, and produced a profound impression everywhere. Even the city put on, here and there, an outward token of mourning, for on every building of the many which had belonged to him, the flag, if it were flying, was half-masted. New York is a city of many flags, and the eye is accustomed to attach meaning to their position.
And people spoke with respect of the dead man, which rarely happens when the very rich are suddenly gone. He had done well with his money, and every one said so. He had been more charitable than many had guessed until those who had been helped by him began to bemoan their loss. Stories went about of his having known, personally and by name, such men as the conductors on the Elevated Road, and of his having visited them in their homes—them and many others. His death made no difference to any one in Wall Street, and every one in Wall Street was therefore prepared to praise him.
Forthwith began the speculation and gossip in regard to the will. John Ralston heard much ofit, and he observed a curious tendency amongst the men at the bank to treat him with greater deference than usual.
The Ralstons had been informed of the final catastrophe early in the morning. John had immediately gone to Robert Lauderdale’s house, rather to enquire about Katharine’s condition than for any other purpose, and had thence proceeded down town. There was no reason why he should not go to the bank as usual, he thought. The dead man had only been his great-uncle, and he had determined to make Mr. Beman change his mind, and to counteract the influence of Alexander Junior. The best way to do this was to go to work as though nothing had happened. Before he had been half an hour at his desk, his friend Hamilton Bright, the junior partner in the firm, came up to him.
Hamilton Bright was a sturdy, heavily built man, five and thirty years of age, with a prosperous air—what bankers call ‘a lucky face.’ He was fair as a Saxon, pink and white of complexion, with clear, honest eyes, and quiet, resolute features. In his early youth he had gone to the West, and driven cattle in the Nacimiento Valley, had made some fortunate investments with the small fortune he had inherited, had returned to New York, gone into Beman Brothers’ bank, and in the course of a few years had been taken intothe partnership. He was an extremely normal man. His only peculiarity was a sort of almost fatherly attachment to John Ralston, about which he did not reason. The shadow in his life was his love for Katharine Lauderdale, of which, for John’s sake, he had never spoken, but which he was quite unable to conceal.
He came to John’s desk and spoke to him in a low voice.
“I say, Jack,” he began, “is it true that cousin Katharine has broken her arm?”
“Yes,” answered Ralston, bending his black brows. “How did you hear it?”
“It’s got about and into the papers. There’s a paragraph about it. They say she fell downstairs.”
“Some servant told, I suppose, and got a dollar for the item. It’s the small bone of her right arm—she was staying with poor uncle Robert, and she had a fall—somehow,” added Ralston, vaguely. “She must have been there when he died. It was awfully sudden at the end. I saw him yesterday afternoon. He seemed pretty strong. I went this morning to enquire about cousin Katharine—they say he died very peacefully. Failure of the heart, you know.”
Bright nodded thoughtfully, as he leaned one elbow upon Ralston’s desk.
“What sort of a will is it going to turn out?” he asked, after a moment’s pause.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” answered John, with perfect truth.
“It would be a good thing for you if he had died intestate. Your mother and old Alexander are the next of kin. They’d get something in the neighbourhood of thirty or forty millions apiece. You’d give up clerking, Jack.”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. If I were ever to have much money, a year in a bank wouldn’t do me any harm. But I’m not likely to stay here. Cousin Alexander’s a good enemy to me. He’s been telling Mr. Beman that I drink, and that sort of thing, and Mr. Beman has requested me to leave on the first of the month.”
“You don’t mean that?” Hamilton Bright’s fair Saxon face reddened in sudden anger for his friend.
“Of course I do.”
Ralston told him exactly what had happened, and by the time he had finished, Alexander Lauderdale Junior had another enemy, and a dangerous one. Had Bright known all, and especially that Katharine owed her broken arm to her father’s violence, something unexpected might have happened. Bright had for Katharine all the Quixotic devotion which a pure and totally unrequited love can inspire in a perfectly simple disposition, which has been brought into rather close contact with the uncompromising code of such a region as the Nacimiento Valley.
“And you wish to stay in the bank?” asked Bright, quietly, at last.
“Yes. And you know very well, Ham, that I’m not as bad as I used to be. I’m going to have a talk with Mr. Beman to-day.”
“Don’t you bother,” answered Bright. “I’ll talk to him—now.”
Hamilton Bright’s broad shoulders swung round, and he went straight to the senior partner’s room. Mr. Beman was in his usual seat at his huge desk.
“I want to speak to you about Ralston, Mr. Beman,” he said, briefly, laying one of his broad hands upon the shelf of the desk. “You’ve told him to go on the first of the month, because Mr. Alexander Lauderdale informed you that he drank.”
“Yes,” answered Mr. Beman, “I have, though I don’t know how you heard that it was through Mr. Lauderdale.”
“Well—it’s a fact, or Ralston wouldn’t have said so, in the first place, and I see you admit it. But there isn’t a word of truth in the story. Ralston gave up wine altogether last winter.”
“Do you mean to say that Mr. Lauderdale has told me—a deliberate falsehood, Mr. Bright?” asked the old banker.
“Yes.”
Now Mr. Beman had a very high opinion of Hamilton Bright, but he looked long and earnestlyinto the clear blue eyes before he made up his mind what to say.
“I’d not considered the affair as of any importance,” he said, at last. “But you’ve made it very serious. Mr. Lauderdale is Ralston’s cousin, and might be supposed to know what he was talking about.”
“Yes. That doesn’t make it any better for him,” observed Bright. “I know what I’m talking about, too. Mr. Lauderdale is a sort of cousin of mine, and I know them all pretty well. I haven’t much opinion of Mr. Lauderdale, myself.”
Again Mr. Beman stared and met the calm blue eyes. He recalled Alexander Junior’s steely grey ones, and did not prefer them. But he said nothing. Bright continued.
“If you can get him to come here, Mr. Beman, I’d like to repeat what I’ve said in his presence. He’s a liar, he’s a sneak, and I’m inclined to think he’s a scoundrel, though I wouldn’t say more.”
But in this Bright did Alexander Junior an injustice. Mr. Beman, however, had not survived fifty years of banking in New York without knowing that just such men as Alexander are sometimes wrecked, morally and financially, after having inspired confidence for half a lifetime.
“You use pretty strong language, Mr. Bright. I’ve known Mr. Lauderdale a long time, but not intimately, though I’ve always considered him avaluable friend in business relations. I shall certainly not countenance any such proceedings as calling him to account for what he said. But if you are sure of Ralston, Mr. Bright, please ask him to step here for a moment. We’ll keep him. Not that he’s likely to stay long,” added Mr. Beman, with a smile. “His mother and Mr. Lauderdale’s father are next of kin to Mr. Robert Lauderdale, who died this morning, I’m told. I should certainly not wish to do an injustice to any near relation of my old acquaintance.”
Hamilton Bright, who rarely wasted words, merely nodded and left the room. He went immediately to Ralston again.
“It’s all right, Jack,” he said. “Mr. Beman wants you to stay, and wants to tell you so. Go right in.”
“Thank you, Ham,” said Ralston, rising.
A moment later he was standing before Mr. Beman. The old gentleman looked up over his glasses.
“Mr. Ralston,” he said, “I’ve reason to believe that I was hasty yesterday. I understand that my friend was mistaken in what he said of you. I regret what I said myself. I shall be very glad if you’ll stay with us. I learn from other sources that you’re very attentive to your work, and I must say—Mr. Ralston—” he smiled pleasantly—“it will be just as well for you to know somethingabout our business, considering the position—the enviable position—which you’ll probably some day occupy.”
John Ralston, the son of one of the next of kin, was not quite the same person as Jack Ralston, the grand-nephew of a millionaire.
“I don’t know what position I’m to occupy,” he answered. “But I’m very glad to stay with you, Mr. Beman—and I’m much obliged to you for doing me this justice.”
“Not at all, not at all. I should be very sorry to do any one an injustice—especially a near relation of my old and valued acquaintance, Mr. Robert Lauderdale.”
Thereupon John Ralston withdrew, very well satisfied. He had a sort of premonition to the effect that things were to go better with him. It was clear, at least, that Alexander Junior could not prevail against him, since John had vanquished him twice within twenty-four hours. He wondered whether Alexander were sitting all alone in his office at the Trust Company, nervously tapping the table with his long, smooth fingers, and wondering how soon he was to know the contents of the will.
The morning wore on, and he could almost see in the faces of his fellow-clerks how the impression was growing that he would turn out to be one of the heirs. There was an indescribable somethingin their glances, a hardly perceptible change in their manner, of which he was aware in spite of himself. But no news came.
At half past twelve he went out and got his luncheon at Sutherland’s, as usual. When he came back, he found a note on his desk from his mother. He opened it in considerable excitement, for he could not deny that he hoped a very large share of the inheritance might come to Mrs. Ralston, if not to himself. But the note contained no final news. Mrs. Ralston said that, considering the enormous value of the estate, the lawyers desired to make the will public as soon as possible—a common measure in such cases, as the sudden demise of very rich men has a tendency to affect public confidence, until it is known who is to have the principal control of the fortune. Mrs. Ralston said that only she herself and old Mr. Alexander Lauderdale, as being the two next of kin, had been requested to hear the will read that afternoon. She advised him to come home and wait for her, as early as he could conveniently leave the bank.
That was all, and he had to possess his soul in patience during several hours more. His mother had not yet seen Katharine, and did not mention her. It was impossible to foresee what she would do, but it was clear enough that she would not, and could not, return to her father’s house at once.
Before the afternoon was far advanced, the wisdomof the lawyers’ advice about the reading of the will became apparent. Rumours were afloat that the whole fortune was to go to old Alexander, and rumour further stated that he was in his dotage, and would be capable of selling miles of real estate to found a refuge for escaped lunatics. Serious persons gave no credit to such talk, of course, but any one acquainted with New York knows how little, at a given moment, may upset the market and cause disaster. The reason of this appears to be that there are more undertakings unfinished yet, or just begun, in America, than there are elsewhere, which depend for their success altogether upon a period of comparative calm in financial affairs. To check them, though they might turn out well, is often to kill them, which means ruin to those who have backed them at the beginning.
But matters proceeded rapidly. Before Ralston left the bank, the newsboys were crying the evening papers, containing, as they avowed, ‘the extraordinary will of Robert Lauderdale.’ In five minutes every one in the bank had read the statement.
There was a paragraph in which, after giving the reasons for making the will public at once, its principal conditions were named. John, who knew nothing of what Katharine had heard, was neither surprised nor disappointed. The paragraph had evidently been written by one of thelawyers, and sent to all the papers for publication, and there was no account of any interview with any of the heirs. It was a plain account, as far as was possible.
Mr. Robert Lauderdale, it said, had never married; but he had numerous relations, who were all descended from the original Alexander Lauderdale, the grandfather of the deceased. In order to avoid all possible litigation after his death, Mr. Lauderdale had left his fortune as though it had been left by his grandfather, regularly distributed amongst all the heirs of the primeval Alexander, with no legacies whatsoever, excepting certain annuities to be bought of an insurance company before the distribution, for the benefit of the servants in his employ at the time of his death. The will, said the paragraph, bore a very recent date, and had been drawn up, strange to say, by a young lawyer of no particular standing. The names of the witnesses were also given, and, oddly enough, they were persons quite unknown to any one concerned. The paragraph went on to say that it was presumed that the will would not be contested by any one, and would be promptly admitted to probate. A list of the heirs followed. They were: Alexander Lauderdale Senior, Alexander Lauderdale Junior, Mrs. Benjamin Slayback, Robert Lauderdale Slayback, her infant son, Miss Katharine Lauderdale, Mrs. Admiral Ralston, John Ralston, Mrs.Richard Bright, Hamilton Bright, Mrs. Walter Crowdie. In all, there were ten living persons. The property was to be divided precisely as though the primeval Alexander had left it to his two sons, and as though they, in turn, had divided it amongst their children, down to the youngest living heir, who was Benjamin Slayback’s baby boy.
John Ralston pored over the paragraph till he knew it by heart. Then, as soon as he proceeded to apply the terms to actual circumstances, he saw that one-half of the whole fortune must go to Hamilton Bright, his mother, and his sister, Hester Crowdie. Of the remaining half, he and his mother would have half between them, or a quarter of the whole. The smallest share would go to those who actually bore the name of Lauderdale, for only the last quarter would remain to be distributed between the two Alexanders, Charlotte, Katharine, and Charlotte’s child. Robert Lauderdale had thus provided a little more liberally for Katharine and himself than for most of the members of the family, since they were to have, ultimately, more than a quarter of the whole. And Alexander Junior would get one of the smallest shares. But it seemed strange that the Brights should have so much, though it was just possible that the old gentleman might have thought it wise to place a large share in the hands of atrained man of business who would keep it together.
On his side, Hamilton Bright had made the same calculations, and was as near to losing his head with delight as his calm nature made possible. He came up to Jack, and proposed that they should walk up town together and discuss matters.
“I can’t,” answered Ralston. “I’ll go a bit of the way on foot, but my mother wants to see me as soon as possible.”
They went out, followed by the envious eyes of many who had read the paragraphs. In a few days they were both to have millions.
“Well,” said Ralston, when they were together on the pavement of Broad Street, “it’s a queer will, isn’t it? I suppose we ought to congratulate each other.”
“Wait till it’s all settled,” answered Bright, cautiously. “Not that there’s going to be any difficulty, as far as I can see,” he added. “It seems to be all right, and properly witnessed.”
“Oh—it’s all right enough. But if Alexander Junior can fight it, he will. He’s come out worse than he expected. The only odd thing, to my mind, is the name of the lawyer. Who is George W. Russell, anyway? Did you ever hear of him?”
“Oh, yes—I know who he is. He’s a young chap who’s lately set up for himself—real estate. I think I heard of his doing some work for uncleRobert last year. He’s all right. And he’d be careful about the witnessing and all that.”
“Yes—well—but why did uncle Robert go to him? Why didn’t he employ his own lawyer—his regular one, I mean—or Henry Brett, or somebody one’s heard of? I should think it would be more natural.”
“Probably he had made another will before, and didn’t like to tell his own lawyer that he was making a new one. I’ve heard it said that old men are queer about that. They don’t want any one to know that they’ve changed their minds. When they do, they’re capable of going to any shyster to get the papers drawn up. That’s probably what uncle Robert did.”
“It’s a very just will in principle,” said Ralston. “I don’t know what it will turn out in practice. I wonder what the estate is really worth.”
“Over eighty millions, anyhow. I know that, because Mr. Beman said he had reason to be sure of it some time ago.”
“That gives us two twenty and you forty amongst you three. You didn’t expect all that, Ham.”
“Expect it! I didn’t expect anything. The old gentleman never said a word to me about it. Of course you were in a different position, your mother being next of kin with old Alexander. But if Alexander Junior broke the will—he can’t though, I’m certain—I shouldn’t get anything. Of course—I think any will’s just that gives me a lot of money. And if Alexander fights, I’ll fight, too.”
“He will, if he has an inch of ground to stand on. By the bye, if all goes smoothly, I suppose you’ll retire from business, and I shall stop clerking, and Crowdie will give up painting.”
“I don’t know,” answered Bright. “As for me, I think I shall stick to the bank. There’ll be more interest in the thing when I’ve got a lot of money in it. Crowdie? Oh—he’ll go on painting as long as he can see. He likes it—and it isn’t hard work.”
They talked a little longer in the same strain, and then Ralston left his friend and went up town by the Elevated, pondering deeply on the situation. One thing seemed clear enough. However matters turned out, whether Alexander Junior fought the will or not, Ralston and Katharine would be free to declare their marriage as soon as they pleased. That consideration outweighed all others with him at the present moment, for he was tired of waiting. It was four months since he had been married, and in that time he had seldom had an opportunity of talking freely with his wife. The perpetual strain of secrecy was wearing upon his nervous nature. He would at any time have preferred to fight any one or anything, rather than have anythingto conceal, and concealment had been forced upon him as a daily necessity.
He said to himself with truth that he might as well have struck Alexander for one reason as for another; that he might just as well have faced him about the marriage as about the calumny upon his own character which Alexander had uttered. But circumstances had been against his doing so. At no moment yet, until the present, had he felt himself quite free to take Katharine from her home and to bring her to his mother’s. Alexander’s own violence had made it possible. And he had intended, or he and his mother had agreed, to take the step at once, when suddenly Robert Lauderdale’s death had arrested everything. There were fifty reasons for not declaring the marriage now, or for several weeks to come—chief of all, perhaps, the mere question of good taste. To declare a marriage on the very morrow of a death in the family would surprise people; the world would find it easy to believe that the young couple had acted contrary to Robert Lauderdale’s wishes, and had waited for his death, in fear of losing any part of the inheritance by offending him. Such haste would not be decent.
But there would be no need to wait long, John thought, and in the meantime Katharine could surely not go back to Clinton Place.
Wherever else she might be, he should haveplenty of opportunities of seeing her at his leisure. He reached his home and found his mother waiting for him in his study. She was pale and looked tired.
“I suppose you’ve heard?” she said, interrogatively, as he entered. “I see it’s in all the papers.”
“Yes,” answered John, gravely. “I’ve been talking with Ham Bright—we left the bank together.”
“I suppose he’s in the seventh heaven,” said Mrs. Ralston. “Who would ever have expected such a will?”
“I’m sure I didn’t. May I smoke, mother? I haven’t had a chance all day.”
“Of course—always smoke. I like it. Jack—I’ve been there most of the day, you know. I went in twice to look at him. What a grand old man he was! I wish you could see him lying there on white velvet like an old king.”
“I don’t like to see dead people,” answered Ralston, lighting a cigar. “Besides—I was fond of him.”
“So was I. Don’t think I wasn’t, my dear—very fond of him. But you and I don’t look at those things just in the same way, I know. I wish I could see them as you do—dream of something beyond, as you do. To me—feeling that it’s all over, and that he is there, dead on his bed, andnowhere else, all there is of him now, or ever will be—well, I was glad to see him as I did. I shall always remember him as I saw him to-day. I wish I believed something. To me—the only hope is the hope of memory for good things and forgetfulness for bad things, as long as life lasts. I’ve got another good memory of a good man I was fond of—so I’ve got something.”
“It’s a depressing sort of creed,” said Ralston, smoking thoughtfully. “Not that mine’s worth much, I suppose. Still—”
He let the word imply what it might, and puffed slowly at his cigar. Mrs. Ralston passed her hand over her eyes, and said nothing in answer.
“I don’t care!” exclaimed John, suddenly. “I can’t believe it all ends here. I can’t, and I won’t. There’s something—somewhere, I daresay I shall never get it, but there’s something. I know it, because I feel there is. It’s in me, and you, and everybody.”
Mrs. Ralston smiled sadly. She had heard her husband triumphantly refute the ontological argument many a time.
“I wish I felt it in me, then,” she answered, sincerely. “Jack—isn’t there something strange about this will, though? An unknown lawyer, servants for witnesses—all that, as though it had been done in a hurry. It seems odd to me.”
“Yes. Bright and I were talking about it.”
He went on to tell her what Bright thought.
“He says he knows the lawyer, though,” he concluded, “and that he’s a straight man, so it must be all right.”
“Mr. Allen said he’d only heard his name mentioned once or twice lately,” said Mrs. Ralston. “It was a long, long will. Then every servant was mentioned by name. I had no idea there could be so many in the house.”
“Who are the witnesses?” asked John.
“One was the secretary—you know? That nice young fellow who used to be about. I don’t know who the others were—I’ve forgotten their names. Mr. Allen didn’t seem to think there’d be any difficulty about finding them. He thought the property was all in this State—most of it’s in the city, so that the will could be proved immediately.”
“Well—I hope so. But I believe there’ll be some trouble. Alexander only comes in for a small share. He’ll do his best to break the will, so as to get the money divided between his father and you. The Brights would get nothing, in that case. We should get a lot more, of course—but then—I can’t realize what twenty millions mean, can you? What difference will it make in our lives, whether we have twenty or forty? Those sums are mythological, anyhow. The more a man has, above ten millions, the more care and bother and worry, and enemies he’s got for the rest of his life.”
“I’m glad to hear you talk in that way, Jack,” said Mrs. Ralston. “It’s just my feeling. But it’s not everybody who thinks so. Most men—well, you know!”
“I think you’re mistaken there, mother,” answered Ralston. “I’m talking of private individuals, of course—not of men who are in big things, like railways, or banks—but just private persons who want to live on their income and enjoy themselves, and who haven’t enormous families, of course. No reasonable being can spend more than five hundred thousand a year without trouble—at least, I don’t think so. Uncle Robert didn’t actually spend three hundred thousand, I’ve heard it said. He cared for nothing but white velvet and horses—of all things to go together! Of course he gave away a million a year or so. But that doesn’t count as expenses. All the rest just rolled up, and he had to spend hours and hours every day in taking care of it. Now, I just ask you, what possible satisfaction can there be in that? And everybody thinks just the same who’s not a born idiot—or a financier. Now Bright—he’s different. He’s a partner in Beman’s and finance amuses him. He’d like to be the Astors and the Vanderbilts and the Rothschilds and all the rest of them, rolled into one. He’d like to ride Wall Street like a pony and direct millions, as he owns cattle out in the Nacimiento Valley. Iwouldn’t, for my part. Twenty thousand a year has always seemed wealth to me, though most people one knows say one can’t more than live on it. Did you see Katharine, mother?”
“Of course. We had a long talk.”
“You didn’t tell her anything, I suppose? I mean, what we were talking about last night?”
“No. I thought you’d rather tell her that you’d told me. Besides—just now! But she can’t stay there, Jack. It’s rather a ghastly situation—alone in the house with the dead man, and only the servants. That nurse has stayed, though, to take care of her arm. But it’s grim—all the shades down, and every one talking in whispers. She was in one of the back rooms, so that she could have the window open.”
“Oh—she was up, then, was she? Dressed, and all that?”
“Yes—it’s the small bone of the arm. She won’t have to stay in bed. You can go and see her if you like. That is, if she’s still there. I advised her to go and stay with the Crowdies. She looked at me as though she wondered whether I knew anything. I suppose she expected that I’d advise her to go home. But that’s impossible.”
“Of course—but she hates Crowdie. We all do, for that matter. I don’t believe she’ll go. Didn’t she say?”
“No. Why do we all hate Crowdie? We do—it’s quite true. By the bye, he’s distinguished himself to-day. You know that picture of Katharine?”
“Yes—he gave it to poor uncle Robert only yesterday.”
“Well—he came and took it away this morning before ten o’clock. Katharine told me.” Mrs. Ralston laughed without smiling.
“Upon my word! But it’s rather curious, though. I didn’t know he was mean. He never seemed to be, somehow.”
“No—I know. It struck me as strange, too. A new light on his character.”
“I fancy he has some object. I hate him—I loathe him! But that isn’t like him. I wonder whether Hester was angry because he gave it away. It was for her, you know, and she may not have liked his giving it away. I’ll go and see Katharine. Was it late when you left there?”
“About half past four. I stayed with her a long time after the lawyer had gone.”
“Mother,” said Ralston, suddenly, “why can’t we just face it out and bring her here? Would it look too strange, do you think?”
“Yes. People would say we’d waited for poor uncle Robert to die. You must have a little more patience, dear boy.”
“That’s just what I thought at first,” answeredRalston. “I’ll go and see her. If she hadn’t left at half past four, I don’t believe she’ll leave to-day. When is the funeral to be?”
“Day after to-morrow, I think.”
END OF VOL. I.
Ralstonwas mistaken in supposing that Katharine had abandoned all idea of leaving the house on the Park because it was so late. Depressed as she was, and in almost constant pain from her arm, the atmosphere was altogether too melancholy for her to bear. Moreover, she saw how utterly unnatural her staying must seem in the eyes of the world, should her acquaintances ever find out that she had remained all alone in the great house after her uncle’s death. After Mrs. Ralston had left her, she had made up her mind to leave in any case, had caused her belongings to be got ready, and had ordered a carriage. But she had not quite decided whither she would go, and Ralston found her in the library still turning the matter over.
“Oh, Jack!” she cried, “I’m so glad you’ve come, dear!”
“I came this morning,” he answered. “But you weren’t awake yet. You’re dressed to go out—surely you’re not going to move at this hour? Tell me—how’s the arm? Does it hurt you much?”
“Oh—it hurts, of course,” said Katharine, almost indifferently. “That is—it’s numb, don’t you know? But Doctor Routh says there’s nothing to be done for a day or two, and he hasn’t moved the bandages. Now don’t talk about it any more—there are other things much more important. Sit down, Jack—there, in uncle Robert’s chair. Poor uncle Robert!” she exclaimed, in a different tone, realizing that the old man would never sit beside her again.
“Poor man!” echoed Ralston, with real sorrow in his voice.
There was silence for a moment while they both thought of him. The stillness of the whole house was oppressive. There was an odour of many fresh flowers, and the peculiar smell of new black stuffs which the disposers of the dead bring with them. With a sort of instinct of sympathy, John bent down and kissed the gloved wrist of Katharine’s left hand as it lay on the arm of the easychair. She looked at him quickly, moved her hand a little towards him in thanks, and smiled sadly before she spoke.
“Jack—I can’t stay here,” she said. “I’m not nervous, you know, but I’m not quite myself after all this. It’s too awfully melancholy. Every time I go to my room I have to pass the door ofthe room where he’s lying—and then I go in and look at him. It’s got to be a fixed idea—if I go near the door I have to go in. And it brings it all back. Then all the people—they come in shoals. There have been ever so many who’ve wanted to look. It’s that horrible curiosity about death. All the relations. Even the three Miss Miners came. I thought they’d never go. Of course I don’t see them, so I have to be always dodging in here or into the drawing-room, or the gallery, or else I have to stay in my room. It will be worse to-morrow.”
“Yes,” answered Ralston. “You ought not to stay.” He paused a moment. “Dear,” he added, “I want you to know it at once—I’ve told my mother that we’re married—”
“Oh, Jack!” exclaimed Katharine, taken by surprise.
“It was much better. I am not sure that it wouldn’t have been better to tell her long ago. She was hurt, because I’d kept it from her—but she’s very glad, all the same. You see, she would have had to know it all some day—don’t you think I was right to tell her?”
“Yes—I suppose so. Do you know? I’m a little bit afraid of her—well—not exactly afraid, perhaps—I don’t know how to express it—”
“You needn’t be. She thinks there’s nobody like you!”
“I’m glad she’s fond of me,” said Katharine. “I’m glad you’ve told her—I was a little surprised at first, that was all. Yes—I’m glad that she knows.”
She was evidently thinking over the situation, wondering, perhaps, what her next meeting with her mother-in-law was to be like.
“She’s been here with you, hasn’t she?” asked John, resuming the conversation after a short pause.
“Yes, and my own mother, too—and then Mr. Allen, and dear old grandpapa. Poor old gentleman! He sat in a chair and cried like a baby when he went in. And then the reading of the will—and the endless people—the people who have to do with the funeral, you know. All those things jar on me. I must get away. I can’t stand it another hour—at least—not alone. I think I shall go home, after all.”
“Home?” repeated Ralston, in surprise. “But how can you, after all this? Just think how your father will behave! Especially since he’s heard of the will. I’m sure he expected to divide everything with my mother, unless he managed to get it all for himself. I see why you promised not to tell after uncle Robert had told you—”
“No—you don’t see, Jack,” answered Katharine, thoughtfully. “I wonder whether it would be right for me to tell you now. I suppose so.It may make a difference, though I suppose it can’t, really.”
“Do just as you feel, yourself,” said Ralston. “You know what he said—I don’t. I can’t judge for you.”
Katharine was silent for a few moments. Then it seemed best to confide in him, and she turned towards him suddenly.
“I’ll tell you, Jack. This is not the will he told me of. It’s quite different in every way. It was only made a few days ago.”
“Well, then, this is the valid one.”
“Yes—of course. The secretary knew where it was—in a drawer of this desk, here. Uncle Robert had told him it was there, only two days ago, in case of his death. The key was on his chain, on the dressing-table upstairs. You see the secretary was one of the witnesses.”
“That’s an advantage, anyway. Witnesses are often hard to find, I know. So this will is quite different from the old one?”
“Oh—quite! The one he told me about left everything to you and Charlotte and me—in three trusts, I think he said. We were all to give half our income to the parents—papa and my mother and your mother—and we were all to support grandpapa. The Brights were to have a million, and there was something for the Miners.”
“Why, that would have given you and metwo-thirds of the fortune! That would hardly have been fair.”
“No—it seemed a great deal. But you see he changed his mind before he died. It’s much more just, as it is—though it does seem as though grandpapa and papa ought to have more than the Brights.”
“I don’t see why, if you look at it logically—they’re descended just as directly from our great-great-grandfather—”
“Yes—but what had he to do with it? The money didn’t come from him.”
“No—still—to avoid all quarrelling, there was no other way. Only—it’s going to make the biggest family quarrel there’s ever been since wills were invented. That’s the real logic of events. Things always turn out like that. ‘Better is the enemy of good,’ you know. Now, let me see. Your father is going to try and break the will, of course. Your grandfather will go with him, because if there’s no will, he’ll get half—for his asylums and charities. Then I suppose I ought to advise my mother to go with him against the will, too, if there’s any good ground for breaking it. Of course we don’t want half of what he’s left us, as it is—but still, if it’s law, it’s law, and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t have what belongs to us, if it does belong to us. The Crowdies are as prosperous as possible. Ham Bright’s getting rich,I know—and then—I say, Katharine, if this will breaks down, would the will he told you about be good, if we could find it? That’s a curious question. I must ask a lawyer.”
“I don’t know anything about those things. But it’s getting late, Jack. I must be going—somewhere, but where, I can’t tell! I think I’d much better go home and face it out with papa. I’m right, and he’s wrong, and he’s got to give in sooner or later. I’d much better go, and put an end to all this—this tension.”
“You’re brave enough for anything!” exclaimed Ralston, with admiration. “Still, if I were you, I wouldn’t go till after the funeral, at all events. Don’t you think if my mother came here and stayed with you—”
“No, no, Jack! I can’t stand it any longer. I can’t help going to look at him—I should go in the night—and it’s making me nervous.”
“How funny! But if you don’t want to go into the room, why do you go?”
“I can’t help it—I don’t know. I’m a woman, you know, and those things take hold of one so!”
“Somebody ought to stay. I think I will. But you’d much better go to the Crowdies’. I know you can’t bear him, but it would only be for a couple of days. You’d be with Hester all the time, and you like her, and you needn’t see much of him.”
“I thought of going to the Brights’. Old Mrs. Bright and I are great friends.”
“No—don’t! It’s hard on Ham. He’s so awfully in love with you.”
“Yes—perhaps he is. But he’s down town all day—I should only see him at dinner, and a little in the evening.”
“Don’t be ruthless, Katharine!” exclaimed John, with almost involuntary reproach in his tone.
“Ruthless?” she repeated. “I don’t understand. What is there that’s ruthless in that? I could see you so much more freely.”
“Why—don’t you know how it hurts—that sort of thing? To go and stay under the same roof with a man who loves you, when you know, and he knows, that you can never possibly love him?”
“I suppose it does,” answered Katharine, vaguely. “I hadn’t thought of that. But then, you know, Ham would never say anything, any more than if he knew we were married.”
“That just makes it so much the harder,” replied Ralston, smiling at her woman’s view of the case. “Don’t you see?”
“Well—of course, if you don’t want me to go, Jack, I won’t. I believe you’re jealous of Ham!” She laughed a little and looked at him lovingly.
“There’s no fear of that,” he said. “But he’s always been a good friend to me. I know whathe’d suffer for those two or three days, though you can’t understand it, I suppose. I don’t want him to suffer on my account.”
“Oh, very well. It seemed simpler, that’s all. I dislike Walter Crowdie so—I can’t tell you! I thought of going to your house. I suppose you thought of it, too—but, of course, it wouldn’t do at all.” She laughed again, a little nervously this time.
“It’s not to be thought of,” answered Ralston, gravely.
“Then there’s nothing for it but to go to the Crowdies’. Will you take me down there? I’ve ordered the carriage, and I suppose it’s ready by this time. There can’t be any harm in our driving down together, can there?”
“Oh, no—I should think not. We’ll pull the shades half down. Is it one of uncle Robert’s carriages?”
“No—I sent to the livery stable. The men have no mourning coats—and I thought it would be odd if the carriage were seen driving about as though nothing had happened.”
Ralston could not help contrasting the tactful foresight of this proceeding with Katharine’s readiness to inflict any amount of pain upon Hamilton Bright. It was quite true that he could see her alone more easily at the Brights’ than at the Crowdies’, but his own consideration for his friendaltogether outweighed the thought. Katharine saw that it did. She returned to the discussion when they were in the carriage.
“I should have thought you’d prefer to see me at the Brights’, Jack,” she said. “It would be so much nicer. Of course, at the Crowdies’ I can’t be always sending Hester off whenever you come. How strange you are sometimes! You don’t seem to see things as I do.”
“Not this, anyway,” cried John, arranging the shades as the carriage turned into Fifth Avenue. “I’m sorry for Ham.”
“I should think you’d sacrifice him a little for the sake of seeing me.” Her tone showed that she was a little hurt.
“Oh—of course! That is—” he interrupted himself—“that is, you know, if it were very important.”
“But isn’t it important—as you call it? I wonder whether it means as much to you as it does to me?” She looked at him.
“What?” he asked.
“Our meeting just as often as we can, for a minute, for an hour, to be together as long as possible. You don’t seem to care as much as I do?”
“Indeed I do!” protested John, laying his hand on hers. “How can you say such a thing, dear? You know how much I care!”
“Yes—but I sometimes wonder—” She hesitated. “You don’t think that means that there is any difference in our love, do you?” she asked suddenly, as though she could not help it.
“Why, no! What difference should there be? We both care just the same—only each in our own way, I suppose.”
Ralston’s experience was limited, and he was not to be blamed for being a little obtuse and slow to understand. This was a new phase, too, and he was ready to reproach himself with having inadvertently been the cause of it.
“That’s just it,” answered Katharine. “You say, each in our own way—it seems to me that there’s only one way—and that’s the very most that can be. That’s what I mean, dear. There mustn’t be two ways. There’s only one way of caring.”
“Well—that’s our way, isn’t it?” asked Ralston, watching her tenderly.
“Not if it isn’t just the same for both of us. Because you’re a man and I’m a woman—that’s not a reason for there being any difference—I’m sure it isn’t, Jack!” she added, earnestly.
“Of course not!” he answered, not at all seeing what else he could say.
“Yes—but—” She stopped again and looked into his eyes.
John was not good at phrases. Under great emotionhe could be eloquent in few words—with the short, burning syllables, trembling like fire-tongues from a furnace, which break through a man’s outer self now and then. But at the present moment he felt no deep emotion—scarcely any emotion at all, in fact. For months he had been used to the idea that the beautiful young girl by his side was his lawful wife. For months he had been accustomed to short, half-clandestine meetings. The great thing, his real life with her, was as far off as ever, in his heart’s sight, though his reason told him that the long period of probation was drawing to a close. A habit had formed itself in his heart of taking for granted, without words, that each loved the other truly, and that each was waiting for the other. He had won her long ago. His business of late had been to overcome circumstances, and he felt that his actions might speak for him now, without language to help them. Yet he felt sorely at the present moment the need of the phrase, and the absence of the heart-beat that might prompt it. He saw that she missed it, but though he loved her so dearly he could not force it to come. She should have been thankful that he could not, and grateful to fate for his inexperience.
It is a long drive from the corner of the Park to Lafayette Place, where the Crowdies lived. The distance is fully two miles and a half, and John realized that in the twenty minutes before himthere was time for many misunderstandings. With his natural directness, he spoke out.
“Darling,” he said, “don’t let’s be foolish, and quarrel over nothings—”
“Quarrel? With you? Why—I’d rather die, Jack dear! It’s not that. I was only thinking—”
She stopped, evidently with no intention of completing the sentence, which meant, doubtless, a great deal to her, though it was vague to him. But he had begun his explanation, and was not to be hindered from pursuing it to the end.
“Yes, I know,” he replied, as though setting aside all her possible objections. “Let’s look at it sensibly. It amounts to this. We both love each other with all our hearts. You always say ‘care’ instead of ‘love.’ I suppose it’s a euphemism. But I say it just as it is. Do you think we should have gone through all we have for each other if we didn’t love with all our hearts? I know we couldn’t. And as for me, I’m perfectly sure I never cared two straws for any one else. Aren’t you?”
“Jack!” exclaimed Katharine, almost offended at the idea.
“Yes—well,” he continued, rapidly, “it isn’t possible to say which has done the most, or said the most, for the other’s sake. I think you’ve done more for me than I have for you, if you wantto know—but that’s been the result of circumstances. You know I’d have done anything under the sun, at any moment, don’t you?”
“Of course I do! Do you think I’d have made you marry me if I hadn’t known that?”
“Well—that’s all right. As for saying things—I’ve said a great deal more than you have. I’ve told you I love you several hundred thousand times in the last year or two—haven’t I?”
“Yes—I’ve not counted.” Katharine smiled, but Ralston did not see his advantage.
“I don’t say that I’ve found many new words to say it with,” he pursued. “It doesn’t always seem to need new words, and if it did—well, I’m not an author, you know. I’m not Frank Miner. I can’t go about with a dictionary in my pocket, looking up new suits of clothes for my feelings every time I want to air them. And sometimes I’ve said it to please you, just because I knew you wanted me to say it and would be disappointed if I didn’t. You see how frank I am.”
“Yes—you’re very frank!” She laughed a little, but rather hardly, as though something hurt her.
“Don’t misunderstand me, dear,” he said, quickly. “You do—I see you do. It’s just because I won’t be misunderstood that I’m talking as I am. What I’m driving at is this. It isn’t true that words never mean anything, as some people say—”
“Who says so? What nonsense!”
“Oh—people say it—books do—when the authors can’t find the words people really say when they mean things. But it’s not true. Words mean a great deal, when they do—when they just come because they must, you know, in spite of everything and everybody—when they’ve strength enough to force themselves out, instead of being dragged out, like olives out of a bottle, and presented to you on a plate. But when they’re real, they’re very real, with all of one, like pain or pleasure. Actions always mean something. That’s the point. There’s no possible mistake when a man does things that need a lot of doing, and don’t come easily. Then you know he’s in earnest, if you’ll only look at what he does. Don’t you think that’s true, Katharine?”
“Yes—oh, yes! That’s true enough. But it needn’t prevent a man from saying that he cares—”
“Of course not—but if he doesn’t happen to want to say it just at that moment—”
“But you should always want to say it. Don’t you always feel it?” She looked at him in an odd surprise.
“Feel it—yes—always,” he answered, quickly. “But I don’t always want to say just what I feel. Do you?”
“No. But that’s different. It makes me sohappy when you say it, as you can say it sometimes.”
“And don’t you think it makes me happy when you say it?” he retorted. “And you don’t say it half as often as I do, I’m sure.”
“Don’t I? But I feel it, Jack.” Her eyes sought his, and found them looking at her.
“Well—then—don’t you understand?” he asked.
But his voice was low, and it hardly reached her ears as the carriage rumbled along, though she knew that his lips moved, and she tried hard to catch the sounds. For a few seconds longer they looked into one another’s eyes. Then, without word or warning, Ralston took his wife in his arms and kissed her passionately again and again.
No one in the street could have seen, for the shades were half down and the evening light was waning. The sun had just set, and the dark red houses were floating in the afterglow, as everything seems to float when twilight lifts reality from the earth into its dreamland. And the carriage rolled and rumbled steadily along. But within it there was silence for a while, as heart beat with heart and breath breathed with breath.
“Jack—let me go to the Brights’,” said Katharine, suddenly, after what had seemed a very long time.
Her voice was quite changed. It sounded so softand touching that Ralston could not resist it, being taken unawares.
“Dear—if you’d so much rather,” he answered, with hardly any hesitation.
“Then tell the coachman, please,” she replied at once, without giving him time to change his mind.
It was instinctive, and she could not help it. He yielded almost without reluctance, and lowering the window in the front of the carriage, spoke to the coachman. Katharine breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’m so glad—oh, I’m so glad!” she cried, leaning far back in her seat. “I couldn’t have stood Crowdie for a whole evening!”
Ralston said nothing in answer, for he was already repenting of his weakness, and the vision of his friend’s face rose before him, with all its habitual calm cheerfulness suddenly twisted out of it.
“Thank you, dear,” said Katharine, softly laying her sound hand upon his. “That was sweet of you. You don’t know how I feel about it. And you’ll come in this evening, won’t you? Then perhaps Ham will go out. And Mrs. Bright always goes to bed early, so we can have an hour or two all to ourselves.”
“Certainly,” answered Ralston, a little absently, for he was thinking more of Bright than of himself just then.
Katharine withdrew her hand from his, not quickly, nor so that he should think she was hurt again by his tone. And she really suppressed the little sigh of disappointment which rose to her lips.
They had been already in Fourth Avenue when Ralston had given the new direction to the coachman, and he had turned his horses and was driving back. The Brights lived in a small but pretty house in Park Avenue, on Murray Hill. It was some distance to go back.
“Jack,” said Katharine, quietly, “Hamilton Bright’s your friend. Don’t you think you’d better tell him that we’re married, and put him out of his misery? Don’t you think it would be much more kind? You can trust him, can’t you?”
“Just as I’d trust myself,” answered Ralston, without hesitation. “It’s for your sake, dear—otherwise, I should have told him long ago. But you know what most people think of secret marriages, and Ham’s full of queer prejudices. Even the West couldn’t knock them out of him. He’s the most terrific conservative about some things. That’s the reason why I never thought of suggesting that I might tell him. Of course—if you’d rather. It would be a blow to him, I think, but at the same time it’s much better that he should know, for his own sake. Only—I’d rather not tell him while you’re in the house.”
“Oh—if it’s going to make any difference about my staying there, we’d better wait,” answered Katharine. “Of course—I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose it would make it all the worse, just at first. He wouldn’t like to see me. But he must have known, long ago, that we were engaged, and that he had no chance.”
“The one doesn’t follow the other,” answered Ralston. “A man like Ham doesn’t give up hope until the girl he loves is married and done for.”
“Married and done for! Jack! How you talk!”
“Oh—it’s a way of saying that she’s out of reach, that’s all. I’ve heard you say it lots of times. No,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “I think it would be kinder to wait till you come away. But of course I could tell him any day, down town.”
“Do as you think best, dear. Whatever you do will be right. Only—” She stopped, and looked out of the window on her right, away from Ralston.
“Only what?” he asked.
“Only love me!” she cried, almost fiercely, and turning upon him so quickly that she pressed her injured right arm against the side of the carriage. “Only love me as I want to be loved—as I must be loved—”
The passion in her outran the pain of the physicalhurt, that crept after it and reached her a moment later, so that she turned a little pale. Jack did not know of that, and in his eyes the pallor was of the heart, as the voice was, and the words. It made her more beautiful, and made love seem more true. Then his own heart beat hard, answering the call of hers, as wave answers wave, and his arms were around her again in an instant.
But at that moment the carriage stopped before the Brights’ house. A smile came into the face of both of them as they drew back from one another. Then Ralston opened the door and got out.
It might not have been easy to explain to Mrs. Bright exactly why Katharine had arrived unexpectedly with a box and a valise to stay three or four days with her, instead of going to her own house at such a time. She knew, of course, that the young girl had been at Robert Lauderdale’s during the last twenty-four hours. But Mrs. Bright wanted no explanations, and was overjoyed to have Katharine for any reason, or without any. She received her with open arms, ordered her things to be taken upstairs, asked Ralston to stay and have some tea, and at once began making many enquiries about Katharine’s arm. Ralston went away immediately, however. After being alone with Katharine in the carriage, as he had been, he did not care to sit still and listen to the excellent Mrs. Bright’s questions.
“Thank you, dear,” said Katharine again, in an undertone, as he bade her good-bye. “Come this evening. May Jack come this evening, aunt Maggie?” she asked, turning to Mrs. Bright.
“Of course, my dear—whenever he likes,” answered the cheerful lady.
Mrs. Bright was a great-granddaughter of the primeval Alexander. Her mother had been Margaret Lauderdale. By no possible interpretation of the relationship was she entitled to be considered the aunt of any member of the tribe. But they one and all called her aunt Maggie. Even the three Miss Miners, who were nieces of Mr. Bright’s father, called her so, and the custom had become fixed and unchangeable in the course of many years. Of late, even grandpapa Lauderdale, the philanthropist, had fallen into the habit, much to the amusement of everybody.
Mrs. Bright was a huge, fair, happy-faced woman with an amazingly kind heart and a fresh face, peculiar from the apparent absence of eyebrows—which existed, indeed, but were almost white by nature. She had the busy manner peculiar to a certain type of very stout people. When she was not asleep she was doing good to somebody—but she slept a great deal. Her tastes were marvellously good, highly refined, and very fastidious. Cleanliness is a virtue next to godliness, according to the proverb—and since a number of personshave relegated godliness to the catalogue of obsolete superstitions, cleanliness with them, at least, should stand first of all. But Mrs. Bright’s mania was specklessness surpassing all dreams of cleanliness, as pure spring water surpasses soap as a symbol of purity. She took care to see that her house was swept, and she garnished it herself. She exhaled a faint suggestion of sprigs of lavender.
Hamilton Bright inherited his fresh complexion, sturdy build, and solid good humour from her, but a certain shyness and reserve which were among his characteristics had come to him from his father.
To Katharine’s surprise, he was already at home, and came down to see her as soon as he heard that she was in the house. He sat down by the little tea-table which stood between her and his mother, and he wondered inwardly why she had come. He was pleased, however, and it seemed to him that her coming crowned the day which had brought him such vast and unexpected good fortune. There are men who love with all their hearts and who are not loved in return, nor have any hope of such love, whose greatest happiness is to see the vainly worshipped object of their misplaced affections under just such circumstances. Bright was delighted that Katharine should be his guest and his mother’s—she was his guest first, in his thoughts, and it gave him the keenest pleasure to see herdrinking his and his mother’s tea out of his and his mother’s old Dresden teacups, just as though it were her own, and thinking it just as good.
He asked no questions, and he thought of no answers which she might give if he asked any. He was simply pleased, and wished nothing to interfere with his satisfaction as long as it might last.
“It’s awfully jolly to see you here,” he said, after he had looked at her for nearly a minute.
“Well, you can’t be half as pleased as I am,” she answered. “I was there all last night, you know, and all to-day. It’s grim. I couldn’t stand it any longer. And I knew they didn’t exactly expect me at home—and I didn’t want to go to Hester’s, so I thought I’d drop down upon you without warning, as I knew you had nobody staying with you. But it was rather a calm thing to do, now that I think of it—wasn’t it, aunt Maggie?”