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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b9a4676 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #50607 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50607) diff --git a/old/50607-0.txt b/old/50607-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 40220f0..0000000 --- a/old/50607-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8761 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Katherine Lauderdale; vol. 1 of 2, by F. Marion Crawford - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Katherine Lauderdale; vol. 1 of 2 - -Author: F. Marion Crawford - -Release Date: December 4, 2015 [EBook #50607] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KATHERINE LAUDERDALE; VOL. 1 OF 2 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - KATHARINE LAUDERDALE - - [Illustration: colophon] - - [Illustration: F. Marion Crawford with signature.] - - - - - KATHARINE LAUDERDALE - - BY - - F. MARION CRAWFORD - - AUTHOR OF “SARACINESCA,” “PIETRO GHISLERI,” ETC. - - VOL. I - - WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALFRED BRENNAN - - New York - - MACMILLAN AND CO. - - AND LONDON - - 1894 - - _All rights reserved_ - - COPYRIGHT, 1893, - - BY F. MARION CRAWFORD. - - Norwood Press: - J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith. - Boston, Mass., U.S.A. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - -CHAPTER I. 1 - -CHAPTER II. 25 - -CHAPTER III. 47 - -CHAPTER IV. 69 - -CHAPTER V. 92 - -CHAPTER VI. 113 - -CHAPTER VII. 137 - -CHAPTER VIII. 159 - -CHAPTER IX. 182 - -CHAPTER X. 200 - -CHAPTER XI. 223 - -CHAPTER XII. 244 - -CHAPTER XIII. 266 - -CHAPTER XIV. 288 - -CHAPTER XV. 312 - - - - -LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. - -VOL. I. - - - PAGE - -“A place probably unique in the world” 10 - -“She rose suddenly and pretended to busy herself with the single light” 79 - -“‘What have you decided?’ she enquired” 203 - -“‘Kitty--don’t do what I’ve done,’ she said earnestly” 257 - - - - -KATHERINE LAUDERDALE. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -“I prefer the dark style, myself--like my cousin,” said John Ralston, -thoughtfully. - -“And you will therefore naturally marry a fair woman,” answered his -companion, Hamilton Bright, stopping to look at the display in a -florist’s window. Ralston stood still beside him. - -“Queer things--orchids,” he observed. - -“Why?” Nothing in the world seemed queer or unnatural to Bright, who was -normally constituted in all respects, and had accepted the universe -without comment. - -“I am not sure why. I think the soul must look like an orchid.” - -“You are as bad as a Boston girl,” laughed Bright. “Always thinking of -your soul! Why should the soul be like an orchid, any more than like a -banana or a turnip?” - -“It must be like something,” said Ralston, in explanation. - -“If it’s anything, it’s faith in a gaseous state, my dear man, and -therefore even less visible and less like anything than the common or -market faith, so to say--the kind you get at from ten cents to a dollar -the seat’s worth, on Sundays, according to the charge at the particular -place of worship your craving for salvation leads you to frequent.” - -“I prefer to take mine in a more portable shape,” answered Ralston, -grimly. “By the bottle--not by the seat--and very dry.” - -“Yes--if you go on, you’ll get one sort of faith--the lively evidence of -things unseen--snakes, for instance.” - -Bright laughed again as he spoke, but he glanced at his friend with a -look of interest which had some anxiety in it. John Ralston was said to -drink, and Bright was his good angel, ever striving to be entertained -unawares, and laughing when he was found out in his good intentions. But -if Bright was a very normal being, Ralston was a very abnormal one, and -was, to some extent, a weak man, though not easily influenced by strong -men. A glance at his face would have convinced any one of that--a keen, -nervous, dark face, with those deep lines from the nostrils to the -corners of the mouth which denote uncertain, and even dangerous -tempers--a square, bony jaw, aggressive rather than firm, but not -coarse--the nose, aquiline but delicate--the eyes, brown, restless, and -bright, the prominence of the temples concealing the eyelids entirely -when raised--the forehead, broad, high, and visibly lean like all the -features--the hair, black and straight--the cheek bones, moderately -prominent. Possibly John Ralston had a dash of the Indian in his -physical inheritance, which showed itself, as it almost always does, in -a melancholic disposition, great endurance and an unnatural love of -excitement in almost any shape, together with an inborn idleness which -it was hard to overcome. - -Nothing is more difficult than to convey by words what should be -understood by actual seeing. There are about fifteen hundred million -human beings alive to-day, no two of whom are exactly alike, and we have -really but a few hundreds of words with which to describe any human -being at all. The argument that a few octaves of notes furnish all the -music there is, cannot be brought against us as a reproach. We cannot -speak a dozen words at once and produce a single impression, any more -than we can put the noun before the article as we may strike any one -note before or after another. So I have made acknowledgment of inability -to do the impossible, and apology for not being superhuman. - -John Ralston was dark, good-looking, nervous, excitable, enduring, and -decidedly dissipated, at the age of five and twenty years, which he had -lately attained at the time of the present tale. Of his other gifts, -peculiarities and failings, his speech, conversation and actions will -give an account. As for his position in life, he was the only son of -Katharine Ralston, widow of Admiral Ralston of the United States Navy, -who had been dead several years. - -Mrs. Ralston’s maiden name had been Lauderdale, and she was of Scotch -descent. Her cousin, Alexander Lauderdale, married a Miss Camperdown, a -Roman Catholic girl of a Kentucky family, and had two children, both -daughters, the elder of whom was Mrs. Benjamin Slayback, wife of the -well-known member of Congress. The younger was Katharine Lauderdale, -named after her father’s cousin, Mrs. Ralston, and she was the dark -cousin whom John admired. - -Hamilton Bright was a distant relative to both of these persons. But by -his father’s side he had not originally belonged to New York, as the -others did, but had settled there after spending some years of his early -youth in California and Nevada, and had gone into business. At four and -thirty he was the junior partner in the important firm of Beman Brothers -and Company, Bankers, who had a magnificent building of their own in -Broad Street, and were very solidly prosperous, having shown themselves -to be among the fittest to survive the financial storms of the last -half century. Ralston’s friend was a strong, squarely built, very fair -man, of what is generally called the Saxon type. At first sight, he -inspired confidence, and his clear blue eyes were steady and true. He -had that faculty of looking almost superhumanly neat and spotless under -all circumstances, which is the prerogative of men with straight, flaxen -hair, pink and white complexions, and perfect teeth. It was easy to -predict that he would become too stout with advancing years, and he was -already a heavy man, though not more than half an inch taller than his -friend and distant cousin, John Ralston. But no one would have believed -at first sight that he was nine years older than the latter. - -The nature of friendship between men has been almost as much discussed -as that of love between man and woman, but with very different results. -He laughs at the idea of friendship who turns a little pale at the -memory of love. At all events, most of us feel that friendship is -generally a less certain and undeniable thing, inasmuch as it is harder -to exclude from it the element of personal interest and advantage. The -fact probably is, that no one person can possibly combine all the -elements supposed to make up what every one means by friendship. It -would be far more reasonable to construct one friendship out of many -persons, securing in each of them one at least of the qualities -necessary. For instance, the discreet man, to whom it is safe to tell -secrets when they must be told at all, is not as a matter of course the -man most capable of giving the best advice; nor, if a certain individual -is extremely generous and ready to lend all he has to his friend, does -it follow that he possesses the tough, manly nature that will face -public scorn rather than abandon that friend in his hour of need. Some -men, too, want sympathy in their troubles, and will have it, even at the -cost of common sense. Others need encouragement; others, again, need -most of all to be told the unpleasant truth about themselves in the most -pleasant form practicable. Altogether it seems probable that the ideal -friend must either be an altogether superhuman personage, or a failure -in so far as his own life is concerned. - -Hamilton Bright approached as nearly to that ideal as his humanity would -allow. He did not in the least trouble himself to find out why he liked -Ralston, and wished to be of service to him, and he wisely asked for -nothing whatever in return for what he gave. But he was very far from -looking up to him, and perhaps even from respecting him as he wished -that he might. He simply liked him better than other men, and stood by -him when he needed help, which often happened. - -They left the florist’s window and walked slowly up Fifth Avenue. John -Ralston was a born New Yorker and preferred his own city to any other -place in the world with that solid, satisfactory, unreasoning prejudice -which belongs especially to New Yorkers and Parisians, and of which it -is useless to attempt any explanation. Hamilton Bright, on the contrary, -often wished himself away, and in spite of his excessively correct -appearance even the easy formality of American metropolitan life was -irksome to him. He had loved the West, and in the midst of great -interests and advantages, he regretted his former existence and daily -longed for the clearer air and bolder breath of Nevada. The only objects -about which he ever displayed much enthusiasm were silver and cattle, -about which Ralston knew nothing and cared less. - -“When is it to be?” asked Bright after a long silence. - -Ralston looked at him quickly. - -“What?” he asked in a short tone. - -Bright did not answer at once, and when he spoke his voice was rather -dull and low. - -“When are you going to be married? Everybody knows that you are -engaged.” - -“Then everybody is wrong. I am not engaged.” - -“Oh--I thought you were. All right.” - -Another pause followed and they walked on. - -“Alexander Junior said I was a failure,” observed Ralston at last. “That -was some time ago.” - -“Oh--was that the trouble?” - -Bright did not seem to expect any reply to the question, but his tone -was thoughtful. - -“Yes,” answered Ralston, with a short, discontented laugh. “He said that -I was of no use whatever, that I never did anything and never should.” - -“That settled it, I suppose.” - -“Yes. That settled it. There was nothing more to be said--on his side, -at least.” - -“And how about your side?” - -“We shall see.” - -Ralston shut his lips viciously and his clean-cut, prominent chin looked -determined enough. - -“The fact is,” said his friend, “that Alexander Junior was not so -awfully far wrong--about the past, at all events. You never did anything -in your life except make yourself agreeable. And you don’t seem to have -succeeded in that with him.” - -“Oh, he used to think me agreeable enough,” laughed the younger man. “He -used to play billiards with me by the month for his liver, and then call -me idle for playing with him. I suppose that if I had given up billiards -he would have been impressed with the idea that I was about to reform. -It wouldn’t have cost me much. I hated the stupid game and only played -to amuse him.” - -“All the same--I wish I had your chances--I mean, I wish I may have as -good a chance as you, when I think of getting married.” - -“My chances!” Ralston did not smile now, and his tone was harsh as he -repeated the words. He glanced at his companion. “When will that be?” he -asked after a moment’s pause. “Why don’t you get married, Ham? I’ve -often wondered. But then--you’re so cursedly reasonable about -everything! I suppose you’ll stick to the single ticket as long as you -have strength to resist, and then you’ll marry a nurse. Wise man!” - -“Thank you. You’re as encouraging as usual.” - -“You don’t need encouragement a bit, old man. You’re so full of it -anyhow, that you can spare a lot for other people. You have a deuced -good effect on my liver, Ham. Do you know it? You ought to look -pleased.” - -“Oh, yes. I am. I only wish the encouragement might last a little -longer.” - -“I can’t help being gloomy sometimes--rather often, I ought to say. I -fancy I’m a born undertaker, or something to do with funerals. I’ve -tried a lot of other things for a few days and failed--I think I’ll try -that. By the by, I’m very thirsty and here’s the Hoffman House.” - -“It’s not far to the club, if you want to drink,” observed Bright, -stopping on the pavement. - -“You needn’t come in, if you think it’s damaging to your reputation,” -answered Ralston. - -“My reputation would stand a good deal of knocking about,” laughed -Bright. “I think my character would bear three nights a week in a -Bowery saloon and spare time put in now and then in a University Place -bar, without any particular harm.” - -“By Jove! I wish mine would!” - -“It won’t,” said Bright. “But I wasn’t thinking of your reputation, nor -of anything especial except that things are generally better at a club -than at a hotel.” - -“The Brut is good here. I’ve tried it--often. Come along.” - -“I’ll wait for you outside. I’m not thirsty.” - -“I told you so,” retorted Ralston. “You’re afraid somebody will see -you.” - -“You’re an idiot, Jack!” - -Thereupon Bright led the way into the gorgeous bar, a place probably -unique in the world. A number of pictures by great French masters hang -on the walls--pictures unrivalled, perhaps, in beauty of execution and -insolence of conception. The rest is a blaze of polished marble and -woodwork and gleaming metal. - -Ralston nodded to the bar-tender. - -“What will you have?” he asked, turning to Bright. - -“Nothing, thanks. I’m not thirsty.” - -“Oh--all right,” answered Ralston discontentedly. “I’ll have a pint of -Irroy Brut with a bit of lemon peel in it. Champagne isn’t wine--it’s - -[Illustration: “A place probably unique in the world.”--Vol. I., p. -10.] - -only a beverage,” he added, turning to Bright as though to explain his -reasons for wanting so much. - -“I quite agree with you,” said Bright, lighting a cigar. “Champagne -isn’t wine, and it’s not fit to drink at the best. Either give me wine -that is wine, or give me whiskey.” - -“Whichever you like.” - -“Did you say whiskey, sir?” enquired the bar-tender, who was in the act -of rubbing the rim of a pint glass with a lemon peel. - -“Nothing, thank you. I’m not thirsty,” answered Bright a third time. - -“Hallo, Bright, my little man! What are you doing here? Oh--Jack -Ralston--I see.” - -The speaker was a very minute and cheerful specimen of human New York -club life,--pink-cheeked, black-eyed, neat and brisk, not more than five -feet six inches in height, round as a little barrel, with tiny hands and -feet. He watched Ralston, as soon as he noticed him. The bar-tender had -emptied the pint bottle of champagne into the glass and Ralston had set -it to his lips with the evident intention of finishing it at a draught. - -“Hold on, Jack!” cried Frank Miner, the small man. “I say--easy there! -You’ll have apoplexy or something--I say--” - -“Don’t speak to a man on his drink, Frank,” said Bright, calmly. “When I -drove cattle in the Nacimiento Valley we used to shoot for that.” - -“I shall avoid that place,” answered Miner. - -Ralston drew a long breath as he set down the empty glass. - -“I wanted that,” he said, half to himself. “Hallo, Frank--is that you? -What will you have?” - -“Nothing--now--thank you,” answered Miner. “I’ve satisfied my thirst and -cured my tendency to vice by seeing you take that down. You’re a -beautiful sight and an awful example for a thirsty man. Get -photographed, Jack--they could sell lots of copies at temperance -meetings. Heard the story about the temperance tracts? Stop me if you -have. Man went out to sell teetotal tracts in Missouri. Came back and -his friends were surprised to see him alive. ‘Never had such a good time -in my life,’ said he. ‘Every man to whom I offered a tract pulled out a -pistol and said, “Drink or I’ll shoot.” And here I am.’ There’s a chance -for you, Jack, when you get stuck.” - -Bright and Ralston laughed at the little man’s story and all three -turned and left the bar-room together. - -“Seen the old gentleman lately?” enquired Frank Miner, as they came out -upon the pavement. - -“Do you mean uncle Robert?” asked Bright. - -“Yes--cousin Robert, as we call him.” - -“It always amuses me to hear a little chap like you calling that old -giant ‘cousin,’” said Bright. - -“He likes it. It makes him feel frisky. Besides, he is a sort of cousin. -My uncle Thompson married Margaret Lauderdale--” - -“Oh, yes--I know all about the genealogy,” laughed Bright. - -“Who was Robert Lauderdale’s own cousin,” continued Miner. “And as -Robert Lauderdale is your great-uncle and Jack Ralston’s great-uncle, -that makes you second cousins to each other and makes me your--let me -see--both--” - -“Shut up, Frank!” exclaimed Ralston. “You’ve got it all wrong again. -Uncle Robert isn’t Bright’s great-uncle. He’s first cousin to your -deceased aunt Margaret, who was Bright’s grandmother, and you’re first -cousin to his mother and first cousin, once removed, to him; and he’s my -third cousin and you’re no relation to me at all, except by your uncle’s -marriage, and if you want to know anything more about it you have your -choice between the family Bible and the Bloomingdale insane -asylum--which is a quiet, healthy place, well situated.” - -“Well then, what relation am I to my cousin Robert?” asked Miner, with a -grin. - -“An imaginary relation, my dear boy.” - -“Oh, I say! And his being my very own aunt by marriage’s own cousin is -not to count for anything, because you two are such big devils and I am -only a light weight, and you could polish your boots with me if I made -a fuss! It’s too bad! Upon my word, brute force rules society as much as -it ever did in the middle ages. So there goes my long-cherished claim -upon a rich relation. However, you’ve destroyed the illusion so often -before that I know how to resurrect it.” - -“For that matter,” said Bright, “the fact is about as illusory as the -illusion itself. If you insist upon being considered as one of the -Lauderdale tribe, we’re glad to have you on your own merits--but you’ll -get nothing out of it but the glory--” - -“I know. It gives me a fictitious air of respectability to be one of -you. Besides, you should be proud to have a man of letters--” - -“Say an author at once,” suggested Ralston. - -“No. I’m honest, if I’m anything,--which is doubtful. A man of letters, -I say, can be useful in a family. Suppose, for instance, that Jack -invented an electric street-dog, or--” - -“What?” enquired Ralston, with a show of interest. “An electric what?” - -“I was only thinking of something new,” said Miner, thoughtfully. - -“I thought you said, an electric street-dog--” - -“I did--yes. Something of that sort, just for illustration. I believe -they had one at Chicago, with an india-rubber puppy,--at least, if they -didn’t, they ought to have had it,--but anything of the kind would -do--self-drying champagne--anything! Suppose that Jack invented -something useful like that, I could write it up in the papers, and get -up advertisements for it, and help the family to get rich.” - -“Is that the sort of literature you cultivate?” asked Bright. - -“Oh, no! Much more flowery--quite like the flowers of the field in some -ways, for it cometh up--to the editor’s office--in the morning, and in -the evening, if not sooner, it is cut down--by the editor--dried up, and -withered, or otherwise disposed of, so that it cannot be said to reach -the general public.” - -“Not very paying, I should think.” - -“Well--not to me. But of course, if there were not so much of it offered -to the magazines and papers, there wouldn’t be so many people employed -by them to read and reject articles. So somebody gets a living out of -it. I console myself with the certainty that my efforts help to keep at -least one man in every office from starvation. I spoke to cousin Robert -about it and he seemed rather pleased by the idea, and said that he -would mention it to his brother, old Mr. Alexander, who’s a -philanthropist--” - -“Call him cousin Alexander,” suggested Ralston. “Why do you make any -distinction?” - -“Because he’s not the rich one,” answered Miner, imperturbably. “He’ll -be promoted to be my cousin, if the fortune is left to him.” - -“Then I’m afraid he’ll continue to languish among your non-cousin -acquaintances.” - -“Why shouldn’t he inherit the bulk of the property?” enquired Miner, -speaking more seriously. - -“Because he’s a philanthropist, and would spend it all on idiots and -‘fresh air funds,’ and things of that sort.” - -“There is Alexander Junior,” suggested Miner. “He’s careful enough, I’m -sure. I suppose it will go to him.” - -“I doubt that, too,” said Bright. “Alexander Junior goes to the opposite -extreme. However, Jack knows more about that than I do--and is a nearer -relation, besides.” - -“Ham is right,” answered John Ralston, thoughtfully. “Cousin Sandy is -the most villainous, infernal, steel-trap-fingered, patent-locked old -miser that ever sat down in a cellar chinking money bags.” - -“There’s a certain force about your language,” observed Miner. - -“I believe he’s not rich,” said Bright. “So he has an excuse.” - -“Poor!” exclaimed Ralston, contemptuously. “I’m poor.” - -“I wish I were, then--in your way,” returned Miner. “That was Irroy -Brut, I noticed. It looked awfully good. It’s true that you haven’t two -daughters, as your cousin Sandy has.” - -“Nor a millionaire son-in-law--like Ben Slayback,--Slayback of Nevada he -is, in the Congressional Record, because there’s another from somewhere -else.” - -“He wears a green tie,” said Miner, softly. “I saw him two years ago, -before he and Charlotte were married.” - -“I know,” answered Ralston. “Cousin Katharine hates him, I believe. -Uncle Robert will probably leave the whole fortune in trust for -Slayback’s children. There’s a little boy. They say he has red hair, -like his father, and they have christened him Alexander--merely as an -expression of hope. It would be just like uncle Robert.” - -“I don’t believe it,” said Bright. “But as for Slayback, don’t abuse him -till you know him better. I knew him out West, years ago. He’s a brick.” - -“He is precisely the colour of one,” retorted Ralston. - -“Don’t be spiteful, Jack.” - -“I’m not spiteful. I daresay he’s full of virtue, as all horrid people -are--inside. The outside of him is one of nature’s finest failures, and -his manners are awful always--and worse when he tries to polish them for -the evening. He’s a corker, a thing to scare sharks with--it doesn’t -follow that he’s been a train-wrecker or a defaulting cashier, and I -didn’t say it did. Oh, yes--I know--handsome is that puts its hand into -its pocket, and that sort of thing. Give me some soda water with a -proverb in it--that confounded Irroy wasn’t dry enough.” - -Frank Miner looked up into Bright’s eyes and smiled surreptitiously. He -was walking between his two taller companions. Bright glanced at -Ralston’s lean, nervous face, and saw that the lines of ill-temper had -deepened during the last quarter of an hour. It was not probable that a -pint of wine could alone have any perceptible effect on the man’s head, -but it was impossible to know what potations had preceded the draught. - -“No,” said Bright. “Such speeches as that are not spiteful. They’re -foolish. Besides, Slayback’s a friend of mine.” - -Miner looked up again, but in surprise. Ralston turned sharply on -Bright. - -“I say, Ham--” he began. - -“All right, Jack,” Bright interrupted, striding steadily along. “We’re -not going to quarrel. Stand up for your friends, and I’ll stand up for -mine. That’s all.” - -“I haven’t any,” answered Ralston, growing suddenly gloomy again. - -“Oh! Well--so much the better for you, then.” - -For a few moments no one spoke again. Miner broke the silence. He was a -cheerful little soul, and hated anything like an unpleasant situation. - -“Heard about the cow and the collar-stud, Jack?” he enquired, by way of -coming to the rescue. - -“Chestnut!” growled Ralston. - -“Of course,” answered Miner, who was nevertheless convinced that Ralston -had not heard the joke. “I wasn’t going to tell it. It only struck me -just then.” - -“Why?” asked Bright, who failed to see any connection between a cow, a -stud and Ralston’s bad humour. - -“The trouble with you, Bright, is that you’re so painfully literal,” -returned Miner, who had got himself into a conversational difficulty. -“Now I was thinking of a figurative cow.” - -“What has that to do with it?” enquired Bright, inexorably. - -“It’s very simple, I’m sure. Isn’t it, Jack?” - -“Perfectly,” answered Ralston, absently, as he watched a figure that -attracted his attention fifty yards ahead of him. - -“There!” exclaimed Miner, triumphantly. “Jack saw it at once. Of course, -if you want me to explain anything so perfectly idiotic--” - -“Oh, don’t bother, I’m stupid to-day,” said Bright, completely -mystified. - -“What’s the joke, anyhow?” asked Ralston, suddenly realizing that Miner -had spoken to him. “I said I understood, but I didn’t, in the least. I -was thinking about that--about Slayback--and then I saw somebody I knew, -and I didn’t hear what you said.” - -“You didn’t lose much,” answered Miner. “I should be sincerely grateful -if you’d drop the subject, which is a painful one with me. If anything -can touch me to the quick, it’s the horrible certainty that I’ve pulled -the trigger and that the joke hasn’t gone off, not even flashed in the -pan, or fizzled, or sputtered and petered out, or even raised itself to -the level of a decent failure, fit for immediate burial if for nothing -else.” - -“You’re getting a little mixed in your similes, Frank,” observed Bright. - -“The last one reminds me of what Bright and I were talking of before you -joined us, Frank,” said Ralston. - -“Burial?” - -“The next thing before it--undertakers. I’m thinking of becoming one. -Bright says it’s the only thing I’ve not tried, and that as I have the -elements of success in my character, I must necessarily succeed in that. -There’s a large establishment of the kind in Sixth Avenue, not far from -here. I think I’ll call and see a member of the firm.” - -“All right,” assented Miner, with a laugh. “Take me in with you as -epitaph-writer. I’ll treat your bodies to a display of the English -language that will make them sit up.” - -“I believe you could!” exclaimed Bright, with a laugh. - -Ralston turned to the left, into Thirty-second Street. His companions, -quite indifferent as to the direction they took, followed his lead. - -“I’m going to do it, Ham, you know,” said Ralston, as they walked along. - -“What?” - -“I’m going to the undertaker’s in Sixth Avenue.” - -“All right--if you think it amusing.” - -“We’ll all go. It’s appropriate to go as a body, if one goes there at -all.” - -“Frank,” said Bright, gravely, “be funny if you can. Be ghastly if you -like. But if you make puns, make them at a man of your own size. It’s -safer.” - -The little man chirped pleasantly in answer, as he trotted along between -the two. He believed, innocently enough, that Bright and Ralston had -been at the point of a quarrel, and that he had saved the situation with -his nonsense. - -At the end of the street, where it makes a corner with Broadway, stands -a big hotel. Ralston glanced at the door on Thirty-second Street, which -is the ladies’ entrance, and stopped in his walk. - -“I want to leave a card on some people at the Imperial,” he said. “I’ll -be back in a moment.” And he disappeared within. - -Bright and Miner stood waiting outside. - -“Do you believe that--about leaving a card?” asked Miner, after a pause. - -“I don’t know,” answered Bright. - -“Because I think he’s got the beginning of a ‘jag’ on him now. He’s gone -in for something short to settle that long drink. Pity, isn’t it?” - -Bright did not answer at once. - -“I say, Frank,” he said at last, “don’t talk about Jack’s -drinking--there’s a good fellow. He’ll get over it all right, some day.” - -“People do talk about it a good deal,” answered Miner. “I don’t think -I’m worse than other people, and I’ll try to talk less. But it’s been -pretty bad, lately. The trouble is, you can’t tell just how far gone he -is. He has a strong head--up to a certain point, and then he’s a fiend, -all at once. And he’s always quarrelsome, even when he’s sober, so -that’s no sign.” - -“Poor chap! He inherits it to some extent. His father could drink more -than most men, and generally did.” - -“Yes. I met a man the other day--a fellow in the Navy--who told me they -had no end of stories of the old Admiral. But no one ever saw him the -worse for it.” - -“That’s true enough. But no nerves will last through two generations of -whiskey.” - -“I suppose not.” Miner paused. “You see,” he continued, presently, “he -could have left his card in half the time he’s been in there. Come in. -We shall find him at the bar.” - -“No,” said Bright. “I won’t spy on him. I shouldn’t like it myself.” - -“And he says he has no friends!” exclaimed Miner, not without -admiration. - -“Oh, that’s only his way when he’s cross. Not that his friends are of -any use to him. He’ll have to work out his own salvation alone--or his -own damnation, poor devil!” - -Before Miner made any answer, Ralston came out again. His face looked -drawn and weary and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He stood -still a moment on the threshold of the door, looked deliberately to the -left, towards Broadway, then to the right, along the street, and at last -at his friends. Then he slowly lighted a cigarette, brushed a tiny -particle of ash from the sleeve of his rough black coat and came out -upon the pavement, with a quick, decided step. - -“Now then, I’m ready for the undertaker,” he said, with a sour smile. -“Sorry to have kept you waiting so long,” he added, as though by an -afterthought. - -“Not a bit,” answered Miner, cheerfully. - -Bright said nothing, and his quiet, healthy face expressed nothing. But -as they went towards the crossing of Broadway, he was walking beside -Ralston, instead of letting little Frank Miner keep his place in the -middle. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -It was between three and four o’clock, and Broadway was crowded, as it -generally is at that time in the afternoon. In the normal life of a -great city, the crowd flows and ebbs in the thoroughfares as regularly -as the blood in a living body. From that mysterious, grey hour, when the -first distant rumble is heard in the deserted streets, just before the -outlines of the chimneys become distinct against the clouds or the murky -sky, when the night-worker and the man of pleasure, the day-labourer and -the dawn, all meet for a brief moment at one of the crossings in daily -life’s labyrinth, through all the four and twenty hours in which each -pulsation is completed, until that dull, far-off roll of the earliest -cart echoes again, followed within a few minutes by many others,--round -and round the clock again, with unfailing exactness, you may note the -same rise and fall of the life-stream. - -The point at which Ralston and his companions crossed Broadway is a -particularly busy one. It is near many of the principal theatres; there -are a number of big hotels in the neighbourhood; there are some -fashionable shops; it is only one short block from the junction of -Broadway and Sixth Avenue, where there is an important station of the -elevated road, and there are the usual carts, vans and horse-cars -chasing each other up and down, and not leaving even enough road for two -carriages to pass one another on either side of the tracks. The streams -of traffic meet noisily, and thump and bump and jostle through the -difficulty, and a man standing there may watch the expression change in -all the faces as they approach the point. The natural look disappears -for a moment; the eyes glance nervously to the right and left; the lips -are set as though for an effort; the very carriage of the body is -different, as though the muscles were tightened for an exertion which -the frame may or may not be called upon to make instantly without -warning. It is an odd sight, though one which few people see, every one -being concerned to some extent for his own safety, and oblivious of his -neighbour’s dangers. - -Ralston and the others stood at the corner waiting for an opportunity to -pass. There was a momentary interruption of the line of vehicles on the -up-town side, which was nearest to them. Ralston stepped forward first -toward the track. Glancing to the left, he saw a big express cart coming -up at full speed, and on the other track, from his right as he stood, a -horse-car was coming down, followed at some distance by a large, empty -van. The horse-car was nearest to him, and passed the corner briskly. A -small boy, wheeling an empty perambulator and leading a good-looking -rough terrier by a red string, crossed towards Ralston between the -horse-car and the van, dragging the dog after him, and was about to -cross the other track when he saw that the express cart rattling up town -was close upon him. He paused, and drew back a little to let it pass, -pulling back his perambulator, which, however, caught sideways between -the rails. At the same instant the clanging bell and the clatter of a -fire engine, followed by a hook and ladder cart, and driven at full -speed, produced a sudden commotion, and the man who was driving the -empty van looked backward and hastened his horses, in order to get out -of the way. In the confusion the little boy and his perambulator were in -danger of annihilation. - -Ralston jumped the track, snatched the boy in one arm and lifted the -perambulator bodily with his other hand, throwing them across the second -pair of rails as he sprang. He fell at full length in the carriage way. -He lay quite still for a moment, and the horses of the empty van stuck -out their fore-feet and stopped with a plunge close beside him. The -people paused on the pavement, and one or two came forward to help him. -There is no policeman at this crossing as a rule, as there is one a -block higher, at the main corner. Ralston was not hurt, however, though -he had narrowly escaped losing his foot, for the wheel of one of the -vehicles had torn the heel from his shoe. He was on his legs in a few -moments, holding the terrified boy by the collar, and lecturing him -roughly upon the folly of doing risky things with a perambulator. -Meanwhile the horse-cars and wagons which had blocked the crossing -having moved off in opposite directions, Bright and Frank Miner ran -across. Bright was very pale as he passed his arm through Ralston’s and -drew him away. Miner looked at him with silent admiration, having all -his life longed to be the hero of some such accident. - -“I wish you wouldn’t do such things, Jack,” said Bright, in his calm -voice. “Are you hurt?” - -“Not a bit,” answered Ralston, who seemed to have enjoyed the -excitement. “The thing almost took off my foot, though. I can’t walk. -Come over to the Imperial again. I’ll get brushed down, and take a cab. -Come along--I can’t stand this crowd. There’ll be a reporter in a -minute.” - -Without further words the three recrossed the street to the hotel. - -“I don’t suppose the most rigid doctor would object to my having -something to drink after that tumble,” observed Ralston, as they passed -through the crowded hall. - -“Every man is the best judge of what he wants,” answered Bright. - -Few people noticed, or appeared to notice, Ralston’s dilapidated -condition, his smashed hat, his dusty clothes and his heelless shoe. He -found a hall-boy who brushed him, and little Frank Miner did his best to -restore the hat to an appearance of respectability. - -“All right, Frank,” said Ralston. “Don’t bother--I’m going home in a -cab, you know.” - -He led the way to the bar, swallowed half a tumbler of whiskey neat, and -then got into a carriage. - -“See you this evening,” he said briefly, as he nodded to Bright and -Miner, and shut the cab door after him. - -The other two watched the carriage a moment, as it drove away, and then -looked at one another. Miner had a trick of moving his right ear when he -was puzzled. It is rather an unusual peculiarity, and his friends knew -what it meant. As Bright looked at him the ear began to move slowly, -backwards and forwards, with a slight upward motion. Bright smiled. - -“You needn’t wag it so far, Frank,” he said. “He’s going home. It will -be all right now.” - -“I suppose so--or I hope so, at least. I wonder if Mrs. Ralston is in.” - -“Why?” - -“The trouble with you intelligent men is that you have no sense,” -answered the little man. “He’s had another drink--four fingers it was, -too--and he’s been badly shaken up, and he had the beginning of a ‘jag’ -on before, and he’s going home in a rolling cab, which makes it worse. -If he meets his mother, there’ll be a row. That’s all. Even when I was a -boy it wasn’t good form to be drunk before dinner, and nobody drinks -now--at least, not as they used to. Well--it’s none of my business.” - -“It’s everybody’s business,” said Bright. “But a harder man to handle I -don’t know. He’ll either come to grief or glory, or both together, one -of these days. It’s not the quantity he takes--it’s the confounded -irregularity of him. I’m going to the club--are you coming?” - -“I may as well correct my proofs there as anywhere else. Pocket’s full -of them.” Miner tapped his round little chest with an air of some -importance. - -“Proofs, eh? Something new?” - -“I’ve worn them out, my boy. They’re incapable of returning me with -thanks any more--until next time. I’ve worn them out, heel and -toe,--right out.” - -“Is it a book, Frank?” - -“Not yet. But it’s going to be. This is the first--a series of essays, -you know--this is the wedge, and I’ve got it in, and I’m going to drive -it for all I’m worth, and when there are six or seven they’ll make a -book, together with some other things--something in the same -style--which have appeared before.” - -“I’m very glad, old man. I congratulate you. Go in and win.” - -“It’s an awful life, though,” said Frank Miner, growing suddenly grave. - -Bright glanced at the neat, rotund little figure, at the pink cheeks and -bright eyes, and he smiled quietly. - -“It’s not wearing you to the bone yet,” he observed. - -“Oh--that’s no sign! Look at Napoleon. He had rather my figure, I -believe. What’s the good of getting thin about things, anyhow? It’s only -unhappy people who get thin. You work hard enough, Ham, in your humdrum -way--oh, I don’t envy your lot!--and you’re laying it on, Ham, you’re -laying it on steadily, year after year. You’ll be a fat man, Ham--ever -so much fatter than I am, because there’s twice as much of you, to begin -with. Besides, you’ve got a big chest and that makes a man look stout. -But then, you don’t care, do you? You’re perfectly happy, so you get -fat. So would Apollo, if he were a successful banker, and gave up -bothering about goddesses and things. As for me, I about keep my weight. -Given up bread, though--last summer. Bad thing, bread.” - -So Miner chattered on as he walked by his friend’s side, towards the -club. There was no great talent in him, though he had drifted into -literature, and of industry he had not so much as he made people -believe. But he possessed the treasure of cheerfulness, and dispensed it -freely in his conversation, whereas in his writings he strove at the -production of gruesome and melancholy tales, stories of suffering and -horror, the analysis of pain and the portraiture of death in many forms. -The contradiction between the disposition of literary men and their -works is often a curious study. - -Mrs. Ralston was at home that afternoon, or rather, to be accurate in -the social sense, she was in, and had given orders to the general effect -that only her particular friends were to be admitted. This, again, is a -statement susceptible of misapprehension, as she had not really any -particular friends in the world, but only acquaintances in divers -degrees of intimacy, who called themselves her friends and sometimes -called one another her enemies. But of such matters she took little -heed, and was at no pains to set people right with regard to her private -opinion of them. She did many kind things within society’s limits and -without, but she was wise enough to expect nothing in return, being well -aware that real gratitude is a mysterious cryptogam like the truffle, -and indeed closely resembling the latter in its rarity, its spontaneous -growth, its unprepossessing appearance, and in the fact that it is more -often found and enjoyed by the lower animals than by man. - -It may be as well to elucidate here the somewhat intricate points of the -Lauderdales’ genealogy and connections, seeing that both have a direct -bearing upon the life of Katharine Lauderdale, of John Ralston, and of -many others who will appear in the course of this episodic history. - -In old times the primeval Alexander Lauderdale, a younger son of an -honourable Scotch family, brought his wife, with a few goods and no -particular chattels, to New York, and they had two sons, Alexander and -Robert, and died and were buried. Of these two sons the elder, -Alexander, did very well in the world, married a girl of Dutch family, -Anna Van Blaricorn, and had three sons, and he and his wife died and -were buried beside the primeval Alexander. - -Of these three sons the eldest was Alexander Lauderdale, the -philanthropist, of whom mention has been made, who was alive at the time -this story begins, who married a young girl of Puritan lineage and some -fortune. She died when their only son, Alexander Lauderdale Junior, was -twenty-two years of age. The latter married Emma Camperdown, of the -Kentucky Catholic family, and had two daughters, the elder, Charlotte, -married at the present time to Benjamin Slayback of Nevada, member of -Congress, the younger, Katharine Lauderdale, being John Ralston’s dark -cousin. - -So much for the first of the three sons. The second was Robert -Lauderdale, the famous millionaire, the uncle Robert spoken of by -Ralston and the others, who never married, and was at the time of this -tale about seventy-five years of age. He originally made a great sum by -a fortunate investment in a piece of land which lies in the heart of the -present city of Chicago, and having begun with real estate he stuck to -it like the wise man he was, and its value doubled and decupled and -centupled, and no one knew how rich he was. He was the second son of the -elder son of the primeval Alexander. - -The third son of that elder son was Ralph Lauderdale, who was killed at -the battle of Chancellorsville in the Civil War. He married a Miss -Charlotte Mainwaring, whose father had been an Englishman settled -somewhere in the South. Katharine, the widow of the late Admiral -Ralston, was the only child of their marriage, and her only child was -John Ralston, second cousin to Katharine Lauderdale and Mrs. Slayback. - -But the primeval Alexander had a second son Robert, who had only one -daughter, Margaret, married to Rufus Thompson. And Rufus Thompson’s -sister married Livingston Miner of New York, and was the mother of Frank -Miner and of three unmarried daughters. That is the Miner connection. - -And on the Lauderdale side Rufus Thompson had one daughter by his wife, -Margaret Lauderdale; and that daughter married Richard Bright of -Cincinnati, who died, leaving two children, Hamilton Bright and his -sister Hester, the wife of Walter Crowdie, the eminent painter of New -York. This is the relationship of the Brights to the Lauderdales. -Bright, John Ralston and Katharine Lauderdale were all descended from -the same great-great-grandfather--the primeval Alexander. And as there -is nothing duller to the ordinary mind than genealogy, except the -laborious process of tracing it, little more shall be said about it -hereafter, and the ingenious reader may refer to these pages when he is -in doubt. - -It has been shown, however, that all these modern individuals with whom -we have to do come from a common stock, except little Frank Miner, who -could only boast of a connection by marriage. For it was a good stock, -and the families of all the women who had married into it were proud of -it, and some of them were glad to speak of it when they had a chance. -None of the Lauderdales had ever come to any great distinction, it is -true, except Robert, by his fabulous wealth. But none of them had ever -done anything dishonourable either, nor even approaching it. There had -not even been a divorce in the family. Some of the men had fought in the -war, and one had been killed, and, through Robert, the name was a power -in the country. It was said that there had never been any wild blood in -the family either, until Ralph married Miss Mainwaring, and that John -Ralston got all his faults from his grandmother. But that may or may not -be true, seeing that no one knows much of the early youth of the -primeval Alexander before he came to this country. - -It is probably easier for a man to describe a man than a woman. The -converse may possibly be true also. Men see men, on the whole, very much -as they are, each man being to each other an assemblage of facts which -can be catalogued and referred to. But most men receive from woman an -indefinite and perhaps undefinable impression, besides, and sometimes -altogether at variance with what is merely visible. It is very hard to -convey any idea of that impression to a third person, even in the actual -presence of the woman described; it is harder still when the only means -are the limited black and white of printed English. - -Katharine Lauderdale, at least, had a fair share of beauty of a certain -typical kind, a general conception of which belongs to everybody, but -her aunt Katharine had not even that. No one ever called Katharine -Ralston beautiful, and yet no one had ever classed her among pretty -girls when she had been young. Between the two, between prettiness and -beauty, there is a debatable country of brown-skinned, bright-eyed, -swift-like women of aquiline feature, and sometimes of almost man-like -energy, who succeed in the world, and are often worshipped for three -things--their endurance, their smile and their voice. They are women who -by laying no claim to the immunities of womanhood acquire a direct right -to consideration for their own sakes. They also may often possess that -mysterious gift known as charm, which is incomparably more valuable than -all the classic beauty and perfection of colouring which nature can -accumulate in one individual. Beauty fades; wit wears out; but charm is -not evanescent. - -Katharine Ralston had it, and sometimes wondered what it was, and even -tried to understand herself by determining clearly what it was not. But -for the most part she thought nothing about it, which is probably the -best rule for preserving it, if it needs any sort of preservation. - -Outwardly, her son strongly resembled her. He had from her his dark -complexion, his lean face and his brown eyes, as well as a certain grace -of figure and a free carriage of the head which belong to the pride of -station--a little exaggerated--which both mother and son possessed in a -high degree. Katharine Ralston did not talk of her family, but she -believed in it, as something in which it was good to believe from the -bottom of her heart, and she had brought up John to feel that he came -from a stock of gentlemen and gentlewomen who might be bad, but could -not be mean, nor anything but gentle in the vague, heraldic sense of -that good word. - -She was a sensible woman and saw her son’s faults. They were not small, -by any means, nor insignificant by their nature, nor convenient faults -for a young gentleman about town, who had the reputation of having tried -several occupations and of having failed with quite equal brilliancy in -all. But they were not faults that estranged him from her, though she -suffered much for his sake in a certain way. She would rather have had -him a drunkard, a gambler, almost a murderer, than have seen him turn -out a hypocrite. She would far rather have seen him killed before her -than have known that he had ever lied to save himself, or done any of -the mean little sins, for which there may be repentance here and -forgiveness hereafter, but from the pollution of which honour knows no -purification. - -Religion she had none whatever, and frankly owned the fact if questioned -directly. But she made no profession of atheism and gave no grounds for -her unbelief. She merely said that she could not believe in the -existence of the soul, an admission which at once settled all other -kindred points, so far as she was concerned. But she regretted her own -position. In her childhood, her ideas had been unsettled by the constant -discussions which took place between her parents. Her father, like all -the Lauderdales, had been a Presbyterian. Her mother had been an -Episcopalian, and, moreover, a woman alternately devout and doubting. -Katharine shared neither the prejudices nor the convictions of either. -Then she had married Admiral Ralston, a man, like many officers of the -Navy, of considerable scientific acquirements, and full to overflowing -of the scientific arguments against religion, which were even more -popular in his day than they are now. What little hold the elder -Katharine had still possessed upon an undefined future state was finally -destroyed by her sailor husband’s rough, sledge-hammer arguments. In the -place of religion she set up a sort of code of honour to which she -rigidly adhered, and in the observance of which she brought up her only -son. - -It is worth remarking that until he finally left college she encouraged -him to be religious, if he would, and regularly took him to church so -long as he was a boy. She even persuaded his father not to talk atheism -before him; and the admiral, who was as conservative as only republicans -can be, was quite willing to let the young fellow choose for himself -what he should believe or reject when he should come to years of -discretion. Up to the age of twenty-one, Jack had been a remarkably -sober and thoughtful young fellow. He began to change soon after his -father died. - -Ralston let himself in with his key when he got home and went upstairs, -supposing that his mother was out, as she usually was at that hour. She -heard his footstep, however, as he passed the door of her own -sitting-room, on the first landing, and having no idea that anything was -wrong, she called to him. - -“Is that you, Jack?” - -Ralston stopped and in the dusk of the staircase realized for the first -time that he was not sober. He made an effort when he spoke, answering -through the closed door. - -“It’s all right, mother; I’ll be down in a few minutes.” - -Something unusual in the tone of his voice must have struck Mrs. -Ralston. He had made but two steps forward when she opened the door, -throwing the light full upon him. - -“What’s the matter, Jack?” she asked, quietly. - -Then she saw his face, the deep lines, the drawn expression, the shadows -under the eyes and the unnatural dull light in the eyes themselves. And -in the same glance she saw that his hat was battered and that his -clothes were dusty and stained. She knew well enough that he drank more -than was good for him, but she had never before seen him in such a -state. The broad daylight, too, and the disorder of his clothes made him -look much more intoxicated than he really was. Katharine Ralston stood -still in silence for a moment, and looked at her son. Her face grew a -little pale just before she spoke again. - -“Are you sober enough to take care of yourself?” she asked rather -harshly, for there was a dryness in her throat. - -John Ralston was no weakling, and was, moreover, thoroughly accustomed -to controlling his nerves, as many men are who drink habitually--until -the nerves themselves give way. He drew himself up and felt that he was -perfectly steady before he answered in measured tones. - -“I’m sorry you should see me just now, mother. I had a little accident, -and I took some whiskey afterwards to steady me. It has gone to my head. -I’m very sorry.” - -That was more than enough for his mother. She came swiftly forward, and -gently took him by the arm to lead him into her room. But Ralston’s -sense of honour was not quite satisfied. - -“It’s partly my fault, mother. I had been taking other things before, -but I was all right until the accident happened.” - -Mrs. Ralston smiled almost imperceptibly. She was glad that he should -be so honest, even when he was so far gone. She led him through the door -into her own room, and made him sit down in a comfortable chair near the -window. - -“Never mind, Jack,” she said, “I’m just like a man about understanding -things. I know you won’t do it again.” - -But Ralston knew his own weakness, and made no rash promises then, -though a great impulse arose in his misty understanding, bidding him -then and there make a desperately solemn vow, and keep it, or do away -with himself if he failed. He only bowed his head, and sat down, as his -mother bid him. He was ashamed, and he was a man to whom shame was -particularly bitter. - -Mrs. Ralston got some cold water in a little bowl, and bathed his -forehead, touching him as tenderly as she would have touched a sick -child. He submitted readily enough, and turned up his brows gratefully -to her hand. - -“Your head is a little bruised,” she said. “Were you hurt anywhere else? -What happened? Can you tell me now, or would you rather wait?” - -“Oh, it was nothing much,” answered Ralston, speaking more easily now. -“There was a boy, with a perambulator, getting between the cars and -carts. I got him out of the way, and tumbled down, because there wasn’t -even time to jump. I threw myself after the boy--somehow. The wheel took -off the heel of my boot, but I wasn’t hurt. I’m all right now. Thank -you, mother dear. There never was anybody like you to understand.” - -Mrs. Ralston was very pale again, but John could not see her face. - -“Don’t risk such things, Jack,” she said, in a low voice. “They hurt one -badly.” - -Ralston said nothing, but took her hand and kissed it gently. She -pressed his silently, and touched his matted hair with her tightly shut -lips. Then he got up. - -“I’ll go to my room, now,” he said. “I’m much better. It will be all -gone in half an hour. I suppose it was the shaking,--but I did swallow a -big dose after my tumble.” - -“Say nothing more about it, my dear,” answered Mrs. Ralston, quietly. - -She turned from him, ostensibly to set the bowl of water upon a table. -But she knew that he could not be perfectly himself again in so short a -time, and if he was still unsteady, she did not wish to see it--for her -own sake. - -“Thank you, mother,” he said, as he left the room. - -She might have watched him, if she had chosen to do so, and she would -have seen nothing unusual now--nothing but his dusty clothes and the -slight limp in his gait, caused by the loss of one low heel. He was -young, and his nerves were good, and he had a very strong incentive in -the shame he still felt. Moreover, under ordinary circumstances, even -the quantity he had drunk would not have produced any visible bodily -effect on him, however it might have affected his naturally uncertain -temper. It was quite true that the fall and the excitement of the -accident had shaken him. - -He reached his own room, shut the door, and then sat down to look at -himself in the glass, as men under the influence of drink very often do, -for some mysterious reason. Possibly the drunken man has a vague idea -that he can get control over himself by staring at his own image, and -into the reflection of his own eyes. John Ralston never stayed before -the mirror longer than was absolutely necessary, except when he had -taken too much. - -But to-day he was conscious that, in spite of appearances, he was -rapidly becoming bodily sober. If it had all happened at night, he would -have wound up at a club, and would probably have come home in the small -hours, in order to be sure of not finding his mother downstairs, and he -would have been in a very dubious condition. But the broad light, the -cold water, his profound shame and his natural nerve had now combined to -restore him, outwardly at least, and so far as he was conscious, to his -normal state. - -He bathed, looked at the clock, and saw that it was not yet five, and -then dressed himself as though to go out. But, before doing so, he sat -down and smoked a cigarette. He felt nervously active now, refreshed and -able to face anything. Before he had half finished smoking he had made -up his mind to show himself to his mother and then to go for a walk -before dinner. - -He glanced once more at the mirror to assure himself that he was not -mistaken, and was surprised at the quick change in his appearance. His -colour had come back, his eyes were quiet, the deeper lines were gone -from his face--lines which should never have been there at five and -twenty. He turned away, well pleased, and went briskly down the stairs, -though it was already growing dark, and the steps were high. After all, -he thought, it was probably the loss of the heel from his shoe that had -made him walk unsteadily. Such an absurd accident had never happened to -him before. He knocked at the door of his mother’s sitting-room, and she -bade him come in. - -“You see, mother, it was nothing, after all,” he said, going up to her -as she sat before the fire. - -She looked up, saw his face, and then smiled happily. - -“I’m so glad, Jack,” she answered, springing to her feet and kissing -him. “You have no idea how you looked when I saw you there on the -landing. I thought you were really--quite--but quite, quite, you know, -my dear boy.” - -She shook her head, still smiling, and holding both his hands. - -“I’m going for a bit of a walk before dinner,” he said. “Then we’ll have -a quiet evening together, and I shall go to bed early.” - -“That’s right. The walk will do you good. You’re quite wonderful, Jack!” -She laughed outright--he looked so perfectly sober. “Don’t drink any -more whiskey to-day!” she added, not half in earnest. - -“Never fear!” And he laughed too, without any suspicion of himself. - -He walked rapidly down the street in the warm glow of the evening, -heedless of the direction he took. By fate or by habit, he found himself -a quarter of an hour later opposite to Alexander Lauderdale’s house. He -paused, reflected a moment, then ascended the steps and rang the bell. - -“Is Miss Katharine at home?” he enquired of the girl who opened the -door. - -“Yes, sir. She came in a moment ago.” - -John Ralston entered the house without further question. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -Ralston entered the library, as the room was called, although it did not -contain many books. The house was an old-fashioned one in Clinton Place, -which nowadays is West Eighth Street, between Fifth Avenue and Sixth -Avenue, a region respectable and full of boarding houses. In accordance -with the customs of the times in which it had been built, the ground -floor contained three good-sized rooms, known in all such houses as the -library, the drawing-room or ‘parlour,’ and the dining-room, which was -at the back and had windows upon the yard. The drawing-room, being under -the middle of the house, had no windows at all, and was therefore really -available only in the evening. The library, where Ralston waited, was on -the front. - -There was an air of gravity about the place which he had never liked. It -was not exactly gloomy, for it was on too small a scale, nor vulgarly -respectable, for such objects as were for ornament were in good taste, -as a few engravings from serious pictures by great masters, a good -portrait of the primeval Alexander Lauderdale, a small bronze -reproduction of the Faun in the Naples museum, two or three fairly good -water-colours, which were apparently views of Scotch scenery, and a big -blue china vase with nothing in it. With a little better arrangement, -these things might have gone far. But the engravings and pictures were -hung with respect to symmetry rather than with regard to the light. The -stiff furniture was stiffly placed against the wall. The books in the -low shelves opposite to the fireplace were chiefly bound in black, in -various stages of shabbiness, and Ralston knew that they were largely -works on religion, and reports of institutions more or less educational -or philanthropic. There was a writing table near the window, upon which -a few papers and writing materials were arranged with a neatness not -business-like, but systematically neat for its own sake--the note paper -was piled with precision upon the middle of the blotter, upon which lay -also the penwiper, and a perfectly new stick of bright red sealing-wax, -so that everything would have to be moved before any one could possibly -write a letter. The carpet was old, and had evidently been taken to -pieces and the breadths refitted with a view to concealing the -threadbare parts, but with effect disastrous to the continuity of the -large green and black pattern. The house was heated by a furnace and -there was no fire in the grim fireplace. That was for economy, as -Ralston knew. - -For the Lauderdales were evidently poor, though the old philanthropist -who lived upstairs was the only living brother of the arch-millionaire. -But Alexander Senior spent his life in getting as much as he could from -Robert in order to put it into the education of idiots, and would -cheerfully have fed his son and daughter-in-law and Katharine on bread -and water for the sake of educating one idiot more. The same is a part -of philanthropy when it becomes professional. Alexander Junior had a -magnificent reputation for probity, and was concerned in business, being -connected with the administration of a great Trust Company, which -brought him a fixed salary. Beyond that he assured his family that he -had never made a dollar in his life, and that only his health, which -indeed was of iron, stood between them and starvation, an argument which -he used with force to crush any frivolous tendency developed in his wife -and daughter. He had dark hair just turning to a steely grey, steel-grey -eyes, and a long, clean-shaven, steel-grey upper lip, but his eyebrows -were still black. His teeth were magnificent, but he had so little -vanity that he hardly ever smiled, except as a matter of politeness. He -had looked pleased, however, when Benjamin Slayback of Nevada had led -his daughter Charlotte from the altar. Slayback had loved the girl for -her beauty and had taken her penniless; and uncle Robert had given her a -few thousands for her bridal outfit. Alexander Junior had therefore -been at no expense for her marriage, except for the cake and -decorations, but it was long before he ceased to speak of his -expenditure for those items. As for Alexander Senior, he really had no -money except for idiots; he wore his clothes threadbare, had his -overcoats turned, and secretly bought his shoes of a little Italian -shoemaker in South Fifth Avenue. He was said to be over eighty years of -age, but was in reality not much older than his rich brother Robert. - -It would be hard to imagine surroundings more uncongenial to Mrs. -Alexander Junior, as Katharine Lauderdale’s mother was generally called. -An ardent Roman Catholic, she was bound to a family of rigid -Presbyterians; a woman of keen artistic sense, she was wedded to a man -whose only measure of things was their money-value; a nature originally -susceptible to the charm of all outward surroundings, and inclining to a -taste for modest luxury rather than to excessive economy, she had -married one whom she in her heart believed to be miserly. She admitted, -indeed, that she would probably have married her husband again, under -like circumstances. The child of a ruined Southern family, loyal during -the Civil War, she had been brought early to New York, and almost as -soon as she was seen in society, Alexander Lauderdale had fallen in love -with her. He had seemed to her, as indeed he was still, a splendid -specimen of manhood; he was not rich, but was industrious and was the -nephew of the great Robert Lauderdale. Even her fastidious people could -not say that he was not, from a social point of view, of the best in New -York. She had loved him in a girlish fashion, and they had been married -at once. It was all very natural, and the union might assuredly have -turned out worse than it did. - -Seeing that according to her husband’s continual assurances they were -growing poorer and poorer, Mrs. Alexander had long ago begun to turn her -natural gifts to account, with a view to making a little money wherewith -to provide herself and her daughters with a few harmless luxuries. She -had tried writing and had failed, but she had been more successful with -painting, and had produced some excellent miniatures. Alexander Junior -had at first protested, fearing the artistic tribe as a whole, and -dreading lest his wife should develop a taste for things Bohemian, such -as palms in the drawing-room, and going to the opera in the gallery -rather than not going at all. He did not think of anything else Bohemian -within the range of possibilities, except, perhaps, dirty fingers, which -disgusted him, and unpunctuality, which drove him mad. But when he saw -that his wife earned money, and ceased to ask him for small sums to be -spent on gloves and perishable hats, he rejoiced greatly, and began to -suggest that she should invest her savings, placing them in his hands at -five per cent interest. But poor Mrs. Alexander never was so successful -as to have any savings to invest. Her husband accepted gratefully a -miniature of the two girls which she once painted as a surprise and gave -him at Christmas, and he secretly priced it during the following week at -a dealer’s, and was pleased when the man offered him fifty dollars for -it,--which illustrates Alexander’s thoughtful disposition. - -This was the household in which Katharine Lauderdale had grown up, and -these were the people whose characters, temperaments, and looks had -mingled in her own. So far as the latter point was concerned, she had -nothing to complain of. It was not to be expected that the children of -two such handsome people should be anything but beautiful, and Charlotte -and Katharine had plenty of beauty of different types, fair and dark -respectively. Charlotte was most like her mother in appearance, but more -closely resembled her father in nature. Katharine had inherited her -father’s face and strength of constitution with many of her mother’s -gifts, more or less modified and, perhaps, diminished in value. At the -time when this history begins, she was nineteen years old, and had been -what is called ‘out’ in society for more than a year. She therefore, -according to the customs of the country and age, enjoyed the privilege -of receiving alone the young gentlemen of her set who either admired her -or found pleasure in her conversation. Of the former there were many; of -the latter, a few. - -Ralston stood with his back to the empty fireplace, staring at the dark -mahogany door which led to the regions of the staircase. He had only -waited five minutes, but he was in an impulsive frame of mind, and it -had seemed a very long time. At last the door opened. Katharine entered -the room, smiled and nodded to him, and then turned and shut the door -carefully before she came forward. - -She was a very beautiful girl. No one could have denied that, in the -main. Yet there was something puzzling in the face, primarily due, -perhaps, to the mixture of races. The features were harmonious, strong -and, on the whole, noble and classic in outline, the mouth especially -being of a very pure type, and the curved lips of that creamy, salmon -rose-colour occasionally seen in dark persons--neither red, nor pink nor -pale. The very broadly marked dark eyebrows gave the face strength, and -the deep grey eyes, almost black at times, had an oddly fixed and -earnest look. In them there was no softness on ordinary occasions. They -expressed rather a determination to penetrate what they saw, not -altogether unmixed with wonder at the discoveries they made. The whole -face was boldly outlined, but by no means thin, and the skin was -perceptibly freckled, which is unusual with dark people, and is the -consequence of a red-haired strain in the inheritance. The primeval -Alexander had been a red-haired man, and Robert the Rich had resembled -him before he had grown grey. Charlotte Slayback had christened the -latter by that name. She had a sharp tongue, and called the primeval one -Alexander the Great, her grandfather Alexander the Idiot, and her father -Alexander the Safe. Katharine had her own opinions about most of the -family, but she did not express them so plainly. - -She was still smiling as she met Ralston in the middle of the room. - -“You look happy, dear,” he said, kissing her forehead softly. - -“I’m not,” she answered. “I’m glad to see you. There’s a difference. Sit -down.” - -“Has there been any trouble?” he asked, seating himself in a little low -chair beside the corner of the sofa she had chosen. - -“Not exactly trouble--no. It’s the old story--only it’s getting so old -that I’m beginning to hate it. You understand.” - -“Of course I do. I wish there were anything to be done--which you would -consent to do.” He added the last words as though by an afterthought. - -“I’ll consent to almost anything, Jack.” - -The smile had vanished from her face and she spoke in a despairing tone, -fixing her big eyes on his, and bending her heavy eyebrows as though in -bodily pain. He took her hand--firm, well-grown and white--in his and -laid it against his lean cheek. - -“Dear!” he said. - -His voice trembled a little, which was unusual. He felt unaccountably -emotional and was more in love than usual. The tone in which he spoke -the single word touched Katharine, and she leaned forward, laying her -other hand upon his other one. - -“You do love me, Jack,” she said. - -“God knows I do,” he answered, very earnestly, and again his voice -quavered. - -It was very still in the room, and the dusk was creeping toward the -high, narrow windows, filling the corners, and blackening the shadowy -places, and then rising from the floor, almost like a tide, till only -the faces of the two young people seemed to be above it, still palely -visible in the twilight. - -Suddenly Katharine rose to her feet, with a quick-drawn breath which was -not quite a sigh. - -“Pull down the shades, Jack,” she said, as she struck a match and lit -the gas at one of the stiff brackets which flanked the mantelpiece. - -Ralston obeyed in silence. When he came back she had resumed her seat -in the corner of the sofa, and he sat down beside her instead of taking -the chair again. - -He did not speak at once, though it seemed to him that his heart had -never been so full before. As he looked at the lovely girl he felt a -thrill of passionate delight that ran through him and almost hurt him, -and left him at last with an odd sensation in the throat and a painful -sinking at the heart. He did not reflect upon its meaning, and he -certainly did not connect it with the reaction following what he had -made his nerves bear during the day. He was sincerely conscious that he -had never been so deeply, truly in love with Katharine before. She -watched him, understanding what he felt, smiling into his eyes, but -silent, too. They had known each other since they had been children, and -had loved one another since Katharine had been sixteen years old,--more -than three whole years, which is a long time for first love to endure, -unless it means to be last as well as the first. - -“You said you would consent to almost anything,” said Ralston, after a -long pause. “It would be very simple for us to be married, in spite of -everybody. Shall we? Shall we, dear?” he asked, repeating the question. - -“I would almost do that--” She turned her face away and stared at the -empty fireplace. - -“Say, quite! After all, what can they all do? What is there so dreadful -to face, if we do get married? We must, one of these days. Life’s not -life without you--and death wouldn’t be death with you, darling,” he -added. - -“Are you in earnest, Jack,--or are you making love to me?” - -She asked the question suddenly, catching his hands and holding them -firmly together, and looking at him with eyes that were almost fierce. -The passion rose in his own, with a dark light, and his face grew pale. -Then he laughed nervously. - -“I’m only laughing, of course--you see I am. Why must you take a fellow -in earnest?” - -But there was nothing in his words that jarred upon her. He could not -laugh away the truth from his look, for truth it was at that moment, -whatever its source. - -“I know--I understand,” she said, in a low voice. “We can’t live apart, -you and I.” - -“It’s like tearing out fingers by the joints every time I leave you,” -Ralston answered. “It’s the resurrection of the dead to see you--it’s -the glory of heaven to kiss you.” - -The words came to his lips ready, rough and strong, and when he had -spoken them, hers sealed every one of them upon his own, believing every -one of them, and trusting in the strength of him. Then she pushed him -away and leaned back in her corner, with half-closed eyes. - -“I don’t know why I ever ask if you’re in earnest, dear,” she said. “I -know you are. It would kill me to think that you’re playing. Women are -always said to be foolish--perhaps it’s in that way--and I’m no better -than the rest of them. But you don’t spoil me in that way. You don’t -often say it as you did just now.” - -“I never loved you as I do now,” said Ralston, simply. - -“I feel it.” - -“But I wish--well, impossibilities.” - -“What? Tell me, Jack. I shall understand.” - -“Oh--nothing. Only I wish I could find some way of proving it to you. -But people always say that sort of thing. We don’t live in the middle -ages.” - -“I believe we do,” answered Katharine, thoughtfully. “I believe people -will say that we did, hundreds of years hence, when they write about us. -Besides--Jack--not that I want any proof, because I believe you--but -there is something you could do, if you would. I know you wouldn’t like -to do it.” - -It flashed across Ralston’s mind that she was about to ask him to make a -great sacrifice for her, to give up wine for her sake, having heard, -perhaps--even probably--of some of his excesses. He was nervous, -overwrought and full of wild impulses that day, but he knew what such a -promise would mean in his simple code. He was not in any true sense -degraded, beyond the weakening of his will. In an instant so brief that -Katharine did not notice his hesitation he reviewed his whole life, so -familiar to him in its worse light that it rose instantaneously before -him as a complete picture. He felt positively sure of what she was about -to ask him, and as he looked into her great grey eyes he believed that -he could keep the pledge he was about to give her, that it would save -him from destruction, and that he should thus owe his happiness to her -more wholly than ever. - -“I’ll do it,” he answered, and the fingers of his right hand slowly -closed till his fist was clenched. - -“Thank you, dear one,” answered Katharine, softly. “But you mustn’t -promise until you know what it is.” - -“I know what I’ve said.” - -“But I won’t let you promise. You wouldn’t forgive me--you’d think that -I had caught you--that it was a trap--all sorts of things.” - -Ralston smiled and shook his head. He felt quite sure of her and of -himself. And it would have been better for her and for him, if she had -asked what he expected. - -“Jack,” she said, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, “I want you to -marry me privately--quite in secret--that’s what I mean. Not a human -being must know, but you and I and the clergyman.” - -John Ralston looked into her face in thunder-struck astonishment. It is -doubtful whether anything natural or supernatural could have brought -such a look into his eyes. Katharine smiled, for the idea had long been -familiar to her. - -“Confess that you were not prepared for that!” she said. “But you’ve -confessed it already.” - -“Well--hardly for that--no.” - -The look of surprise in his face gradually changed into one of wondering -curiosity, and his brows knit themselves into a sort of puzzled frown, -as though he were trying to solve a difficult problem. - -“You see why I didn’t want you to promise anything rashly,” said -Katharine. “You couldn’t possibly foresee what I was going to ask any -more than you can understand why I ask it. Could you?” - -“No. Of course not. Who could?” - -“I’m not going to ask any one else to, you may be sure. In the first -place, do you think it wrong?” - -“Wrong? That depends--there are so many things--” he hesitated. - -“Say what you think, Jack. I want to know just what you think.” - -“That’s the trouble. I hardly know myself. Of course there’s nothing -absolutely wrong in a secret marriage. No marriage is wrong, exactly, if -the people are free.” - -“That’s the main thing I wanted to know,” said Katharine, quietly. - -“Yes--but there are other things. Men don’t think it exactly honourable -to persuade a girl to be married secretly, against the wishes of her -people. A great many men would, but don’t. It’s somehow not quite fair -to the girl. Running away is all fair and square, if people are ready to -face the consequences. Perhaps it is that there are consequences to -face--that makes it a sort of pitched battle, and the parents generally -give in at the end, because there’s no other way out of it. But a secret -marriage--well, it doesn’t exactly have consequences, in the ordinary -way. The girl goes on living at home as though she were not married, -deceiving everybody all round--and so must the man. In fact it’s a kind -of lie, and I don’t like it.” - -Ralston paused after this long speech, and was evidently deep in -thought. - -“All you say is true enough--in a sense,” Katharine answered. “But when -it’s the only way to get married at all, the case is different. Don’t -you think so yourself? Wouldn’t you rather be secretly married than go -on like this--as this may go on, for ten, fifteen, twenty years--all our -lives?” - -“Of course I would. But I don’t see why--” - -“I do, and I want to make you see. Listen to my little speech, please. -First, we are both of age--I am so far as being married is concerned, -and we have an absolute right to do as we please about it--to be married -in the teeth of the lions, if that’s not a false metaphor--or -something--you know.” - -“In the jaws of hell, for that matter,” said Ralston, fervently. - -“Thank you for saying it. I’m only a girl and mustn’t use strong -language. Very well, we have a perfect right to do as we please. That’s -a great point. Then we have only to choose, and it becomes a matter of -judgment.” - -“You talk like print,” laughed Ralston. - -“So much the better. We have made up our minds that we can’t live -without each other, so we must be married somehow. You don’t think it’s -not--what shall I say?--not quite like a girl for me to talk in this -way, do you? We have talked of it so often, and we decided so long ago!” - -“What nonsense! Be as plain as possible.” - -“Because if you do--then I shall have to write it all to you, and I -can’t write well.” - -Ralston smiled. - -“Go on,” he said. “I’m waiting for the reasons.” - -“They could simply starve us, Jack. We’ve neither of us a dollar in the -world.” - -“Not a cent,” said Ralston, very emphatically. “If we had, we shouldn’t -be where we are.” - -“And your mother can’t give you any money, and my father won’t give me -any.” - -“And I’m a failure,” Ralston observed, with sudden grimness and hatred -of himself. - -“Hush! You’ll be a success some day. That’s not the question. The point -is, if we tried to get married openly, there would be horrible scenes -first, and then war, and starvation afterwards. It’s not a pretty -prospect, but it’s true.” - -“I suppose it is.” - -“It’s so deadly true that it puts an open marriage out of the question -altogether. If there were nothing else to be done, it would be -different. I’d rather starve than give you up. But there is a way out of -it. We can be married secretly. In that way we shall avoid the scenes -and the war.” - -“And then wait for something to happen? We should be just where we are -now. To all intents and purposes you would be Spinster Lauderdale and I -should be Bachelor Ralston. I don’t see that it would be the slightest -improvement on the present situation--honestly, I don’t. I’m not -romantic, as people are in books. I don’t think it would be sweeter than -life to call you wife, and when we’re married I shall call you Katharine -just the same. I don’t distrust you. You know I don’t. I’m not really -afraid that you’ll go and marry Ham Bright, or Frank Miner, nor even the -most desirable young man in New York, who has probably proposed to you -already. I’m not vain, but I know you love me. I should be a brute if I -doubted it--” - -“Yes--I think you would, dear,” said Katharine, with great directness. - -“So that since I’m to wait for you till ‘something happens’--never mind -to whom, and long life to all of them!--I’d rather wait as we are than -go through it with a pack of lies to carry.” - -“I like you, Jack--besides loving you. It’s quite another feeling, you -know. You’re such a man!” - -“I wish I were half what you think I am.” - -“I’ll think what I please. It’s none of your dear business. But you -haven’t heard half I have to say yet. I’ll suppose that we’re -married--secretly. Very well. That same day, or the next day, and as -soon as possible, I shall go to uncle Robert and tell him the whole -truth.” - -“To uncle Robert!” exclaimed Ralston, who had not yet come to the end of -the surprises in store for him. “And ask him for some money, I suppose? -That won’t do, Katharine. Indeed it won’t. I should be letting you go -begging for me. That’s the plain English of it. No, no! That can’t be -done.” - -“You’ll find it hard to prevent me from begging for you, or working for -you either, if you ever need it,” said Katharine. There was a certain -grand simplicity about the plain statement. - -“You’re too good for me,” said Ralston, in a low voice, and for the -third time there was a quiver in his tone. Moreover, he felt an -unaccustomed moisture in his eyes which gave him pleasure, though he was -ashamed of it. - -“No, I’m not--not a bit too good for you. But I like to hear--I don’t -know why it is, but your voice touches me to-day. It seems changed.” - -Ralston was truthful and honourable. If he had himself understood the -causes of his increased emotion, he would have hanged himself rather -than have let Katharine say what she did, without telling her what had -happened. He drank, and he knew it, and of late he had been drinking -hard, but it was the first time that he had ever spoken to Katharine -Lauderdale when he had been drinking, and he was deceived by his own -apparent soberness beyond the possibility of believing that he was on -the verge of being slightly hysterical. Let them who doubt the -possibility of such a case question those who have watched a thousand -cases. - -There was a little pause after Katharine’s last words. Then she went -on,--explaining her project. - -“Uncle Robert always says that nobody understands him as I do. I shall -try and make him understand me, for a change. I shall tell him just what -has happened, and I shall tell him that he must find work for you to do, -since you’re perfectly capable of working if you only have a fair -chance. You never had one. I don’t call it a chance to put an active man -like you into a gloomy law office to copy fusty documents. And I don’t -call it giving you a chance to glue you to a desk in Beman Brothers’ -bank. You’re not made for that sort of work. Of course you were -disgusted and refused to go on. I should have done just the same.” - -“Oh, you would--I’m quite sure!” answered Ralston, with conviction. - -“Naturally. Not but that I’m just as capable of working as you are, -though. To go back to uncle Robert. It’s just impossible, with all his -different interests, all over the country, and with his influence--and -you know what that is--that he should not have something for you to do. -Besides, he’ll understand us. He’s a great big man, on a big scale, a -head and shoulders mentally bigger than all the rest of the family.” - -“That’s true,” assented Ralston. - -“And he knows that you don’t want to take money without giving an -equivalent for it.” - -“He’s known that all along. I don’t see why he should put himself out -any more now--” - -“Because I’ll make him,” said Katharine, firmly. “I can do that for you, -and if you torture your code of honour into fits you can’t make it tell -you that a wife should not do that sort of thing for her husband. Can -you?” - -“I don’t know,” answered Ralston, smiling. “I’ve tried it myself often -enough with the old gentleman. He says I’ve had two chances and have -thrown them up, and that, after all, my mother and I have quite enough -to live on comfortably, so he supposes that I don’t care for work. I -told him that enough was not nearly so good as a feast. He laughed and -said he knew that, but that people couldn’t stand feasting unless they -worked hard. The last time I saw him, he offered to make Beman try me -again. But I couldn’t stand that.” - -“Of course not.” - -“I can’t stand anything where I produce no effect, and am not to earn my -living for ever so long. I wasn’t to have any salary at Beman’s for a -year, you know, because I knew nothing about the work. And it was the -same at the lawyer’s office--only much longer to wait. I could work at -anything I understood, of course. But I suppose I do know precious -little that’s of any use. It can’t be helped, now.” - -“Yes, it can. But you see my plan. Uncle Robert will be so taken off his -feet that he’ll find you something. Then the whole thing will be -settled. It will probably be something in the West. Then we’ll declare -ourselves. There’ll be one stupendous crash, and we shall disappear from -the scene, leaving the family to like it or not, as they please. In the -end they will like it. There would be no lies to act--at least, not -after two or three days. It wouldn’t take longer than that to arrange -things.” - -“It all depends on uncle Robert, it seems to me,” said Ralston, -doubtfully. “A runaway match would come to about the same thing in the -end. I’ll do that, if you like.” - -“I won’t. It must be done in my way, or not at all. If we ran away we -should have to come back to see uncle Robert, and we should find him -furious. He’d tell us to go back to our homes, separately, till we had -enough to live on--or to go and live with your mother. I won’t do that -either. She’s not able to support us both.” - -“No--frankly, she’s not.” - -“And uncle Robert would be angry, wouldn’t he? He has a fearful temper, -you know.” - -“Yes--he probably would be raging.” - -“Well, then?” - -“I don’t like it, Katharine dear--I don’t like it.” - -“Then you can never marry me at all, Jack. At least, I’m afraid not.” - -“Never?” Ralston’s expression changed suddenly. - -“There’s another reason, Jack dear. I didn’t want to speak of it--now.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Ralston said nothing at first. Then he looked at Katharine as though -expecting that she should speak again and explain her meaning, in spite -of her having said that she had not meant to do so. - -“What is this other reason?” he asked, after a long pause. - -“It would take so long to tell you all about it,” she answered, -thoughtfully. “And even if I did, I am not sure that you would -understand. It belongs--well--to quite another set of ideas.” - -“It must be something rather serious if it means marriage now, or -marriage never.” - -“It is serious. And the worst of it is that you will laugh at it--and I -am sure you will say that I am not honest to myself. And yet I am. You -see it is connected with things about which you and I don’t think -alike.” - -“Religion?” suggested Ralston, in a tone of enquiry. - -Katharine bowed her head slowly, sighed just audibly and looked away -from him as she leaned back. Nothing could have expressed more clearly -her conviction that the subject was one upon which they could never -agree. - -“I don’t see why you should sigh about it,” said Ralston, in a tone -which expressed relief rather than perplexity. “I often wonder why -people generally look so sad when they talk about religion. Almost -everybody does.” - -“How ridiculous!” exclaimed Katharine, with a little laugh. “Besides, I -wasn’t sighing, exactly--I was only wishing it were all arranged.” - -“Your religion?” - -“Don’t talk like that. I’m in earnest. Don’t laugh at me, Jack -dear--please!” - -“I’m not laughing. Can’t you tell me how religion bears on the matter in -hand? That’s all I need to know. I don’t laugh at religion--at yours or -any one else’s. I believe I have a little inclination to it myself.” - -“Yes, I know. But--well--I don’t think you have enough to save a -fly--not the smallest little fly, Jack. Never mind--you’re just as nice, -dear. I don’t like men who preach.” - -“I’m glad of it. But what has all this to do with our getting married?” - -“Listen. It’s perfectly clear to me, and you can understand if you will. -I have almost made up my mind to become a Catholic--” - -“You?” Ralston stared at her in surprise. “You--a Roman Catholic?” - -“Yes--Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic. Is that clear, Jack?” - -“Perfectly. I’m sorry.” - -“Now don’t be a Puritan, Jack--” - -“I’m not a Puritan. I haven’t a drop of Puritan blood. You have, -Katharine, for your grandmother was one of the real old sort. I’ve heard -my father say so.” - -“You’re just as much a Lauderdale as I am,” retorted Katharine. “And if -Scotch Presbyterians are not Puritans, what is? But that isn’t what I -mean. It’s the tendency to wish that people were nothing at all rather -than Catholics.” - -“It’s not that. I’m not so prejudiced. I was thinking of the row--that’s -all. You don’t mean to keep that a secret, too? It wouldn’t be like -you.” - -“No, indeed,” answered Katharine, proudly. - -“Well--you’ve not told me what the connection is between this and our -marriage. You don’t suppose that it will really make any difference to -me, do you? You can’t. And you’re quite mistaken about my Puritanism. I -would much rather that my wife should be a Roman Catholic than nothing -at all. I’m broad enough for that, anyhow. Of course it’s a serious -matter, because people sometimes do that kind of thing and then find out -that they have made a mistake--when it’s too late. And there’s something -ridiculous and undignified about giving it up again when it’s once -done. Religion seems to be a good deal like politics. You may change -once--people won’t admire you--I mean people on your old side--but they -will tolerate you. But if you change twice--” - -“I’m not going to change twice. I’ve not quite, quite made up my mind to -change once, yet. But if I do, it will make things--I mean, our -marriage--almost impossible.” - -“Why?” - -“The Catholics do everything they can to prevent mixed marriages, -Jack,--especially in our country. You would have to make all sorts of -promises which you wouldn’t like, and which I shouldn’t want you to -make--” - -Ralston laughed, suddenly comprehending her point of view. - -“I see!” he exclaimed. - -“Of course you see. It’s as plain as day. I want to make sure of -you--dear,”--she laid her hand softly on his,--“and I also want to be -sure of being perfectly free to change my mind about my religion, if I -wish to. It’s a stroke of diplomacy.” - -“I don’t know much about diplomatic proceedings,” laughed Ralston, “but -this strikes me as--well--very intelligent, to say the least of it.” - -Katharine’s face became very grave, and she withdrew her hand. - -“You mean that it does not seem to you perfectly honest,” she said. - -“I didn’t say that,” he answered, his expression changing with hers. “Of -course the idea is that if you are married to me before you become a -Catholic, your church can have nothing to say to me when you do.” - -“Of course--yes. You couldn’t be called upon to make any promises. But -if I should decide, after all, not to take the step, there would be no -harm done. On the contrary, I shall have the advantage of being able to -put pressure on uncle Robert, as I explained to you before.” - -“I didn’t say I thought it wasn’t honest,” said Ralston. “It’s rather -deep, and I’m always afraid that deep things may not be quite straight. -I should like to think about it, if you don’t mind.” - -“I want you to decide. I’ve thought about it.” - -“Yes--but--” - -“Well? Suppose that, after thinking it over for ever so long, you should -come to the conclusion that I should not be acting perfectly honestly to -my conscience--that’s the worst you could discover, isn’t it? Even -then--and I believe it’s an impossible case--it’s my conscience and not -yours. If you were trying to persuade me to a secret marriage because -you were afraid of the consequences, it would be different--” - -“Rather!” exclaimed Ralston, vehemently. - -“But you’re not. You see, the main point is on my account, and it’s I -who am doing all the persuading, for that reason. It may be un--un--what -shall I call it--not like a girl at all. But I don’t care. Why shouldn’t -I tell you that I love you? We’ve both said it often enough, and we both -mean it, and I mean to be married to you. The religious question is a -matter of conviction. You have no convictions, so you can’t -understand--” - -“I have one or two--little ones.” - -“Not enough to understand what I feel--that if religion is anything, -then it’s everything except our love. No--that wasn’t an afterthought. -It’s not coming between you and me. Nothing can. But it’s everything -else in life, or else it’s nothing at all and not worth speaking of. And -if it is--if it really is--why then, for me, as I look at it, it means -the Catholic Church. If I talk as though I were not quite sure, it’s -because I want to be quite on the safe side. And if I want you to do -this thing--it’s because I want to be absolutely sure that hereafter no -human being shall come between us. I know all about the difficulties in -these mixed marriages. I’ve made lots of enquiries. There’s no question -of faith, or belief, or anything of the sort in their objections. It’s -simply a matter of church politics, and I daresay that they are quite -right about it, from their point of view, and that if one is once with -them one must be with them altogether, in policy as well as in religion. -But I’m not as far as that yet. Perhaps I never shall be, after all. I -want to make sure of you--oh, Jack, don’t you understand? I can’t talk -well, but I know just what I mean. Tell me you understand, and that -you’ll do what I ask!” - -“It’s very hard!” said Ralston, bending his head and looking at the -carpet. “I wish I knew what to do.” - -Woman-like, she saw that she was beginning to get the advantage. - -“Go over it all, dear. In the first place, it’s entirely for my sake, -and not in the least for yours. So you can’t say there’s anything -selfish in it, if you do it for me, can you? You don’t want to do it, -you don’t like it, and if you do it you’ll be making a sacrifice to -please me.” - -“In marrying you!” Ralston laughed a little and then became very grave -again. - -“Yes, in marrying me. It’s a mere formality, and nothing else. We’re not -going to run away afterwards, nor meet in the dark in Gramercy Park nor -do anything in the least different from what we’ve always done, until -I’ve got what I want from uncle Robert. Then we’ll acknowledge the whole -thing, and I’ll take all the blame on myself, if there is any--” - -“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” interrupted Ralston. - -“Unless you tell a story that’s not true, you won’t be able to find -anything to blame yourself with,” answered Katharine. “So it will be all -over, and it will save no end of bother--and expense. Which is -something, as neither of us, nor our people, have any money to speak of, -and a wedding costs ever so much. I needn’t even have a trousseau--just -a few things, of course--and poor papa will be glad of that. You needn’t -laugh. You’ll be doing him a service, as well as me. And you see how I -can put it to uncle Robert, don’t you? ‘Uncle Robert, we’re -married--that’s all. What are you going to do about it?’ Nothing could -be plainer than that, could it?” - -“Nothing!” - -“Now he will simply have to do something. Perhaps he’ll be angry at -first, but that won’t last long. He’ll get over it and laugh at my -audacity. But that isn’t the main point. It’s perfectly conceivable that -you might work and slave at something you hate for years and years, -until we could get married in the regular way. The principal question is -the other--my freedom afterwards to do exactly as I please about my -religion without any possibility of any one interfering with our -marriage.” - -“Katharine! Do you really mean to say that if you were a Catholic, and -if the priests said that we shouldn’t be married, you would submit?” - -“If I couldn’t, I couldn’t,” Katharine answered. “If I were a Catholic, -and a good Catholic,--I wouldn’t be a bad one,--no marriage but a -Catholic one would be a marriage at all for me. And if they refused it, -what could I do? Go back? That would be lying to myself. To marry you in -some half regular way--” - -“Hush, child! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” - -“Yes, I do--perfectly. And you wouldn’t like that. So you see what my -position is. It’s absolutely necessary to my future happiness that we -should be quietly married some morning--to-morrow, if you like, but -certainly in a day or two--and that nobody should know anything about -it, until I’ve told uncle Robert.” - -“After all,” said Ralston, hesitating, “it will be very much the same -thing as though we were to run away, provided we face everybody at -once.” - -“Very much better, because there’ll be no scandal--and no immediate -starvation, which is something worth considering.” - -“It won’t really be a secret marriage, except for the mere ceremony, -then. That looks different, somehow.” - -“Of course. You don’t suppose that I thought of taking so much trouble -and doing such a queer thing just for the sake of knowing all to myself -that I was married, do you? Besides, secrets are always idiotic things. -Somebody always lets them out before one is ready. And it’s not as -though there were any good reason in the world why we should not be -married, except the money question. We’re of age--and suited to each -other--and all that.” - -“Naturally!” And Ralston laughed again. - -“Well, then--it seems to me that it’s all perfectly clear. It amounts to -telling everybody the day after, instead of the day before the wedding. -Do you see?” - -“I suppose I ought to go on protesting, but you do make it very clear -that there’s nothing underhand about it, except the mere ceremony. And -as you say, we have a perfect right to be married if we please.” - -“And we do please--don’t we?” - -“With all our hearts,” Ralston answered, in a dreamy tone. - -“Then when shall it be, Jack?” Katharine leaned towards him and touched -his hand with her fingers as though to rouse him from the reverie into -which he seemed to be falling. - -The touch thrilled him, and he looked up suddenly and met her glance. He -looked at her steadily for a moment, and once more he felt that odd, -pleasurable, unmanly moisture in his - -[Illustration: “She rose suddenly and pretended to busy herself with the -single light.”--Vol. I., p. 79.] - -eyes, with a sweeping wave of emotion that rose from his heart with a -rush as though it would burst his throat. He yielded to it altogether -this time, and catching her in his arms drew her passionately to him, -kissing her again and again, as though he had never kissed her before. -He did not understand it himself, and Katharine was not used to it. But -she loved him, too, with all her heart, as it seemed to her. She had -proved it to him and to herself more completely within the last half -hour, and she let her own arms go round him. Then a deep, dark blush -which she could feel, rose slowly from her throat to her cheeks, and she -instinctively disentangled herself from him and drew gently back. - -“Remember that it’s for my sake--not for yours, dear,” she said. - -Her grey eyes were as deep as the dusk itself. Vaguely she guessed her -power as she gave him one more long look, and then rose suddenly and -pretended to busy herself with the single light, turning it up a little -and then down. Ralston watched the springing curves that outlined her -figure as she reached upward. He was in many ways a strangely refined -man, in spite of all his sins, and of his besetting sin in particular, -and refinement in others appealed to him strongly when it was healthy -and natural. He detested the diaphanous type of semi-consumptive with -the angel face, man or woman, and declared that a skeleton deserved no -credit for looking refined, since it could not possibly look anything -else. But he delighted in delicacy of touch and grace of movement when -it went with such health and strength as Katharine had. - -“You are the most divinely beautiful thing on earth,” he said, quietly. - -Katharine laughed, but still turned her face away from him. - -“Then marry me,” she said, laughing. “What a speech!” she cried an -instant later. “Just fancy if any one could hear me, not knowing what -we’ve been talking about!” - -“You were just in time, then,” said Ralston. “There’s some one coming.” - -Katharine turned quickly, listened a moment, and distinguished a -footfall on the stairs outside the door. She nodded, and came to his -side at once. - -“You will, Jack,” she said under her breath. “Say that you will--quick!” - -Ralston hesitated one moment. He tried to think, but her eyes were upon -him and he seemed to be under a spell. They were close together, and -there was not much light in the room. He felt that the shadow of -something unknown was around them both--that somewhere in the room a -sweet flower was growing, not like other flowers, not common nor scented -with spring--a plant full of softly twisted tendrils and pale petals -and in-turned stamens--a flower of moon-leaf and fire-bloom and -dusk-thorn--drooping above their two heads like a blossom-laden bough -bending heavily over two exquisite statues--two statues that did not -speak, whose faces did not change as the night stole silently upon -them--but they were side by side, very near, and the darkness was sweet. - -It was only an instant. Then their lips met. - -“Yes,” he whispered, and drew back as the door opened. - -Mrs. Lauderdale entered the room. - -“Oh, are you there, Jack?” she asked, but without any surprise, as -though she were accustomed to find him with Katharine. - -“Yes,” answered Ralston, quietly. “I’ve been here ever so long. How do -you do, cousin Emma?” - -“Oh, I’m so tired!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale. “I’ve been working all -day long. I positively can’t see.” - -“You ought not to work so hard,” said Ralston. “You’ll wear your eyes -out.” - -“No, I’m strong, and so are my eyes. I only wanted to say that I was -tired. It’s such a relief!” - -Mrs. Lauderdale had been a very beautiful woman, and was, indeed, only -just beginning to lose her beauty. She was much taller than either of -her daughters, but of a different type of figure from Katharine, and -less evenly grown, if such an expression may be permitted. The hand was -typical of the difference. Mrs. Lauderdale’s was extremely long and -thin, but well made in the details, though out of proportion in the way -of length and narrowness as a whole. Katharine’s hand was firm and full, -without being what is called a thick hand. There was a more perfect -balance between flesh and bone in the straight, strong fingers. Mrs. -Lauderdale had been one of those magnificent fair beauties occasionally -seen in Kentucky,--a perfect head with perfect but small features, -superb golden hair, straight, clear eyes, a small red mouth,--great -dignity of carriage, too, with the something which has been christened -‘dash’ when she moved quickly, or did anything with those long hands of -hers,--a marvellous constitution, and the dazzling complexion of snow -and carnations that goes with it, very different from the softer ‘milk -and roses’ of the Latin poet’s mistress. Mrs. Lauderdale had always been -described as dazzling, and people who saw her for the first time used -the word even now to convey the impression she made. Her age, which was -known only to some members of the family, and which is not of the -slightest importance to this history, showed itself chiefly in a -diminution of this dazzling quality. The white was less white, the -carnation was becoming a common pink, the gold of her hair was no longer -gold all through, but distinctly brown in many places, though it would -certainly never turn grey until extreme old age. Her movements, too, -were less free, though stately still,--the brutal word ‘rheumatism’ had -been whispered by the family doctor,--and to go back to her face, there -were undeniably certain tiny lines, and many of them, which were not the -lines of beauty. - -It was a brave, good face, on the whole, gifted, sometimes sympathetic, -and oddly cold when the woman’s temper was most impulsive. For there is -an expression of coldness which weakness puts on in self-defence. A -certain narrowness of view, diametrically opposed to a corresponding -narrowness in her husband’s mind, did not show itself in her features. -There is a defiant, supremely satisfied look which shows that sort of -limitation. Possibly such narrowness was not natural with Mrs. -Lauderdale, but the result of having been systematically opposed on -certain particular grounds throughout more than a quarter of a century -of married life. However that may be, it was by this time a part of her -nature, though not outwardly expressed in any apparent way. - -She had not been very happy with Alexander Junior, and she admitted the -fact. She knew also that she had been a good wife to him in every fair -sense of the word. For although she had enjoyed compensations, she had -taken advantage of them in a strictly conscientious way. Undeniable -beauty, of the kind which every one recognizes instantly without the -slightest hesitation, is so rare a gift that it does indeed compensate -its possessor for many misfortunes, especially when she enjoys amusement -for its own sake, innocently and without losing her head or becoming -spoiled and affected by constant admiration. Katharine Lauderdale had -not that degree of beauty, and there were numerous persons who did not -even care for what they called ‘her style.’ Her sister Charlotte had -something of her mother’s brilliancy, indeed, but there was a hardness -about her face and nature which was apparent at first sight. Mrs. -Alexander had always remained the beauty of the family, and indeed the -beauty of the society to which she belonged, even after her daughters -had been grown up. She had outshone them, even in a world like that of -New York, which does not readily compare mothers and daughters in any -way, and asks them out separately as though they did not belong to each -other. - -She had not been very happy, and apart from any purely imaginary bliss, -procurable only by some miraculous changes in Alexander Junior’s heart -and head, she believed that the only real thing lacking was money. She -had always been poor. She had never known what seemed to her the supreme -delight of sitting in her own carriage. She had never tasted the -pleasure of having five hundred dollars to spend on her fancies, -exactly as she pleased. The question of dress had always been more or -less of a struggle. She had not exactly extravagant tastes, but she -should have liked to feel once in her life that she was at liberty to -throw aside a pair of perfectly new gloves, merely because when she put -them on the first time one of the seams was a little crooked, or the -lower part was too loose for her narrow hand. She had always felt that -when she had bought a thing she must wear it out, as a matter of -conscience, even if it did not suit her. And there was a real little -pain in the thought, of which she was ashamed. Small things, but womanly -and human. Then, too, there was the constant chafing of her pardonable -pride when ninety-nine of her acquaintances all did the same thing, and -she was the hundredth who could not afford it--and the subscriptions and -the charity concerts and the theatre parties. It was mainly in order to -supply herself with a little money for such objects as these that she -had worked so hard at her painting for years--that she might not be -obliged to apply to her husband for such sums on every occasion. She had -succeeded to some extent, too, and her initials had a certain -reputation, even with the dealers. Many people knew that those same -initials were hers, and a few friends were altogether in her confidence. -Possibly if she had been less beautiful, she would have been spoken -of at afternoon teas as ‘poor Mrs. Lauderdale,’ and people would -have been found--for society has its kindly side--who would have -half-surreptitiously paid large sums for bits of her work, even much -more than her miniatures could ever be worth. But she did not excite -pity. She looked rich, as some people do to their cost. People -sympathized with her in the matter of Alexander Junior’s character, for -he was not popular. But no one thought of pitying her because she was -poor. On the contrary, many persons envied her. It must be ‘such fun,’ -they said, to be able to paint and really sell one’s paintings. A -dashing woman with a lot of talent, who can make a few hundreds in half -an hour when she chooses, said others. What did she spend the money on? -On whatever she pleased--probably in charity, she was so good-hearted. -But those people did not see her as Jack Ralston saw her, worn out with -a long day’s work, her eyes aching, her naturally good temper almost on -edge; and they did not know that Katharine Lauderdale’s simple ball -gowns were paid for by the work of her mother’s hands. It was just as -well that they did not know it. Society has such queer fits -sometimes--somebody might have given Katharine a dress. But Ralston was -in the secret and knew. - -“One may be as strong as cast-steel,” he said. “Even that wears out. -Ask the people who make engines. You’ll accomplish a great deal more if -you go easy and give yourself rest from time to time.” - -“Like you, Jack,” observed Mrs. Lauderdale, not unkindly. - -“Oh, I’m a failure. I admitted the fact long ago. I’m only fit for a bad -example,--a sort of moral scarecrow.” - -“Yes. I wonder why?” Mrs. Lauderdale was tired and was thinking aloud. -“I didn’t mean to say that, Jack,” she added, frankly, realizing what -she had said, from the recollection of the sound of her own voice, as -people sometimes do who are exhausted or naturally absent-minded. - -“It wasn’t exactly complimentary, mother,” said Katharine, coldly. -“Besides, is it fair to say that a man is a failure at Jack’s age? -Patrick Henry was a failure at twenty-three. He was bankrupt.” - -“Patrick Henry!” exclaimed Ralston. “What do you know about Patrick -Henry?” - -“Oh, I’ve been reading history. It was he who said, ‘Give me liberty, or -give me death.’” - -“Was it? I didn’t know. But I’m glad to hear of somebody who got smashed -first and celebrated afterwards. It’s generally the other way, like -Napoleon and Julius Cæsar.” - -“Cardinal Wolsey, Alexander the Great, and John Gilpin. It’s easy to -multiply examples, as the books say.” - -“You’re much too clever for me this evening. I must be going home. My -mother and I are going to dine all alone and abuse our neighbours all -the evening.” - -“How delightful!” exclaimed Katharine, thinking of the grim family table -at which she was to sit as usual--there had been some fine fighting in -Charlotte’s unmarried days, but Katharine’s opposition was generally of -the silent kind. - -“Yes,” answered Ralston. “There’s nobody like my mother. She’s the best -company in the world. Good night, cousin Emma. Good night, Katharine.” - -But Katharine followed him into the entry, letting the library door -almost close behind her. - -“It will be quite time enough, if you come and tell me on the evening -before it is to be,” she whispered hurriedly. “There’s no party -to-morrow night, but on Wednesday I’m going to the Thirlwalls’ dance.” - -“Will any morning do?” asked Ralston, also in a whisper. - -“Yes, any morning. Now go--quick. That’s enough, dear--there, if you -must. Go--good night--dear!” - -The process of leave-taking was rather spasmodic, so far as Katharine -was concerned. Ralston felt that same strange emotion once more as he -found himself out upon the pavement of Clinton Place. His head swam a -little, and he stopped to light a cigarette before he turned towards -Fifth Avenue. - -Katharine went back into the library, and found her mother sitting as -the two had left her, and apparently unconscious that her daughter had -gone out of the room. - -“He’s quite right, mother dear. You are trying to do too much,” said -Katharine, coming behind the low chair and smoothing her mother’s -beautiful hair, kissing it softly and speaking into the heavy waves of -it. - -Mrs. Lauderdale put up one thin hand, and patted the girl’s cheek -without turning to look at her, but said nothing for a moment. - -“It’s quite true,” Katharine said. “You mustn’t do it any more.” - -“How smooth your cheek is, child!” said Mrs. Lauderdale, thoughtfully. - -“So is yours, mother dear.” - -“No--it’s not. It’s full of little lines. Touch it--you can feel -them--just there. Besides--you can see them.” - -“I don’t feel anything--and I don’t see anything,” answered Katharine. - -But she knew what her mother meant, and it made her a little sad--even -her. She had been accustomed all her life to believe that her mother was -the most beautiful woman in the world, and she knew that the time had -just come when she must grow used to not believing it any longer. Mrs. -Lauderdale had never said anything of the sort before. She had been -supreme in her way, and had taken it for granted that she was, never -referring to her own looks under any circumstances. - -In the long silence that followed, Katharine quietly went and closed the -shutters of the windows, for Ralston had only pulled down the shades. -She drew the dark curtains across for the evening, lit another gaslight, -and remained standing by the fireplace. - -“Thank you, darling,” said Mrs. Lauderdale. - -“I do wish papa would let us have lamps, or shades, or something,” said -Katharine, looking disconsolately at the ground-glass globes of the -gaslights. - -“He doesn’t like them--he says he can’t see.” - -There was a short pause. - -“Oh, mother dear! what in the world does papa like, I wonder?” Katharine -turned with an impatient movement as she spoke, and her broad eyebrows -almost met between her eyes. - -“Hush, child!” But the words were uttered wearily and mechanically--Mrs. -Lauderdale had pronounced them so often under precisely the same -circumstances during the last quarter of a century. - -Katharine sighed, a little out of impatience and to some extent in pity -for her mother. But she stood looking across the room at the closed -door through which Ralston and she had gone out together five minutes -earlier, and she could still feel his last kiss on her cheek. He had -never seemed so loving as on that day, and she had succeeded in -persuading him, against his instinctive judgment, to promise her what -she asked,--the maddest, most foolish thing a girl’s imagination could -long for, no matter with what half-reasonable excuse. But she had his -promise, which, as she well knew, he would keep--and she loved him with -all her heart. The expression of mingled sadness and impatience vanished -like a breath from a polished mirror. She was unconscious that she -looked radiantly happy, as her mother gazed up into her face. - -“What a beautiful creature you are!” said Mrs. Lauderdale, in a tone -unlike her natural voice. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Katharine had no anxiety about the future, and it seemed to her that she -had managed matters in the wisest and most satisfactory manner possible. -She had provided, as she thought, against the possibility of any -subsequent interference with her marriage in case she should see fit to -take the step of which she had spoken. The combination seemed perfect, -and even a sensible person, taking into consideration all the -circumstances, might have found something to say in favour of a marriage -which should not be generally discussed. Ralston and Katharine, though -not rich, were decidedly prominent young people in their own society, -and their goings and comings interested the gossips and furnished food -for conversation. There were many reasons for this. Neither of them was -exactly like the average young person in the world. But the great name -of Lauderdale, which was such a real power in the financial world, -contributed most largely to the result. Every one who bore it, or who -was as closely connected with it as the Ralstons, was more or less -before the public. Most of the society paragraph writers in the -newspapers spoke of the family, collectively and individually, as often -as they could find anything to say about it, and as a general rule the -tone of their remarks was subdued and laudatory, and betrayed something -very like awe. The presence of the Lauderdales and the Ralstons was -taken for granted in all accounts of big parties, first nights at the -opera and Daly’s, and of other similar occasions. From time to time a -newspaper man in a fit of statistics calculated how many dollars of -income accrued to Robert Lauderdale at every minute, and proceeded to -show how much each member of the family would have if it were all -equally divided. As Robert the Rich had made his money in real estate, -and his name never appeared in connection with operations in Wall -Street, he was therefore not periodically assailed by the wrathful -chorus of the sold and ruined, abusing him and his people to the -youngest of the living generation, an ordeal with which the great -speculators are familiar. But from time to time the daily papers -published wood-cuts supposed to be portraits of him and his connections, -and the obituary notice of him--which was, of course, kept ready in -every newspaper office--would have given even the old gentleman himself -some satisfaction. The only member of the family who suffered at all for -being connected with him was Benjamin Slayback, the member of Congress. -If he ever dared to hint at any measure implying expenditure on the part -of the country, he was promptly informed by some Honourable Member on -the other side, that it was all very well for him to be reckless, with -the whole Lauderdale fortune at his back, but that ordinary mortals had -to content themselves with ordinary possibilities. The member from -California called him the Eastern Crœsus, and the member from -Massachusetts called him the Western Millionaire, and the member from -Missouri quoted Scripture at him, while the Social-Democrat member from -Somewhere--there was one at that time, and he was a little curiosity in -his way--called him a Capitalist, than which epithet the -social-democratic dictionary contains none more biting and more -offensive in the opinion of its compilers. Altogether, at such times the -Honourable Slayback of Nevada had a very bad quarter of an hour because -he had married Charlotte Lauderdale,--penniless but a Lauderdale, very -inadequately fitted out for a bride, though she was the grand-niece of -Robert the Rich. Slayback of Nevada, however, had a certain rough -dignity of his own, and never mentioned those facts. He had plenty of -money himself and did not covet any that belonged to his wife’s -relations. - -“I’m not as rich as your uncle Robert,” he said to her on the day after -their marriage, “and I don’t count on being. But you can have all you -want. There’s enough to go round, now. Maybe you wouldn’t like to be -bothering me all the while for little things? Yes, that’s natural; so -I’ll just put something up to your credit at Riggs’s and you can have a -cheque-book. When you’ve got through it, tell Riggs to let me know. You -might be shy of telling me.” - -And Benjamin Slayback smiled in a kindly fashion not at all familiar to -his men friends, and on the following day Charlotte received a notice -from the bank to the effect that ten thousand dollars stood to her -credit. Never having had any money of her own, the sum seemed a fortune -to her, and she showed herself properly grateful, and forgave Benjamin a -multitude of small sins, even such as having once worn a white satin tie -in the evening, and at the opera, of all places. - -Katharine was perfectly well aware that the smallest actions of her -family were subjects for public discussion, and she knew how people -would talk if it were ever discovered that she had been secretly married -to John Ralston. On the other hand, the rest of the Lauderdales were in -the same position, and would be quite willing, when they were acquainted -with the facts, to say that the marriage had been a private one, leaving -it to be supposed that they had known all about it from the first. She -had no anxiety for the future, therefore, and believed that she was -acting with her eyes open to all conceivable contingencies and -possibilities. Matters were not, indeed, finally settled, for even after -she was married she would still have the interview with her uncle to -face; but she felt sure of the result. It was so easy for him to do -exactly what he pleased, as it seemed to her, to make or unmake men’s -fortunes at his will, as she could tie and untie a bit of string. - -And her confidence in Ralston was boundless. Considering his capacities, -as they appeared to her, his failure to do anything for himself in the -two positions which had been offered to him was not to be considered a -failure at all. He was a man of action, and he was an exceptionally -well-educated man. How could he ever be expected to do an ordinary -clerk’s work? It was absurd to suppose that he could change his whole -character at a moment’s notice, and it was an insult to expect that he -should change it at all. It was a splendid nature, she thought, -generous, energetic, brave, averse to mean details, of course, as such -natures must be, impatient of control, independent and dominating. There -was much to admire in Ralston, she believed, even if she had not loved -him. And perhaps she was right, from her point of view. Of his chief -fault she really knew nothing. The little she had heard of his being -wild, as it is called, rather attracted than repelled her. She despised -men whom she looked upon as ‘duffers’ and ‘muffs.’ Even her father, -whose peculiarities were hard to bear, was manly in his way. He had been -good at sports in his youth, he was a good rider, and could be trusted -with horses that did not belong to him, which was fortunate, as he had -never possessed any of his own; he was a good shot, as she had often -heard, and he periodically disappeared upon solitary salmon-fishing -expeditions on the borders of Canada. For he was a strong man and a -tough man, and needed much bodily exercise. The only real ‘muff’ there -had ever been in the family Katharine considered to be her grandfather, -the philanthropist, and he was so old that it did not matter much. But -the tales he told of his studious youth disgusted her, for some occult -reason. All the other male relations were manly fellows, even to little -Frank Miner, who was as full of fight as a cock-sparrow, in spite of his -diminutive stature. Benjamin Slayback, too, was eminently manly, in an -awkward, constrained fashion. Hamilton Bright was an athlete. And John -Ralston could do all the things which the others could do, and did most -things a trifle better, with a certain finished ‘style’ which other men -envied. He was eminently the kind of man whose acquaintances at the club -will back for money in every contest requiring skill and strength. - -It was no wonder that Katharine admired him. But she told herself that -her admiration had nothing to do with her love. There was much more in -him than the world knew of, and she was quite sure of it. Her ideals -were high, and Ralston fulfilled most of them. She always fancied that -there was something knightly about him, and it appealed to her more than -any other characteristic. - -She felt that he could be intimate without ever becoming familiar. There -is more in that idea than appears at first sight, and the distinction is -not one of words. Up to a certain point she was quite right in making -it, for he was naturally courtly, as well as ordinarily courteous, and -yet without exaggeration. He did certain things which few other men did, -and which she liked. He walked on her left side, for instance, whenever -it was possible, if they chanced to be together in the street. She had -never spoken of it to him, but she had read, in some old book on court -manners, that it was right a hundred years ago, and she was pleased. -They had been children together, and yet almost since she could remember -he had always opened the door for her when she left a room. And not for -her only, but for every woman. If she and her mother were together when -they met him, he always spoke to her mother first. If they got into a -carriage he expected to sit on the left side, even if he had to leave -the pavement and go to the other door to get in. He never spoke of her -simply as ‘Katharine’ if he had to mention her name in her presence to -any one not a member of the family. He said ‘my cousin Katharine,’ or -‘Miss Lauderdale,’ according to circumstances. - -They were little things, all of them, but by no means absurd in her -estimation, and he would continue to do them all his life. She supposed -that his mother had taught him the usages of courtesy when he had been a -boy, but they were a part of himself now. How many men, thought -Katharine, who believed themselves ‘perfect gentlemen,’ and who were -undeniably gentlemen in every essential, were wholly lacking in these -small matters! How many would have called such things old-fashioned -nonsense, who had never so much as noticed that Ralston did them all, -because he did them unobtrusively, and because, in reality, most of them -are founded on perfectly logical principles, and originally had nothing -but the convenience of society for their object. Katharine had thought -it out. For instance, most men, being right-handed, have the more -skilful hand and the stronger arm on the lady’s side, with which to -render her any assistance she may need, if they find themselves on her -left. There was never any affectation of fashion about really good -manners, Katharine believed, and everything appertaining thereto had a -solid foundation in usefulness. During Slayback’s courtship of her -sister she had found numberless opportunities of contrasting what she -called the social efficiency of the man who knew exactly what to do with -the inefficiency of him who did not; and, on a more limited scale, she -found such opportunities daily when she saw Ralston together with other -men. - -He had a very high standard of honour, too. Many men had that, and all -whom she knew were supposed to have it, but there were few whom she felt -that she could never possibly suspect of some little meanness. That was -another step to the pedestal on which she had set up her ideal. - -But perhaps one of the chief points which appealed to her sympathy was -Ralston’s breadth of view, or absence of narrowness. He had spoken the -strict truth that evening when he had said that he never laughed at any -one’s religion, and, next to love, religion was at that time uppermost -in Katharine Lauderdale’s mind. At her present stage of development -everything she did, saw, read and heard bore upon one or the other, or -both, which was not surprising considering the atmosphere in which she -had grown up. - -Alexander Junior had never made but one sacrifice for his wife, and that -had been of a negative description. He had forgiven her for being a -Roman Catholic, and had agreed never to mention the subject; and he had -kept his word, as indeed he always did on the very rare occasions when -he could be induced to give it. It is needless to say that he had made a -virtue of his conduct in this respect, for he systematically made the -most of everything in himself which could be construed into a virtue at -all. But at all events he had never broken his promise. In the days when -he had married Emma Camperdown there had been little or no difficulty -about marriages between Catholics and members of other churches, and it -had been understood that his children were to be brought up -Presbyterians, though nothing had been openly said about it. His bride -had been young, beautiful and enthusiastic, and she had believed in her -heart that before very long she could effect her husband’s conversion, -little dreaming of the rigid nature with which she should have to deal. -It would have been as easy to make a Roman Catholic of Oliver Cromwell, -as Mrs. Lauderdale soon discovered to her sorrow. He did not even -consider that she had any right to talk of religion to her children. - -Charlotte Lauderdale grew up in perfect indifference. Her mind developed -young, but not far. In her childhood she was a favourite of old Mrs. -Lauderdale,--formerly a Miss Mainwaring, of English extraction, and the -mother of Mrs. Ralston,--and the old lady had taught her that -Presbyterians were no better than atheists, and that Roman Catholics -were idolaters, so that the only salvation lay in the Episcopal Church. -The lesson had entered deep into the girl’s heart, and she had grown up -laughing at all three; but on coming to years of discretion she went to -an Episcopal church because most of her friends did. She enjoyed the -weekly fray with her father, whom she hated for his own sake in the -first place, and secondly because he was poor, and she once went so far -as to make him declare, in his iron voice, that he vastly preferred -Catholics to Episcopalians,--a declaration which she ever afterwards -cast violently in his teeth when she had succeeded in drawing him into a -discussion upon articles of faith. Her mother never had the slightest -influence over her. The girl was quick-witted and believed herself -clever, was amusing and thought she was witty, was headstrong, -capricious and violent in her dislikes and was consequently convinced -that she had a very strong will. She married Slayback for three -reasons,--to escape from her family, because he was rich, and because -she believed that she could do anything she chose with him. She was not -mistaken in his wealth, and she removed herself altogether from the -sphere of the Lauderdales, but Benjamin Slayback was not at all the kind -of person she had taken him for. - -Katharine was altogether different from her sister. She was more -habitually silent, and her taste was never for family war. She thought -more and read less than Charlotte, who devoured literature promiscuously -and trusted to luck to remember something of what she read. Indeed, -Katharine thought a great deal, and often reasoned correctly from -inaccurate knowledge. In a healthy way she was inclined to be -melancholic, and was given to following out serious ideas, and even to -something like religious contemplation. Everything connected with belief -in transcendental matters interested her exceedingly. She delighted in -having discussions which turned upon the supernatural, and upon such -things as seem to promise a link between the hither and the further side -of death’s boundary,--between the cis-mortal and the trans-mortal, if -the coining of such words be allowable. In this she resembled -nine-tenths of the American women of her age and surroundings. The mind -of the idle portion of American society to-day reminds one of a polypus -whose countless feelers are perpetually waving and writhing in the -fruitless attempt to catch the very smallest fragment of something from -the other side, wherewith to satisfy the mortal hunger that torments it. - -There is something more than painful, something like an act of the -world’s soul-tragedy, in this all-pervading desire to know the worst, or -the best,--to know anything which shall prove that there is something -to know. There is a breathless interest in every detail of an -‘experience’ as it is related, a raising of hopes, a thrilling of the -long-ready receptivity as the point is approached; and then, when the -climax is reached and past, there is the sudden, almost agonizing -relapse into blank hopelessness. The story has been told, but nothing is -proved. We know where the door is, but before it is a screen round which -we must pass to reach it. The screen is death, as we see it. To pass it -and be within sight of the threshold is to die, as we understand death, -and there lies the boundary of possible experience, for, so far as we -know, there is no other door. - -The question is undoubtedly the greatest which humanity can ask, for the -answer must be immortality or annihilation. It seems that a certain -proportion of mankind, driven to distraction by the battle of beliefs, -has actually lost the faculty of believing anything at all, and the -place where the faculty was aches, to speak familiarly. - -That, at least, was how it struck Katharine Lauderdale, and it was from -this point of view that she seriously contemplated becoming a Catholic. -If she did so, she intended to accept the Church as a whole and refuse, -forever afterwards, to reopen the discussion. She never could accept it -as her mother did, for she had not been brought up in it, but there were -days when she felt that by a single act of will she could bind herself -to believe in all the essentials, and close her eyes to the existence of -the non-essentials, never to open them again. Then, she thought, she -should never have any more doubts. - -But on other days she wished that there might be another way. She got -odd numbers of the proceedings of a society devoted to psychological -researches, and read with extreme avidity the accurately reported -evidence of persons who had seen or heard unusual sights or sounds, -and studied the figures illustrating the experiments in thought-transference. -Then the conviction came upon her that there must be another door -besides the door of death, and that, if she were only patient she might -be led to it or come upon it unawares. She knew far too little of even -what little there is to be known, to get any further than this vague and -not unpleasant dream, and she was conscious of her ignorance, asking -questions of every one she met who took the slightest interest in -psychical enquiries. Of course, her attempts to gain knowledge were -fruitless. If any one who is willing to be a member of civilized society -knew anything definite about what we call the future state, the whole of -civilized society would know it also in less than a month. Every one can -be quite sure of that, and no one need therefore waste time in -questioning his neighbour in the hope of learning anything certain. - -There were even times when her father’s rigid and merciless view of the -soul pleased her, and was in sympathy with her slightly melancholic -temperament. The unbending, manly quality of the Presbyterian belief -attracted her by its strength--the courage a man must have to go through -life facing an almost inevitable hell for himself and the positive -certainty of irrecoverable damnation for most of those dearest to him. -If her father was in earnest, as he appeared to be, he could not have -the slightest hope that her mother could be saved. At that idea -Katharine laughed, being supposed to be a Presbyterian herself. -Nevertheless, she sometimes liked his hard sayings and doings, simply -because they were hard. Hamilton Bright had often told her that she had -a lawyer’s mind, because she could not help seeing things from opposite -sides at the same time, whereupon she always answered that though she -despised prejudices, she liked people who had them, because such persons -were generally stronger than the average. Ralston, who had not many, and -had none at all about religious matters, was the man with whom she felt -herself in the closest sympathy, a fact which went far to prove to -Bright that he was not mistaken in his judgment of her. - -On the whole, in spite of the declaration she had made to Ralston, -Katharine Lauderdale’s state was sceptical, in the sense that her mind -was in a condition of suspended judgment between no less than five -points of view, the Presbyterian, the Catholic, the deistic, the -psychologic, and the materialistic. It was her misfortune that her -nature had led her to think of such matters at all, rather than to -accept some existing form of belief and to be as happy as she could be -with it from the first, as her mother had done: and though her -intelligence was good, it was as totally inadequate to grapple with such -subjects as it was well adapted to the ordinary requirements of worldly -life. But she was not to be blamed for being in a state of mind to which -her rather unusual surroundings had contributed much, and her thoughtful -temperament not a little. If anything, she was to be pitied, though the -mighty compensation of a genuine love had grown up year by year to -neutralize the elements of unhappiness which were undoubtedly present. - -It is worth noticing that at this time, which opened the crucial period -of her life, she doubted her own religious convictions and her own -stability of purpose, but she did not for a moment doubt the sincerity -of her love for John Ralston, nor of his for her, as she conclusively -proved when she determined to risk her whole life in such a piece of -folly as a secret marriage. - -When she came down to dinner on that memorable evening, she found her -father and mother sitting on opposite sides of the fireplace. Alexander -Junior was correctly arrayed in evening dress, and his clothes fitted -perfectly upon his magnificent figure. The keen eye of a suspicious -dandy could have detected that they were very old clothes, and Mr. -Lauderdale would not have felt at all dismayed at the discovery of the -fact. He prided himself upon wearing a coat ten years, and could tell -the precise age of every garment in his possession. He tied his ties to -perfection also, and this, too, was an economy, for such was his skill -that he could wear a white tie twice, bringing the knot into exactly the -same place a second time. Mont Blanc presented not a more spotless, -impenetrable, and unchanging front than Alexander Junior’s shirt. He had -processes of rejuvenating his shoes known to him alone, and in the old -days of evening gloves, his were systematically cleaned and rematched, -and the odd ones laid aside to replace possible torn ones in the future, -constituting a veritable survival of the fittest. Five and twenty years -of married life had not taught him that a woman could not possibly do -the same with her possessions, and he occasionally enquired why his wife -did not wear certain gowns which had been young with her daughters. He -never put on the previously mentioned white tie, however, unless some -one was coming to dinner. When the family was alone, he wore a black -one. As he was not hospitable, and did not encourage hospitality in his -wife, though he praised it extravagantly in other people, and never -refused a dinner party, the black tie was the rule at home. Black ties -last a long time. - -Katharine noticed the white one this evening, and was surprised, as her -mother had not spoken to her of any guest. - -“Who is coming to dinner?” she asked, looking at her father, almost as -soon as she had shut the door. - -Mr. Lauderdale’s steel-grey upper lip was immediately raised in a sort -of smile which showed his large white teeth--he had defied the dentist -from his youth up, and his smile was hard and cold as an electric light. - -“Ah, my dear child,” he answered in a clear, metallic voice, “I am glad -you notice things. Little things are always worth noticing. Walter -Crowdie is coming to dinner to-day. In fact, he is rather late--” - -“With Hester?” asked Katharine, quickly. Hester Crowdie was Hamilton -Bright’s sister, and Katharine liked her. - -“No, my dear, without Hester. We could hardly ask two people to our -every-day dinner.” - -“Oh--it’s only Mr. Crowdie, then,” said Katharine in a tone of -disappointment, sitting down beside her mother. - -“I hope you’ll be nice to him, Katharine,” said Mr. Lauderdale. “There -are many reasons--” - -“Oh, yes! I’ll be nice to him,” answered the young girl, with a short, -quick frown that disappeared again instantly. - -“I don’t like your expression, my child,” said Alexander Junior, -severely, “and I don’t like to be interrupted. Mr. Crowdie is very kind. -He wishes to paint your portrait, and he proposes to give us the study -he must make first, which will be just as good as the picture itself, I -have no doubt. Crowdie is getting a great reputation, and a picture by -him is valuable. One can’t afford to be rude to a man who makes such a -proposal.” - -“No,” observed Mrs. Lauderdale as though speaking to herself. “I should -really like to have it. He is a great artist.” - -“I haven’t the least intention of being rude to him,” answered -Katharine. “What does he mean to do with my portrait--with the picture -itself when he has painted it--sell it?” - -“He would have a perfect right to sell it, of course--with no name. He -means to exhibit it in Paris, I believe, and then I think he intends to -give it to his wife. You always say she is a great friend of yours.” - -“Oh--that’s all right, if it’s for Hester,” said Katharine. “Of course -she’s a friend of mine. Hush! I hear the bell.” - -“When did Mr. Crowdie talk to you about this?” asked Mrs. Lauderdale, -addressing her husband. - -“This morning--hush! Here he is.” - -Alexander Junior had an almost abnormal respect for the proprieties, and -always preferred to stop talking about a person five minutes before he -or she appeared. It was a part of his excessively reticent nature. - -The door opened and Walter Crowdie appeared, a pale young man with -heavy, red lips and a bad figure. His eyes alone redeemed his face from -being positively repulsive, for they were of a very beautiful blue -colour and shaded by extremely long brown lashes. A quantity of pale -hair, too long to be neat, but not so long as worn by many modern -musicians, concealed the shape of his head and grew low on his forehead. -The shape of the face, as the hair allowed it to be seen, resembled that -of a pear, wide and flaccid about the jaws and narrowing upwards towards -the temples. Crowdie’s hands were small, cushioned with fat, and of a -dead white--the fingers being very pointed and the nails long and -polished. His shoulders sloped like a woman’s, and were narrow, and he -was heavy about the waist and slightly in-kneed. He was too fashionable -to use perfumes, but one instinctively expected him to smell of musk. - -Both women experienced an unpleasant sensation when he entered the room. -What Mr. Lauderdale felt it is impossible to guess, but as Katharine saw -the two shake hands she was proud of her father and of the whole manly -race from which she was descended. - -Last of all the party came Alexander Senior, taking the utmost advantage -of age’s privilege to be late. Even he, within sight of his life’s end, -contrasted favourably with Walter Crowdie. He stooped, he was badly -dressed, his white tie was crooked, and there were most evident spots on -his coat; his eyes were watery, and there were wrinkles running in all -directions through the eyebrows, the wrinkles that come last of all; he -shambled a little as he walked, and he certainly smelt of tobacco smoke. -He had not been the strongest of the three old brothers, though he was -the eldest, and his faculties, if not impaired, were not what they had -been. But the skull was large and bony, the knotted and wrinkled old -hands were manly hands, and always had been, and the benevolent old grey -eyes had never had the womanish look in them which belonged to -Crowdie’s. - -But the young man was quite unconscious of the unfavourable impression -he always produced upon Mrs. Lauderdale and her daughter, and his -languishing eyelids moved softly and swept his pale cheeks with their -long lashes as he looked from one to the other and shook hands. - -Alexander Junior, whose sense of punctuality had almost taken offence, -rang the bell as his father entered, and a serving girl, who lived in -terror of her life, drew back the folding doors a moment later. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -The conversation at dinner did not begin brilliantly. Mrs. Lauderdale -was tired, and Katharine was preoccupied; as was natural, old Mr. -Lauderdale was not easily moved to talk except upon his favourite hobby, -and Alexander Junior was solemnly and ferociously hungry, as many strong -men are at regular hours. As for Crowdie, he always felt a little out of -his element amongst his wife’s relations, of whom he stood somewhat in -awe, and he was more observant than communicative at first. Katharine -avoided looking at him, which she could easily do, as she sat between -him and her father. As usual, it was her mother who made the first -effort to talk. - -“How is Hester?” she asked, looking across at Crowdie. - -“Oh, very well, thanks,” he answered, absently. “Oh, yes,--she’s very -well, thank you,” he added, repeating the answer with a little change -and more animation. “She had a cold last week, but she’s got over it.” - -“It was dreadful weather,” said Katharine, helping her mother to stir -the silence. “All grandpapa’s idiots had the grippe.” - -“All Mr. Lauderdale’s what?” asked Crowdie. “I didn’t quite catch--” - -“The idiots--the asylum, you know.” - -“Oh, yes--I remember,” said the young man, and his broad red lips -smiled. - -Alexander Senior, whose hand shook a little, had eaten his soup with -considerable success. He glanced from Katharine to the young artist, and -there was a twinkle of amusement in the kindly old eyes. - -“Katharine always laughs at the idiots, and talks as though they were my -personal property.” His voice was deep and almost musical still--it had -been a very gentle voice in his youth. - -“Not a very valuable property,” observed Alexander Junior, fixing his -eye severely on the serving girl, who forthwith sprang at Mrs. -Lauderdale’s empty plate as though her life depended on taking it away -in time. - -The Lauderdales had never kept a man-servant. The girl was a handsome -Canadian, very smart in black and white. - -“Wouldn’t it be rather an idea to insure all their lives, and make the -insurance pay the expenses of the asylum?” enquired Crowdie, gravely -looking at Alexander Junior. - -“Not very practical,” answered the latter, with something like a smile. - -“Why not?” asked his father, with sudden interest. “That strikes me as a -very brilliant idea for making charities self-supporting. I suppose,” he -continued, turning to his son, “that the companies could make no -objections to insuring the lives of idiots. The rate ought to be very -reasonable when one considers the care they get, and the medical -attendance, and the immunity from risk of accident.” - -“I don’t know about that. When an asylum takes fire, the idiots haven’t -the sense to get out,” observed Alexander Junior, grimly. - -“Nonsense! Nonsense, Alexander!” The old man shook his head. “Idiots are -just as--well, not quite as sensible as other people,--that would be an -exaggeration--but they’re not all so stupid, by any means.” - -“No--so I’ve heard,” said Crowdie, gravely. - -“So stupid as what, Mr. Crowdie?” asked Katharine, turning on him rather -abruptly. - -“As others, Miss Lauderdale--as me, for instance,” he answered, without -hesitation. “Probably we both meant--Mr. Lauderdale and I--that all -idiots are not so stupid as the worst cases, which are the ones most -people think of when idiots are mentioned.” - -“Exactly. You put it very well.” The old philanthropist looked pleased -at the interruption. “And I repeat that I think Mr. Crowdie’s idea of -insuring them is very good. Every time one dies,--they do die, poor -things,--you get a sum of money. Excellent, very excellent!” - -His ideas of business transactions had always been hazy in the extreme, -and his son proceeded to set him right. - -“It couldn’t possibly be of any advantage unless you had capital to -invest and insured your own idiots,” said Alexander Junior. “And that -would just amount to making a savings bank on your own account, and -saving so much a year out of your expenses for each idiot. You could -invest the savings, and the interest would be all you could possibly -make. It’s not as though the idiots’ families paid the dues and made -over the policies to you. There would be money in that, I admit. You -might try it. There might be a streak of idiocy in the other members of -the patient’s family which would make them agree to it.” - -The old man’s gentle eyes suddenly lighted up with ill temper. - -“You’re laughing at me, Alexander,” he said, in a louder voice. “You’re -laughing at me!” - -“No, sir; I’m in earnest,” answered the son, in his cool, metallic -tones. - -“Don’t the big companies insure their own ships?” asked the -philanthropist. “Of course they do, and they make money by it.” - -“I beg your pardon. They make nothing but the interest of what they set -aside for each ship. They simply cover their losses.” - -“Well, and if an idiot dies, then the asylum gets the money.” - -“Yes, sir. But an idiot has no intrinsic value.” - -“Why, then the asylum gets a sum of money for what was worth nothing, -and it must be very profitable--much more so than insuring ships.” - -“But it’s the asylum’s own money to begin with--” - -“And as for your saying that an idiot has no intrinsic value, -Alexander,” pursued the old man, going off on another tack, “I won’t -have you say such things. I won’t listen to them. An idiot is a human -being, sir, and has an immortal soul, I’d have you to know, as well as -you or I. And you have the assurance to say that he has no intrinsic -value! An immortal soul, made for eternal happiness or eternal -suffering, and no intrinsic value! Upon my word, Alexander, you forget -yourself! I should not have expected such an inhuman speech from you.” - -“Is the ‘vital spark of heavenly flame’ a marketable commodity?” asked -Crowdie, speaking to Katharine in a low voice. - -“Idiots have souls, Mr. Crowdie,” said the philanthropist, looking -straight across at him, and taking it for granted that he had said -something in opposition. - -“I’ve no doubt they have, Mr. Lauderdale,” answered the painter. “I -never thought of questioning the fact.” - -“Oh! I thought you did. I understood that you were laughing at the -idea.” - -“Not at all. It was the use of the word ‘intrinsic’ as applied to the -value of the soul which struck me as odd.” - -“Ah--that is quite another matter, my dear sir,” replied the old -gentleman, who was quickly appeased. “My son first used the word in this -discussion. I’m not responsible for it. The younger generation is not so -careful in its language as we were taught to be. But the important -point, after all, is that idiots have souls.” - -“The soul is the only thing anybody really can be said to have as his -own,” said Crowdie, thoughtfully. - -Katharine glanced at him. He did not look like the kind of man to make -such a speech with sincerity. She wondered vaguely what his soul would -be like, if she could see it, and it seemed to her that it would be -something strange--white, with red lips, singing an evil song, which she -could not understand, in a velvet voice, and that it would smell of -musk. The side of her that was towards him instinctively shrank a little -from him. - -“I am glad to hear you say that, Mr. Crowdie,” said the philanthropist -with approbation. “It closes the discussion very fittingly. I hope we -shall hear no more of idiots not having souls. Poor things! It is almost -the only thing they have that makes them like the rest of us.” - -“People are all so different,” replied the artist. “I find that more and -more true every day. And it takes a soul to understand a soul. Otherwise -photography would take the place of portrait painting.” - -“I don’t quite see that,” said Alexander Junior, who had employed the -last few minutes in satisfying his first pangs of hunger, having been -interrupted by the passage of arms with his father. “What becomes of -colour in photography?” - -“What becomes of colour in a charcoal or pen and ink drawing?” asked -Crowdie. “Yet either, if at all good, is preferable to the best -photograph.” - -“I’m not sure of that. I like a good photograph. It is much more -accurate than any drawing can be.” - -“Yes--but it has no soul,” objected Crowdie. - -“How can an inanimate object have a soul, sir?” asked the -philanthropist, suddenly. “That is as bad as saying that idiots--” - -“I mean that a photograph has nothing which suggests the soul of the -original,” said Crowdie, interrupting and speaking in a high, clear -tone. He had a beautiful tenor voice, and sang well; and he possessed -the power of making himself heard easily against many other voices. - -“It is the exact representation of the person,” argued Alexander Junior, -whose ideas upon art were limited. - -“Excuse me. Even that is not scientifically true. There can only be one -point in the whole photograph which is precisely in focus. But that is -not what I mean. Every face has something besides the lines and the -colour. For want of a better word, we call it the expression--it is the -individuality--the soul--the real person--the something which the hand -can suggest, but which nothing mechanical can ever reproduce. The artist -who can give it has talent, even if he does not know how to draw. The -best draughtsman and painter in the world is only a mechanic if he -cannot give it. Mrs. Lauderdale paints--and paints well--she knows what -I mean.” - -“Of course,” said Mrs. Lauderdale. “The fact that there is something -which we can only suggest but never show would alone prove the existence -of the soul to any one who paints.” - -“I don’t understand those things,” said Alexander Junior. - -“Grandpapa,” said Katharine, suddenly, “if any one asserted that there -was no such a thing as the soul, what should you answer?” - -“I should tell him that he was a blasphemer,” answered the old -gentleman, promptly and with energy. - -“But that wouldn’t be an argument,” retorted the young girl. - -“He would discover the force of it hereafter,” said her father. The -electric smile followed the words. - -Crowdie looked at Katharine and smiled also, but she did not see. - -“But isn’t a man entitled to an argument?” she asked. “I mean--if any -one really couldn’t believe that he had a soul--there are such people--” - -“Lots of them,” observed Crowdie. - -“It’s their own fault, then, and they deserve no mercy--and they will -find none,” said Alexander Junior. - -“Then believing is a matter of will, like doing right,” argued the young -girl. “And a man has only to say, ‘I believe,’ and he will believe, -because he wills it.” - -But neither of the Lauderdales had any intention of being drawn out on -that point. They were good Presbyterians, and were Scotch by direct -descent; and they knew well enough what direction the discussion must -take if it were prolonged. The old gentleman put a stop to it. - -“The questions of the nature of belief and free will are pretty deep -ones, my dear,” he said, kindly, “and they are not of the sort to be -discussed idly at dinner.” - -Strange to say, that was the species of answer which pleased Katharine -best. She liked the uncompromising force of genuinely prejudiced people -who only allowed argument to proceed when they were sure of a logical -result in their own favour. Alexander Junior nodded approvingly, and -took some more beef. He abhorred bread, vegetables, and sweet things, -and cared only for what produced the greatest amount of energy in the -shortest time. It was astonishing that such iron strength should have -accomplished nothing in nearly fifty years of life. - -“Yes,” said Crowdie, “they are rather important things. But I don’t -think that there are so many people who deny the existence of the soul -as people who want to satisfy their curiosity about it, by getting a -glimpse at it. Hester and I dine out a good deal--people are very kind, -and always ask us to dinners because they know I can’t go out to late -parties on account of my work--so we are always dining out; and we were -saying only to-day that at nine-tenths of the dinners we go to the -conversation sooner or later turns on the soul, or psychical research, -or Buddhism, or ghosts, or something of the sort. It’s odd, isn’t it, -that there should be so much talk about those things just now? I think -it shows a kind of general curiosity. Everybody wants to get hold of a -soul and study its habits, as though it were an ornithorynchus or some -queer animal--it is strange, isn’t it?” - -“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, suddenly joining in the -conversation. “If you once cut loose from your own form of belief -there’s no particular reason why you should be satisfied with that of -any one else. If a man leaves his house without an object there’s -nothing to make him go in one direction rather than in another.” - -“So far as that is concerned, I agree with you,” said Alexander Junior. - -“There is truth to direct him,” observed the philanthropist. - -“And there is beauty,” said Crowdie, turning his head towards Mrs. -Lauderdale and his eyes towards Katharine. - -“Oh, of course!” exclaimed the latter. “If you are going to jumble the -soul, and art, and everything, all together, there are lots of things to -lead one. Where does beauty lead you, Mr. Crowdie?” - -“To imagine a vain thing,” answered the painter with a soft laugh. “It -also leads me to try and copy it, with what I imagine it means, and I -don’t always succeed.” - -“I hope you’ll succeed if you paint my daughter’s portrait,” remarked -Alexander Junior. - -“No,” Crowdie replied thoughtfully, and looking at Katharine quite -directly now. “I shan’t succeed, but if Miss Lauderdale will let me try, -I’ll promise to do my very best. Will you, Miss Lauderdale? Your father -said he thought you would have no objection.” - -“I said you would, Katharine, and I said nothing about objections,” said -her father, who loved accurate statements. - -Katharine did not like to be ordered to do anything and the short, quick -frown bent her brows for a second. - -“I am much flattered,” she said coldly. - -“You will not be, when I have finished, I fear,” said Crowdie, with -quick tact. “Please, Miss Lauderdale, I don’t want you to sit to me as a -matter of duty, because your father is good enough to ask you. That -isn’t it, at all. Please understand. It’s for Hester, you know. She’s -such a friend of yours, and you’re such a friend of hers, and I want to -surprise her with a Christmas present, and there’s nothing she’d like so -much as a picture of you. I don’t say anything about the pleasure it -will be to me to paint you--it’s just for her. Will you?” - -“Of course I will,” answered Katharine, her brow clearing and her tone -changing. - -She had not looked at him while he was speaking, and she was struck, as -she had often been, by the exquisite beauty of his voice when he spoke -familiarly and softly. It was like his eyes, smooth, rich and almost -woman-like. - -“And when will you come?” he asked. “To-morrow? Next day? Would eleven -o’clock suit you?” - -“To-morrow, if you like,” answered the young girl. “Eleven will do -perfectly.” - -“Will you come too, Mrs. Lauderdale?” Crowdie asked, without changing -his manner. - -“Yes--that is--not to-morrow. I’ll come one of these days and see how -you are getting on. It’s a long time since I’ve seen you at work, and I -should enjoy it ever so much. But I should rather come when it’s well -begun. I shall learn more.” - -“I’m afraid you won’t learn much from me, Mrs. Lauderdale. It’s very -different work from miniature--and I have no rule. It seems to me that -the longer I paint the more hopeless all rules are. Ten years ago, when -I was working in Paris, I used to believe in canons of art, and fixed -principles, and methods, and all that sort of thing. But I can’t any -more. I do it anyhow, just as it seems to come--with anything--with a -stump, a brush, a rag, hands, fingers, anything. I should not be -surprised to find myself drawing with my elbow and painting with the -back of my head! No, really--I sometimes think the back of my head -would be a very good brush to do fur with. Any way--only to get at the -real thing.” - -“I once saw a painter who had no arms,” said the old gentleman. “It was -in Paris, and he held the brushes with his toes. There is an idiot in -the asylum now, who likes nothing better than to pull his shoes off and -tie knots in a rope with his feet all day long.” - -“He is probably one of us,” suggested Crowdie. “We artists are all -half-witted. Give him a brush and see whether he has any talent for -painting with his toes.” - -“That’s an idea,” answered the philanthropist, thoughtfully. -“Transference of manual skill from hands to feet,” he continued in a -low, dreamy voice, thinking aloud. “Abnormal connections of nerves with -next adjoining brain centres--yes--there might be something in -it--yes--yes--” - -The old gentleman had theories of his own about nerves and brain -centres. He had never even studied anatomy, but he speculated in the -wildest manner upon the probability of impossible cases of nerve -derangement and imperfect development, and had long believed himself an -authority on the subject. - -The dinner was quite as short as most modern meals. Old Mr. Lauderdale -and Crowdie smoked, and Alexander Junior, who despised such weaknesses, -stayed in the dining-room with them. Neither Mrs. Lauderdale nor -Katharine would have objected to smoking in the library, but Alexander’s -inflexible conservatism abhorred such a practice. - -“I can’t tell why it is,” said Katharine, when she was alone with her -mother, “but that man is positively repulsive to me. It must be -something besides his ugliness, and even that ought to be redeemed by -his eyes and that beautiful voice of his. But it’s not. There’s -something about him--” She stopped, in the sheer impossibility of -expressing her meaning. - -Her mother said nothing in answer, but looked at her with calm and quiet -eyes, rather thoughtfully. - -“Is it very foolish of me, mother? Don’t you notice something, too, when -he’s near you?” - -“Yes. He’s like a poisonous flower.” - -“That’s exactly what I wanted to say. That and--the title of Tennyson’s -poem, what is it? Oh--‘A Vision of Sin’--don’t you know?” - -“Poor Crowdie!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale, laughing a little, but still -looking at Katharine. - -“I wonder what induced Hester to marry him.” - -“He fascinated her. Besides, she’s very fond of music, and so is he, and -he sang to her and she played for him. It seems to have succeeded very -well. I believe they are perfectly happy.” - -“Oh, perfectly. At least, Hester always says so. But did you ever -notice--sometimes, without any special reason, she looks at him so -anxiously? Just as though she expected something to happen to him, or -that he should do something queer. It may be my imagination.” - -“I never noticed it. She’s tremendously in love with him. That may -account for it.” - -“Well--if she’s happy--” Katharine did not finish the sentence. “He does -stare dreadfully, though,” she resumed a moment later. “But I suppose -all artists do that. They are always looking at one’s features. You -don’t, though.” - -“I? I’m always looking at people’s faces and trying to see how I could -paint them best. But I don’t stare. People don’t like it, and it isn’t -necessary. Crowdie is vain. He has beautiful eyes and he wants every one -to notice them.” - -“If that’s it, at all events he has the sense to be vain of his best -point,” said Katharine. “He’s not an artist for nothing. And he’s -certainly very clever in all sorts of ways.” - -“He didn’t say anything particularly clever at dinner, I thought. By the -bye, was the dinner good? Your father didn’t tell me Crowdie was -coming.” - -“Oh, yes; it did very well,” answered Katharine, in a reassuring tone. -“At least, I didn’t notice what we had. He always takes away my -appetite. I shall go and steal something when he’s gone. Let’s sit up -late, mother--just you and I--after papa has gone to bed, and we’ll -light a little wee fire, and have a tiny bit of supper, and make -ourselves comfortable, and abuse Mr. Crowdie just as much as we like. -Won’t that be nice? Do!” - -“Well--we’ll see how late he stays. It’s only a quarter past nine yet. -Have you got a book, child? I am going to read that article about wet -paintings on pottery--I’ve had it there ever so long, and the men won’t -come back for half an hour at least.” - -Katharine found something to read, after handing her mother the review -from the table. - -“Perhaps reading a little will take away the bad taste of Crowdie,” said -Mrs. Lauderdale, with a laugh, as she settled herself in the corner of -the sofa. - -“I wish something would,” answered Katharine, seating herself in a deep -chair, and opening her book. - -But she found it hard to fix her attention, and the book was a dull one, -or seemed so, as the best books do when the mind is drawn and stretched -in one direction. Her thoughts went back to the twilight hour, when -Ralston had been there, and to the decided step she was about to take. -The only wonder was that she had been able to talk with a tolerable -continuity of ideas during dinner, considering what her position was. -Assuredly it was a daring thing which she meant to do, and she -experienced the sensation familiar even to brave men--the small, utterly -unreasoning temptation to draw back just before the real danger begins. -Most people who have been called upon to do something very dangerous, -with fair warning and in perfectly cold blood, know that little feeling -and are willing to acknowledge it. It is not fear. It is the inevitable -last word spoken by the instinct of self-preservation. - -There are men who have never felt it at all, rare instances of perfectly -phlegmatic physical recklessness. They are not the ones who deserve the -most credit for doing perilous deeds. And there are other men, even -fewer, perhaps, who have felt it, but have ceased to feel it, in whom -all love of life is so totally and hopelessly dead that even the bodily, -human impulse to avoid death can never be felt again. Such men are very -dangerous in fight. ‘Beware of him who seeks death,’ says an ancient -Eastern proverb. So many things which seem impossible are easy if the -value of life itself be taken out of the balance. But with the great -majority of the human race that value is tolerably well defined. The -poor Chinaman who sells himself, for the benefit of his family, to be -sliced to death in the stead of the rich criminal, knows within an ounce -or two of silver what his existence is worth. The bargain has been made -so often by others that there is almost a tariff. It is not a pleasant -subject, but, since the case really happens, it would be a curious thing -to hear theologians discuss the morality of such suicide on the part of -the unfortunate wretch. Would they say that he was forfeiting the hope -of a future reward by giving himself to be destroyed for money, of his -own free will? Or would they account it to him for righteousness that he -should lay down his life to save his wife and children from starving to -death? For a real case, as it is, it certainly presents difficulties -which approach the fantastic. - -It was very quiet in the room, as it had been once or twice when there -had been a silence between Katharine and Ralston a few hours earlier. -The furniture was all just as it had been--hardly a chair had been -turned. The scene came back vividly to the young girl’s imagination, and -the sound of Ralston’s voice, just trembling with emotion, rang again in -her ears. That had been the sweetest of all the many sweet hours she had -spent with him since they had been children. Her book fell upon her -knees and her head sank back against the cushion. With lids half -drooping, she gazed at a point she did not see. The softest possible -light, the exquisite, trembling radiance of spotless maidenhood’s -divinest dream, hovered about the lovely face and the girlish lips just -parted to meet in the memory of a kiss. - -Suddenly, from the next room, as the three men came towards the closed -door of the library, Crowdie’s laugh broke the stillness, high, -melodious, rich. Some men have a habit of laughing at anything which is -said just as they leave the dining-room. - -Katharine started as though she had been stung. She was unconscious that -her mother had ceased reading, and had been looking at her for several -minutes, wondering why she had never fully appreciated the girl’s beauty -before. - -“What’s the matter, dear?” she asked, as she saw the start and the quick -expression of resentment and repulsion. - -“It’s that man’s voice--it’s so beautiful and yet--ugh!” She shivered as -the door opened and the three men came in. - -“You’ve not been long,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, looking up at Crowdie. “I -hope they gave you a cigar in there.” - -“Oh, yes, thanks--and a very good one, too,” added the artist, who had -not succeeded in smoking half of the execrable Connecticut -six-for-a-quarter cigar which the philanthropist had offered him. - -It seemed natural enough to him that a man who devoted himself to idiots -should have no taste, and he would have opened his eyes if he had been -told that the Connecticut tobacco was one of the economies imposed by -Alexander Junior upon his long-suffering father. The old gentleman, -however, was really not very particular, and his sufferings were not to -be compared with those of Balzac’s saintly charity-maniac, when he gave -up his Havanas for the sake of his poor people. - -Crowdie looked at Katharine, as he answered her mother, and continued to -do so, though he sat down beside the latter. Katharine had risen from -her seat, and was standing by the mantelpiece, and Mrs. Lauderdale was -sitting at the end of the sofa on the other side of the fireplace, under -the strong, unshaded light of the gas. She made an effort to talk to her -guest, for the sake of sparing the girl, though she felt uncomfortably -tired, and was looking almost ill. - -“Did you talk any more about the soul, after we left?” she asked, -looking at Crowdie. - -“No,” he answered, still gazing at Katharine, and speaking rather -absently. “We talked--let me see--I think--” He hesitated. - -“It couldn’t have been very interesting, if you don’t remember what it -was about,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, pleasantly. “We must try and amuse you -better than they did, or you won’t come near us again.” - -“Oh, as far as that goes, I’ll come just as often as you ask me,” -answered Crowdie, suddenly looking at his shoes. - -But he made no attempt to continue the conversation. Mrs. Lauderdale -felt a little womanly annoyance. The constant and life-long habit of -being considered by men to be the most important person in the room, -whenever she chose to be considered at all, had become a part of her -nature. She made up her mind that Crowdie should not only listen and -talk, but should look at her. - -“What are you doing now? Another portrait?” she asked. “I know you are -always busy.” - -“Oh, yes--the wife of a man who has a silver mine somewhere. She’s -fairly good-looking, for a wonder.” - -His eyes wandered about the room, and, from time to time, went back to -Katharine. Old Mr. Lauderdale was going to sleep in an arm-chair, and -Alexander Junior was reading the evening paper. - -“Does your work always interest you as it did at first?” asked Mrs. -Lauderdale, growing more and more determined to fix his attention, and -speaking softly. “I mean--are you happy in it and with it?” - -His languid glance met hers for an instant, with an odd look of lazy -enquiry. He was keen and quick of intuition, and more than sufficiently -vain. There is a certain tone of voice in which a woman may ask a man if -he is happy which indicates a willingness to play at flirtation. Now, it -had never entered the head of Walter Crowdie that Mrs. Lauderdale could -possibly care to flirt with him. Yet the tone was official, so to say, -and he had some right to be surprised, the more so as he had never heard -any man--not even the famous club-liar, Stopford Thirlwall--even suggest -that she had ever really flirted with any one, or do anything worse than -dance to the very end of every dancing party, and generally amuse -herself in an innocent way to an extent that would have ruined the -constitutions of most women not born in Kentucky. Even as he turned to -look at her, however, he realized the absurdity of the impression he had -received, and his eyes went mechanically back to Katharine’s profile. -The smile that moved his heavy, red mouth was for himself, as he -answered Mrs. Lauderdale’s question. - -“Oh, yes,” he said, quite naturally. “I love it. I’m perfectly happy.” -And again he relapsed into silence. - -Mrs. Lauderdale was annoyed. She turned her head, under the glaring -light, towards the carved pillar at the right of the fireplace. An -absurd little looking-glass hung by a silken cord from the mantelpiece -to the level of her eyes--one of those small Persian mirrors set in a -case of embroidery, such as are used for favours at cotillions. - -She saw very suddenly the reflection of her own face. The glass was -perhaps a trifle green, which made it worse, but she stared in a sort -of dumb horror, realizing in a single moment that she had grown old, -that the lines had deepened until every one could see them, that the -eyes looked faded, the hair dull, the lips almost shrivelled, the once -dazzling skin flaccid and sallow--that the queenly beauty was gone, a -perishable thing already perished, a memory now and worse than a memory, -a cruelly bitter regret left in the place of a possession half divine -that was lost for ever and ever, dead beyond resurrection, gone beyond -recall. - -That was the most terrible moment in Mrs. Lauderdale’s life. Fate need -not have made it so appallingly sudden--she had prepared for it so long, -so conscientiously, trying always to wean herself from a vanity the -sternest would forgive. And it had seemed to be coming so slowly, by -degrees of each degree, and she had thought it would be so long in -coming quite. And now it was come, in the flash of a second. But the -bitterness was not past. - -Instinctively in the silence she looked up before her and saw her -daughter’s lovely face. Her head reeled, her sight swam. A great, fierce -envy caught at her heart with iron fingers and wrung it, till she could -have screamed,--envy of her who was dearest to her of all living -things--of Katharine. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -John Ralston had given his word to Katharine and he intended to keep it. -Whenever he was assailed by doubts he recalled by an act of will the -state of mind to which the young girl had brought him on Monday evening, -and how he had then been convinced that there was no harm in the secret -marriage. He analyzed his position, too, in a rough and ready way, with -the intention of proving that the clandestine ceremony could not be of -any advantage to himself, that it was therefore not from any selfish -motive that he had undertaken to have it performed, and that, -consequently, since the action itself was to be an unselfish one, there -could be nothing even faintly dishonourable in it. For he did not really -believe that old Robert Lauderdale would do anything for him. On the -contrary, he thought it most likely that the old man would be very angry -and would bid the young people abide by the consequences of their -doings. He would blame Ralston bitterly. He would not believe that he -had been disinterested. He would say that he had married Katharine, and -had persuaded her to the marriage in the hope of forcing his uncle to -help him, out of consideration for the girl. And he would refuse to do -anything whatsoever. He might even go so far as to strike the names of -both from his will, if he had left them a legacy, which was probable. -But, to do Ralston justice, so long as he was sure of his own motives he -had never cared a straw for the opinions others might form of them, and -he was the last man in the world to assume a character for the sake of -playing on the feelings of a rich relation. If Robert Lauderdale should -send for him, and be angry, and reproach him with what he had done, John -was quite capable of answering that he had acted from motives which -concerned himself only, that he was answerable to no one but Katharine -herself and that uncle Robert might make the best of it at his leisure. -The young man possessed that sort of courage in abundance, as every one -knew, and being aware of it himself, he suspected, not without grounds -of probability, that the millionaire was aware of it also, and would -simply leave him alone to his own devices, refusing Katharine’s request, -and never mentioning the question again. That the old man would be -discreet, was certain. With a few rare exceptions, men who have made -great fortunes unaided have more discretion than other people, and can -keep secrets remarkably well. - -The difficulty which presented itself to Ralston at once was a material -one. He did not in the least know how such an affair as a secret -marriage should be managed. None of his close acquaintances had ever -done anything so unusual, and although he knew of two cases which had -occurred in New York society, the one in recent years and the other long -ago, he had no means of finding out at short notice how the actual -formalities necessary had been fulfilled in either case. He knew, -however, that a marriage performed by a respectable clergyman of any -denomination was legal, and that a certificate signed by him was -perfectly valid. He had heard of marriages before a Justice of the -Peace, and even of declarations made before respectable witnesses and -vouched for, which had been legal marriages beyond dispute, but he did -not like the look of anything in which there was no religious ceremony, -respectfully indifferent though he was to all religion. The code of -honour, which was his only faith, is connected, and not even very -distantly, with Christianity. There are honourable men of all religions -under the sun, including that of Confucius, but we do not associate the -expression ‘the code of honour’ with non-Christians--which is singular -enough, considering the view the said code takes of some moral -questions. - -There must be a marriage service, therefore, thought Ralston, and it -must be performed in New York. There was no possibility of taking -Katharine into a neighbouring State, and he had no wish to do so for -many reasons. He was not without foresight, and he intended to be able -to prove at any future time that the formality, the whole formality, and -nothing but the formality of the ceremony had been fulfilled. It was not -easy. He racked his recollections in vain, and he read all the -newspapers published that morning with an interest he had certainly -never felt in them before, in the hope of finding some account of a case -similar to his own. He thought of going to a number of clergymen, of the -social type, with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, and of laying the -facts before each in turn, until one of them consented to marry him. But -though many of them were excellent men, he had not enough confidence in -their discretion. He laughed to himself when he thought that the only -men he knew who seemed to possess the necessary qualities for such a -delicate affair were Robert the Rich himself and Hamilton Bright, whom -Ralston secretly suspected of being somewhat in love with Katharine on -his own account. It was odd, he thought, that of all the family Bright -alone should resemble old Robert, physically and mentally, but the -resemblance was undeniable, though the relationship only consisted in -the fact that Bright was descended from old Robert Lauderdale’s -grandfather, the primeval Alexander often mentioned in these pages. - -Ralston turned the case over and over in his mind. He thought of going -to some dissenting minister quite unknown to him, and trying what -eloquence could do. He had heard that some of them were men of heart to -whom one could appeal in trouble. But he knew very well that every one -of them would tell him to do the thing openly, or not at all, and the -mere idea revived his own scruples. He wondered whether there were not -churches where the marrying was done by batches of four and five couples -on a certain Sunday in the month, as babies are baptized in some parts -of the world, and whether he and Katharine could not slip in, as it were -by mistake, and be married by a man who did not even know their names. -But he laughed at the idea a moment later, and went on studying the -problem. - -Another of his ideas was to consult a detective, from a private office. -Such men would, in all likelihood, know a good deal about runaway -couples. And this seemed one of the wisest plans which had suggested -itself, though it broke down for two reasons. He hated the thought of -getting at his result by the help of a man belonging to what he -considered a mean and underhand profession; and he reflected that such -men were always on the lookout for private scandals, and that he should -be putting himself in their power. At last he decided to consult a -lawyer. Lawyers and doctors, as a rule, were discreet, he thought, -because their success depended on their discretion. He could easily find -a man whom he had never seen, honest and able to keep a secret, who -would give him the information he wanted in a professional way and take -a fee for the trouble. This seemed to him honourable and wise. He wished -everything to be legal, and the best way to make it so was to follow a -lawyer’s directions. There was not even a doubt but that the said -lawyer, if requested, would make a memorandum of the case, and take -charge of the document which was to prove that Katharine Lauderdale had -become the lawful wife of John Ralston. There were lists and directories -in which he could find the names of hundreds of such men. He was in his -native city, and between the names and the places of business he thought -he could form a tolerably accurate opinion of the reputation and -standing of some, if not of all, of the individuals. - -In the course of a couple of hours he had found what he wanted--a lawyer -whose name was known to him as that of a man of good reputation and a -gentleman, one whom he had never seen and who had probably never seen -him, old enough, as he knew, to have a wide experience, yet not so old -as to be justified in assuming airs of vast moral superiority in order -to declare primly that he would never help a young man to commit an act -of folly. For folly it was, as Ralston knew very well in his heart. - -He lost no time, and within half an hour was interviewing the authority -he had selected, for, by a bit of good luck, he was fortunate enough to -meet the lawyer at the door of his office, just returning from luncheon. -Otherwise he might have had some difficulty in gaining immediate -admittance. He found him to be a grave, keen personage of uncertain age, -who laid his glasses beside him on his desk whenever he spoke, and put -them on again as soon as he had done. He wiped them carefully when -Ralston had explained what he wanted, and then paused a moment before -replying. Ralston was by no means prepared for what he said. - -“I presume you are a novelist.” - -The lawyer looked at him, smiled pleasantly, looked away and turned his -glasses over again. - -The young man was inclined to laugh. No one had ever before taken him -for a man of letters. He hesitated, however, before he answered, -wondering whether he had not better accept the statement in the hope of -getting accurate information, rather than risk a refusal if he said he -was in earnest. The lawyer took his hesitation for assent. - -“Because, in that case, it would not be at all difficult to manage,” he -continued, without waiting any longer for a reply. “Lots of things can -happen in books, you see, and you can wind up the story and publish it -before the people in the book who are to be kept in the dark have found -out the secret. In real life, it is a little different, because, though -it’s very easy to be married, it’s the duty of the person who marries -you to send a certificate or statement of the marriage to the office -where the record of statistics is kept.” - -“Oh!” ejaculated Ralston, and his face fell. “I didn’t know that.” - -“Yes. That’s necessary, on pain of a fine. And yet the marriage may -remain a secret a long while--for a lifetime under favourable -circumstances. So that if you are writing a story you can let the young -couple take the chances, and you can give them in their favour.” - -“Well--how, exactly?” asked John. “That sort of thing isn’t usual, I -fancy.” - -“Not usual--no.” The lawyer smiled. “But there are more secret marriages -than most people dream of. If your hero and heroine must be married in -New York, it is easy enough to do it. Nobody will marry them without -afterwards making out the certificate, which is recorded. If anybody -suspects that they are married, it is the easiest thing in the world to -find out that the marriage has been registered. But if nobody looks for -it, the thing will never be heard of. It’s a thousand to one against -anybody’s finding it out by accident.” - -“But if it were done in that way it would be absolutely legal and could -never be contested?” - -“Of course--perfectly legal. But it’s not so in all States, mind you.” - -“I wanted to know about New York,” said Ralston. “It couldn’t possibly -take place anywhere else.” - -“Oh--well--in that case, you know all there is to be known.” - -“I’m very grateful,” said John, rising. “I’ve taken up a great deal of -your valuable time, sir. May I--” - -In considerable doubt as to what he should do, he thrust his hand into -his breast-pocket and looked at the lawyer. - -“My dear sir!” exclaimed the latter, rising also. “How can you think of -such a thing? I’m very glad indeed to have been of service to--a young -novelist.” - -“You’re exceedingly kind, and I thank you very much,” said Ralston, -shaking the outstretched hand, and making for the door as soon as -possible. - -He had not even given his name, which had been rather rude on his part, -as he was well aware. At all events, the lawyer would not be able to -trace him, which was a point to his advantage. - -Oddly enough he felt a sense of satisfaction when he thought over what -he had learned. He could tell Katharine that a really secret marriage -was wholly impossible, and perhaps when she knew that she was running a -risk of discovery she would draw back. He should be glad of that. -Realizing the fact, he was conscious for the first time that he was -seeking a way out of the marriage and not a way into it, and a conflict -arose in his mind. On the one hand he had given Katharine his word that -he would do what she asked, and his word was sacred, unless she would -release him from the promise. On the other side stood that intimate -conviction of his own that, in spite of all her arguments, it was not a -perfectly honourable thing to do, on its own merits. He could not help -feeling glad that a material difficulty stood in the way of his doing -what she required of him. - -In any case he must see her as soon as possible. He ascertained without -difficulty that they need not show evidence that they had resided in New -York during any particular period, nor were there any other formalities -to be fulfilled. He went home to luncheon with his mother--it was on the -day after he had given his promise to Katharine, for he had lost no -time--and he went out again before three o’clock, hoping to find the -young girl alone. - -To his annoyance he found her with her mother in the library. Mrs. -Lauderdale was generally at work at that hour, if she was at home, but -to-day she, who was always well, had a headache and was nervous and -altogether different from herself. Katharine saw that she was almost -ill, and insisted upon staying at home with her, to read to her, or to -talk, as she preferred, though Mrs. Lauderdale begged her repeatedly to -go away and make visits, or otherwise amuse herself as she could. But -the young girl was obstinate; she saw that her mother was suffering and -she had no intention of leaving her that afternoon. Alexander Junior was -of course at his office, and the philanthropist was in his own quarters -upstairs, probably dozing before the fire or writing reports about -idiots. - -It was clear to Ralston in five minutes that Mrs. Lauderdale was not -only indisposed, but that she was altogether out of temper, a state of -mind very unusual with her. She found fault with little things that -Katharine did in a way John had never noticed before, and as for -himself, she evidently wished he had not come. There was a petulance -about her which was quite new. She was not even sitting in her usual -place, but had taken the deep arm-chair on the other side of the -fireplace, and turned her back to the light. - -“You seem to be as busy as usual, Jack,” she observed, after exchanging -a few words. - -“I’m wishing I were, at all events,” he answered. “You must take the -wish for the deed.” - -“They say that there’s always plenty of work for any one who wants it,” -answered Mrs. Lauderdale, coldly. - -“If you’ll tell me where to find it--” - -“Why don’t you go to the West, as young Bright did, and try to do -something without help? Other men do.” - -“Bright took money with him,” answered Ralston. - -“Did he? Not much, then, I fancy. I know he lived a hard life and drove -cattle--” - -“And bought land in wild places which he found in the course of his -cattle driving. The driving was a means of getting about--not -unpleasant, either--and he had some money to invest. I could do the -same, if I had any.” - -“You know it’s quite useless, mother,” said Katharine, interposing -before Mrs. Lauderdale could make another retort. “You all abuse him for -doing nothing, and yet I hear you all say that every profession is -overcrowded, and that nobody can do anything without capital. If uncle -Robert chose, he could make Jack’s fortune by a turn of his hand.” - -“Of course--he could give him a fortune outright and not feel it--unless -he cared what became of it.” - -There was something so harsh about the way in which she spoke the last -words that Ralston and Katharine looked at each other. Ralston did not -lose his temper, however, but tried to turn the subject with a laugh. - -“My dear cousin Emma,” he said, “I’m the most hopeless case living. -Please talk about somebody who is successful. There are lots of them. -You’ve mentioned Bright already. Let us praise him. That will make you -feel better.” - -To this Mrs. Lauderdale said nothing. After waiting a moment Ralston -turned to Katharine. - -“Are you going out this afternoon?” he asked, by way of hinting that he -wanted to see her alone. - -“No,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, answering for her. “She says she means to -stay at home and take care of me. It’s ever so good of her, isn’t it?” - -“Yes,” answered Ralston, absently. - -It struck Katharine that, considering that her mother had been trying -for half an hour to persuade her to go out, it would have been natural -to propose that she should go for a short walk with John, and that the -answer had come rather suddenly. - -“But you can’t stay at home all day,” said Ralston, all at once. “You’ll -be having a headache yourself. Won’t you let Katharine come with me for -half an hour, cousin Emma? We’ll walk twice round Washington Square and -come right back. She looks pale.” - -“Does she?” Mrs. Lauderdale glanced at the girl’s face. “I don’t think -so,” she continued. “Besides--” - -“What is it?” asked Ralston, as she hesitated and stopped. “Isn’t it -proper? We’ve often done it.” - -Mrs. Lauderdale rose from her chair and stood up, tall and slim, with -her back to the mantelpiece. The light fell upon her face now, and -Ralston saw how tired and worn she looked. Immediately she turned her -back to the window again, and looked at him sideways, resting her elbow -on the shelf. - -“What is the use of you two going on in this way?” she asked suddenly. - -There was an awkward silence, and again Katharine and Ralston looked at -one another. They were momentarily surprised out of speech, for Mrs. -Lauderdale had always taken their side, if not very actively, at least -in a kindly way. She had said that Katharine should marry the man she -loved, rich or poor, and that if she chose to wait for a poor man, like -Ralston, to be able to support her, that was her own affair. The violent -opposition had come from Katharine’s father when, a year previously, the -two had boldly told him that they loved each other and wished to be -married. Alexander Junior did not often lose his temper, but he had lost -it completely on that occasion, and had gone so far as to say that -Ralston should never enter the house again, a verdict which he had been -soon forced to modify. But he had said that he considered John an idle -good-for-nothing, who would never be able to support himself, let alone -a wife and children; that his, Alexander’s, daughter should never marry -a professional dandy, who was content to let his widowed mother pay his -extravagant tailor’s bills, and who played poker at the clubs as a -source of income; that it was not enough of a recommendation to be half -a Lauderdale and to skim the cream from New York society in the form of -daily invitations--and to have the reputation of being a good polo -player with other people’s horses, a good yachtsman with other people’s -yachts, and of having a strong head for other people’s wines. Those were -not the noble qualities Alexander Junior looked for in a son-in-law. Not -at all, sir. He preferred Benjamin Slayback of Nevada. The Lauderdales -were quite able to make society accept Benjamin Slayback of Nevada, -because Benjamin Slayback of Nevada was quite able to stand upon his own -feet anywhere, having worked for all he had, like a man, and having -pushed himself into the forefront of political life by sheer energy and -ability, and having as good a right and as good a chance in every way as -any man in the country. No, he was certainly not a Lauderdale. If -Lauderdales were to go on marrying Lauderdales and no one else, there -would soon be an end of society. He advised John Ralston to go to Nevada -and marry Benjamin Slayback’s sister, if she would look at him, which -was more than doubtful, considering that he was the most atrociously -idle young ne’er-do-weel--here Alexander’s Scotch upper lip snapped like -a steel trap--that ever wasted the most precious years of life between -the society of infatuated women by day, sir, and the temptations of the -card-table and the bottle by night--the favourite of fine ladies, the -boon companion of roisterers and the sport of a London tailor. - -Which was a tremendous speech when delivered at close quarters in -Alexander Junior’s metallic voice, and in his most irately emphatic -manner, while the grey veins swelled at his grey temples, and one iron -hand was clenched ready to strike the palm of the other when the end of -the peroration was reached. He allowed himself, as a relation, even more -latitude in his language than he would have arrogated to himself as -Katharine’s father. He met John Ralston not only as the angry stage -father meets the ineligible and determined young suitor, but as one -Lauderdale meeting another--the one knowing himself to be -irreproachable, upbraiding the other as the disgrace of the family, the -hardened young sinner, and the sport of his tailor. That last expression -had almost brought a smile to Ralston’s angry face. - -He had behaved admirably, however, under such very trying circumstances, -and afterwards secretly took great credit to himself for not having -attacked him whom he wished for a father-in-law with the furniture of -the latter’s own library, the chairs being the only convenient weapons -in the room. Alexander the Safe, as his own daughter called him, could -probably have killed John Ralston with one back-hander, but John would -have liked to try him in fight, nevertheless. Instead of doing anything -of the kind, however, John drew back two steps, and said as much as he -could trust himself to say without foaming at the mouth and seeing -things in scarlet. He said that he did not agree with his cousin -Alexander upon all the points the latter had mentioned, that he did not -care to prolong a violent scene, and he wished him good morning. -Thereupon he had left the house, which was quite the wisest thing he -could do, for when Alexander was alone he found to his extreme annoyance -that he had a distinct sensation of having been made almost ridiculous. -But he soon recovered from that, for whatever the secret mainspring of -his singular character might be, it was certainly not idle vanity. - -Mrs. Lauderdale had consoled Katharine, and Ralston too, for that -matter, as well as she could, and with sincere sympathy. Ralston -continued to come to the house very much as he pleased, and Mr. -Lauderdale silently tolerated his presence on the rare occasions of -their meeting. He had certainly said more than enough to explain his -point of view, and he considered the matter as settled. It was really -not possible to keep a man who was his cousin altogether away, and he -suffered also from a delusion common to many fathers, which led him to -think that no one would ever dare to act against his once clearly -expressed wishes. - -Between Katharine and her mother and Ralston there remained a sort of -tacit understanding. There was no formal engagement, of course, which -would have had to be concealed from Mr. Lauderdale, but Mrs. Lauderdale -meant that the two young people should be married if they continued to -love one another, and she generally left them as much together as they -pleased when Ralston came. - -It was, therefore, not strange that they should both be surprised by the -nature of her sudden question as she stood by the fireplace looking -sideways at Ralston, with her back to the light. - -“What is the use?” asked Katharine, repeating the words in astonishment -and emphasizing the last one. - -“Yes. What is the use? It is leading to nothing. You never can be -married, and you know it by this time. You had much better separate at -once. It will be easier for you now, perhaps, than by and by. You are -both so young!” - -“Excuse me, cousin Emma,” said Ralston, “but I think you must be -dreaming.” - -He spoke very quietly, but the light was beginning to gleam in his -eyes. His mother was said to have a very bad temper, and John was like -her in many respects. But Mrs. Lauderdale continued to speak quite -calmly. - -“I have been thinking about you two a great deal lately,” she said. “I -have made a mistake, and I may as well say so at once, now that I have -discovered it. You wouldn’t like me to go on letting you think that I -approved of your engagement, when I don’t--would you? That wouldn’t be -fair or honest.” - -“Certainly not,” answered Ralston, in a low voice, and he could feel all -his muscles tightening as though for a physical effort. “Have you said -this sort of thing to Katharine before, or is this the first time?” - -“No, she hasn’t said a word,” replied Katharine herself. - -The girl was standing by the easy chair, her hand resting on the back of -it, her face pale, her great grey eyes staring wide open at her mother’s -profile. - -“No, I have not,” said Mrs. Lauderdale. “I thought it best to wait until -I could speak to you together. It’s useless to give pain twice over.” - -“It is indeed,” said Ralston, gravely. “Please go on.” - -“Why--there’s nothing more to be said, Jack,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale. -“That’s all. The trouble is that you’ll never do anything, and you have -no fortune, nor any prospect of any--until your mother--” - -“Please don’t speak of my mother in that connection,” interrupted -Ralston, his lips growing white. - -“Well--and as for us, we’re as poor as can be. You see how we live. -Besides, you know. Old Mr. Lauderdale gets uncle Robert to subscribe -thousands and thousands for the idiots, but he never suggests that they -are far better off than we are. However, those are our miseries and not -yours. Yours is that you are perfectly useless--” - -“Mother!” cried Katharine, losing control of herself and moving a step -forward. - -“It’s all right, dear,” said Ralston. “Go on, cousin Emma. I’m perfectly -useless--” - -“I don’t mean to offend you, Jack, and we’re not strangers,” continued -Mrs. Lauderdale, “and I won’t dwell on the facts. You know them as well -as I do, and are probably quite as sorry that they really are facts. I -will only ask one question. What chance is there that in the next four -or five years you can have a house of your own, and an income of your -own--just enough for two people to live on and no more--and--well--a -home for Katharine? What chance is there?” - -“I’ll do something before that time,” answered Ralston, with a -determined look. - -But Mrs. Lauderdale shook her head. - -“So you said last year, Jack. I repeat--I don’t want to be unkind. How -long is Katharine to wait?” - -“I’ll wait all my life, mother,” said the young girl, suddenly speaking -out in ringing tones. “I’ll wait till I die, if I must, and Jack knows -it. And I believe in him, if you don’t--against you all, you and papa -and uncle Robert and every one. Jack has never had a chance that -deserves to be called a chance at all. He must succeed--he shall -succeed--I know he’ll succeed. And I’ll wait till he does. I will--I -will--if it’s forever, and I shan’t be tired of waiting--it will always -be easy, for him. Oh, mother, mother--to think that you should have -turned against us! That’s the hard thing!” - -“Thank you, dear,” said Ralston, touching her hand lovingly. - -Mrs. Lauderdale had turned her face quite away from him now and was -looking at the clock, softly drumming with her fingers upon the -mantelpiece. - -“I’m sorry, Katharine,” she said. “But I think it, and I’ve said it--and -I can’t unsay it. It’s far too true.” - -There was a dead silence for several seconds. Then Katharine suddenly -pushed Ralston gently toward the door. - -“Go, Jack dear,” she said in a low voice. “She has a dreadful -headache--she’s not herself. Your being here irritates her--please go -away--it will be all right in a day or two--” - -They had reached the door, for Ralston saw that she was right. - -“No,” said Mrs. Lauderdale from the fireplace, “I shan’t change my -mind.” - -It was all so sudden and strange that Ralston found himself outside the -library without having taken leave of her in any way. Katharine came out -with him. - -“There’s a difficulty,” he whispered quickly as he found his coat and -stick. “After it’s done there has to be a certificate saying that--” - -“Katharine! Come here!” cried Mrs. Lauderdale from within, and they -heard her footstep as she left the fireplace. - -“Come to-morrow morning at eleven,” whispered Katharine. - -She barely touched his hand with hers and fled back into the library. He -let himself out and walked slowly along Clinton Place in the direction -of Fifth Avenue. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -Katharine went back to the library mechanically, because Mrs. Lauderdale -called her and because she heard the latter’s step upon the floor, but -not exactly in mere blind submission and obedience. She was, indeed, so -much surprised by what had taken place that she was not altogether her -usual self, and she was conscious that events moved more quickly just -then than her own power of decision. She was observant and perceptive, -but her reason had always worked slowly. Ralston, at least, was out of -the way, and she was glad that she had made him go. It had been -unbearable to hear her mother attacking him as she had done. - -She believed that Mrs. Lauderdale was about to be seriously ill. No -other theory could account for her extraordinary behaviour. It was -therefore wisest to take away what irritated her and to be as patient as -possible. There was no excuse for her sudden change of opinion, and as -soon as she was quite well she would be sorry for what she had said. -Katharine was not more patient than most people, but she did her best. - -“Is anything the matter, mother? You called so loud.” She spoke almost -before she had shut the door behind her. - -“No. Did I? I wanted him to go away, that was all. Why should he stand -there talking to you in whispers?” - -Katharine did not answer at once, but her broad eyebrows drew slowly -together and her eyelids contracted. She sat down and clasped her hands -together upon her knee. - -“Because he had something to say to me which he did not wish you to -hear, mother,” she answered at last. - -“Ah--I thought so.” Mrs. Lauderdale relapsed into silence, and from time -to time her mouth twitched nervously. - -She glanced at her daughter once or twice. The young girl’s straight -features could look almost stolid at times. Her patience had given way -once, but she got hold of it again and tried to set it on her face like -a mask. She was thinking now and wondering whether this strange mood -were a mere caprice of her mother’s, though Mrs. Lauderdale had never -been capricious before, or whether something had happened to change her -opinion of Ralston suddenly but permanently. In the one case it would be -best to bear it as quietly as possible, in the other to declare war at -once. But that seemed impossible, when she tried to realize it. She was -deeply, sincerely devoted to her mother. Hitherto they had each -understood the other’s thoughts and feelings almost without words, and -in all the many little domestic difficulties they had been firm allies. -It was not possible that they were to quarrel now. The gap in life would -be too deep and broad. Katharine suddenly rose and came and sat beside -her mother and drew the fair, tired face to her own, very tenderly. - -“Mother dear,” she said, “look at me! What is the matter? Have I done -anything to hurt you--to displease you? We’ve always loved each other, -you and I--and we can’t really quarrel, can we? What is it, dearest? -Tell me everything--I can’t understand it at all--I know--you’re tired -and ill, and Jack irritated you. Men will, sometimes, even the very -nicest men, you know. It was only that, wasn’t it? Yes--I knew it -was--poor, dear, darling, sweet, tired little mother, just let your dear -head rest--so, against me--yes, dear, I know--it was nothing--” - -It was as though they had changed places, the mother and the daughter. -The older woman’s lip quivered, as her cheek rested on Katharine’s -breast. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, two tears gathered just within the -shadowed lids, and grew and overflowed and trembled and fell--two -crystal drops. She saw them fall upon the rough grey stuff of her -daughter’s frock, and as she lay there upon the girl’s bosom with -downcast eyes, she watched her own tears, in momentary apathy, and -noticed how they ran, then crawled along, then stopped, caught as it -seemed in the stiff little hairs of the coarse material--and she noticed -that there were a few black hairs mixed with the grey, which she had not -known before. - -Then quite suddenly, just as they were shrinking and darkening the wool -with two small spots, a great irresistible sob seemed to come from -outside and run through her from head to foot, and shook her and hurt -her and gripped her throat. A moment more and the flood of tears broke. -Those storms of life’s autumn are chill and sharp. They are not like the -showers of spring, quick, light and soft, that make blossoms fragrant -and woods sweet-scented. - -Katharine did not understand, and her face was gentle and full of pain -as she pressed her mother to her bosom. - -“Don’t cry, mother--don’t cry!” she repeated again and again. - -“Ah, Katharine--child--if you knew!” The few words came with difficulty, -as each sob rose and would not be forced back. - -“No, darling--don’t! There, there!” And the young girl tried to soothe -her. - -Suddenly it all ceased. With an impatient movement, as though she -despised herself, Mrs. Lauderdale drew back, steadied herself with one -hand upon the end of the sofa, turned her head away and rose to her -feet. - -“Go out, child--leave me to myself!” she said indistinctly, and going -quickly towards the door. “Don’t come after me--don’t--no, don’t,” she -repeated, not looking back, as she went out. - -Left to herself, and understanding that it was better not to follow, -Katharine stood still a moment in the middle of the room, then went to -the window and looked out, seeing nothing. She did not know what it all -meant, but she felt that some great change which she could not -comprehend had come over her mother, and that they could never be again -as they had been. A mere headache, the mere fatigue from overwork, could -not have produced such results. Nor was Mrs. Lauderdale really ill, as -the girl’s womanly instinct had told her within the last five minutes. -The trouble, whatever it might be, was mental, and the tears had given -it a momentary relief. But it was not over. - -Katharine went out, at last, and was glad to breathe the keen air of the -wintry afternoon; glad, too, to be alone with herself. She even wished -that she were not obliged to go into Fifth Avenue, where she might meet -an acquaintance, or at all events to cross it, as she decided to do when -she reached the first corner. Going straight on, the next street was -University Place, and the lower part of that was quiet, and Waverley -Place and the neighbourhood of the old University building itself. She -could wander about there for half an hour without going so far as -Broadway, nor southwards to the precincts of the French and Italian -business colonies. So she walked slowly on, and then turned, and turned -again, round and round, backwards and forwards, meeting no one she knew, -thinking all the time and idly noticing things that had never struck her -before, as, for instance, that there is a row of stables leading -westward out of University Place which is called Washington Mews, and -that at almost every corner where there is a liquor-shop there seems to -be an Italian fruit-stand--the function of the ‘dago’ being to give -warning of the approach of the police, in certain cases, a fact which -Katharine could not be expected to know. - -Just beyond the aforesaid Mews, at the corner of Washington Square, she -came suddenly upon little Frank Miner, his overcoat buttoned up to his -chin and a roll of papers sticking out of his pocket. His fresh face was -pink with the cold, his small dark mustache glistened, and his restless -eyes were bright. The two almost ran against one another and both -stopped. He raised his hat with a quick smile and put out his hand. - -“How d’ye do, Miss Lauderdale?” he asked. - -In spite of the family connection he had never got so far as to call her -Katharine, or even cousin Katharine. The young girl shook hands with -him and smiled. - -“Are you out for a walk?” he asked, before she had been able to speak. -“And if so, may I come too?” - -“Oh, yes--do.” - -She had been alone long enough to find it impossible to reach any -conclusion, and of all people except Ralston, Miner was the one she felt -most able to tolerate just then. His perfectly simple belief in himself -and his healthy good humour made him good company for a depressed -person. - -“You seemed to be in such a hurry,” said Katharine, as he began to walk -slowly by her side. - -“Of course, as I was coming to meet you,” he answered promptly. - -“But you didn’t know--” - -“Providence knew,” he said, interrupting her. “It was foreordained when -the world was chaos and New York was inhabited by protoplasm--and all -that--that you and I should meet just here, at this very minute. Aren’t -you a fatalist? I am. It’s far the best belief.” - -“Is it? Why? I should think it rather depressing.” - -“Why--no. You believe that you’re the sport of destiny. Now a sport -implies amusement of some kind. See?” - -“Is the football amused when it’s kicked?” asked Katharine, with a short -laugh. - -“Now please don’t introduce football, Miss Lauderdale,” said Miner, -without hesitation. “I don’t understand anything about it, and I know -that I should, because it’s a mania just now. All the men get it when -the winter comes on, and they sit up half the night at the club, drawing -diagrams and talking Hebrew, and getting excited--I’ve seen them -positively sitting up on their hind-legs in rows, and waving their paws -and tearing their hair--just arguing about the points of a game half of -them never played at all.” - -“What a picture!” laughed Katharine. - -“Isn’t it? But it’s just true. I’m going to write a book about it and -call it ‘The Kicker Kicked’--you know, like Sartor Resartus--all full of -philosophy and things. Can you say ‘Kicker Kicked’ twenty times very -fast, Miss Lauderdale? I believe it’s impossible. I just left my three -sisters--they’re slowly but firmly turning into aunts, you know--I left -them all trying to say it as hard as they could, and the whole place -clicked as though a thousand policemen’s rattles were all going at -once--hard! And they were all showing their teeth and going mad over -it.” - -“I should think so--and that’s another picture.” - -“By the bye, speaking of pictures, have you seen the Loan Collection? -It’s full of portraits of children with such extraordinary -expressions--they all look as though they had given up trying to -educate their parents in despair. I wonder why everybody paints -children? Nobody can. I believe it would take a child--who knew how to -paint, of course,--to paint a child, and give just that something which -real children have--just what makes them children.” - -She was silent for a moment, following the unexpected train of thoughts. -There were delicate sides to his nature that pleased Katharine as well -as his nonsense. - -“That’s a pretty idea,” she said, after thinking of it a few seconds. - -“Everybody tries and fails,” answered Miner. “Why doesn’t somebody paint -you?” he asked suddenly, looking at her. - -“Somebody means to,” she replied. “I was to have gone to sit to Mr. -Crowdie this morning, but he sent me word to come to-morrow instead. I -suppose he had forgotten another engagement.” - -“Crowdie is ill,” said Miner. “Bright told me so this morning--some -queer attack that nobody could understand.” - -“Something serious?” asked Katharine, quickly. - -“Oh, no--I suppose not. Let’s go and see. He lives close by--at least, -not far, you know, over in Lafayette Place. It won’t take five minutes -to go across. Would you like to go?” - -“Yes,” answered the young girl. “I could ask if he will be able to begin -the picture to-morrow.” - -They turned to the right at the next crossing and reached Broadway a few -moments later. There was the usual crowd of traffic in the great -thoroughfare, and they had to wait a moment at the crossing before -attempting it. Miner thought of what he had seen on the previous -afternoon. - -“Did you hear of Jack Ralston’s accident yesterday?” he asked. - -Katharine started violently and turned pale. She had not realized how -the long hours and the final scene with her mother had unstrung her -nerves. But Miner was watching the cars and carts for an opening, and -did not see her. - -“Yesterday?” she repeated, a moment later. “No--he came to see us and -stayed almost till dinner time. What was it? When did it happen? Was he -hurt?” - -“Oh--you saw him afterwards, then?” Miner looked up into her face--she -was taller than he--with a curious expression--recollecting Ralston’s -condition when he had last seen him. - -“It wasn’t serious, then? It had happened before he came to our house?” - -“Why--yes,” answered the little man, with a puzzled expression. “Was he -all right when you saw him?” - -“Perfectly. He never said anything about any accident. He looked just as -he always does.” - -“That fellow has copper springs and patent joints inside him!” Miner -laughed. “He was a good deal shaken, that’s all, and went home in a cab. -I should have gone to bed, myself.” - -“But what was it?” - -“Oh--what he’d call nothing, I suppose! The cars at the corner of -Thirty-second and Broadway--we were waiting, just as we are now--two -cars were coming in opposite ways, and a boy with a bundle and a dog and -a perambulator, and a few other things, got between the tracks--of -course the cars would have taken off his head or his heels or his -bundle, or something, and the dog would have been ready for his halo in -three seconds. Jack jumped and picked up everything together and threw -them before him and fell on his head. Wonder he wasn’t killed or -crippled--or both--no, I mean--here’s a chance, Miss Lauderdale--come -along before that van stops the way!” - -There was not time to say anything as Katharine hastened across the -broad street by his side, and by the time they had reached the pavement -the blood had come back to her face. Her fears for Ralston’s safety had -been short-lived, thanks to Miner’s quick way of telling the story, and -in their place came the glow of pride a woman feels when the man she -loves is praised by men for a brave action. Miner glanced at her as he -landed her safely from the crossing and wondered whether Crowdie’s -portrait would do her justice. He doubted it, just then. - -“It was just like him,” she said quietly. - -“And I suppose it was like him to say nothing about it, but just to go -home and restore his shattered exterior and put on another pair of boots -and go and see you. You said he looked as though nothing had happened to -him?” - -“Quite. We had a long talk together. I should certainly not have guessed -that anything had gone wrong.” - -“Ralston’s an unusual sort of fellow, anyhow,” said Miner, -enigmatically. “But then--so am I, so is Crowdie--do you like Crowdie? -Rude question, isn’t it? Well, I won’t ask it, then. Besides, if he’s to -paint your picture you must have a pleasant expression--a smile that -goes all round your head and is tied with a black ribbon behind--you -know?” - -“Oh, yes!” Katharine laughed again, as she generally did at the little -man’s absurd sayings. - -“But Crowdie knows,” he continued. “He’s clever--oh, to any extent--big -things and little things. All his lions roar and all his mosquitoes -buzz, just like real things. The only thing he can’t do is to paint -children, and nobody can do that. By the bye, I’m repeating myself. It -doesn’t take long to get all round a little man like me. There are lots -of things about Crowdie, though. He sings like an angel. I never heard -such a voice. It’s more like a contralto--like Scalchi’s as it was, -though she’s good still,--than like a tenor. Oh, he’s full of talent. I -wish he weren’t so queer!” - -“Queer? How do you mean?” - -“I don’t know, I’m sure. There’s something different from other people. -Is he a friend of yours? I mean, a great friend?” - -“Oh, no--not at all. I’m very fond of Mrs. Crowdie. She’s a cousin, you -know.” - -“Yes. Well--I don’t know that I can make you understand what I mean, -though. Besides, he’s a very good sort of fellow. Never heard of -anything that wasn’t all right about him--at least--nothing particular. -I don’t know. He’s like some kind of strange, pale, tropical fruit -that’s gone bad at the core and might be poisonous. Horrid thing to say -of a man, isn’t it?” - -“Oh, I know just what you mean!” answered Katharine, with a little -movement of disgust. - -Miner suddenly became thoughtful again, and they reached the Crowdies’ -house,--a pretty little one, with white stone steps, unlike the ordinary -houses of New York. Lafayette Place is an unfashionable nook, rather -quiet and apparently remote from civilization. It has, however, three -dignities, as the astrologers used to say. The Bishop of New York has -his official residence on one side of it, and on the other is the famous -Astor Library. A little further down there was at that time a small -club frequented by the great publishers and by some of their most -expensive authors. No amateur ever twice crossed the threshold alive. - -Miner rang the bell, and the door was opened by an extremely smart old -man-servant in livery. The Crowdies were very prosperous people. -Katharine asked if Hester were at home. The man answered that Mrs. -Crowdie was not receiving, but that he believed she would wish to see -Miss Katharine. He had been with the Ralstons in the Admiral’s lifetime -and had known Katharine since she had been a baby. Crowdie was very -proud of him on account of his thick white hair. - -“I’ll go in,” said the young girl. “Good-bye, Mr. Miner--thank you so -much for coming with me.” - -Miner trotted down the white stone steps and Katharine went into the -house, and waited some minutes in the pretty little sitting-room with -the bow-window, on the right of the entrance. She was just thinking that -possibly Hester did not wish to see her, after all, when the door opened -and Mrs. Crowdie entered. She was a pale, rather delicate-looking woman, -in whose transparent features it was hard to trace any resemblance to -her athletic brother, Hamilton Bright. But she was not an insignificant -person by any means. She had the Lauderdale grey eyes like so many of -the family, but with more softness in them, and the eyebrows were -finely pencilled. An extraordinary quantity of silky brown hair was -coiled and knotted as closely as possible to her head, and parted low on -the forehead in heavy waves, without any of the ringlets which have been -fashionable for years. There were almost unnaturally deep shadows under -the eyes, and the mouth was too small for the face and strongly curved, -the angles of the lips being very cleanly cut all along their length, -and very sharply distinct in colour from the ivory complexion. -Altogether, it was a passionate face--or perhaps one should say -impassioned. Imaginative people might have said that there was something -fatal about it. Mrs. Crowdie was even paler than usual to-day, and it -was evident that she had undergone some severe strain upon her strength. - -“Oh, I’m so glad to see you, dear!” she said, kissing the young girl on -both cheeks and leading her to a small sofa just big enough to -accommodate two persons, side by side. - -“You look tired and troubled, Hester darling,” said Katharine. “I met -little Frank Miner and he told me that Mr. Crowdie had been taken ill. I -hope it’s nothing serious?” - -“No--yes--how can I tell you? He’s in his studio now, as though nothing -had happened--not that he’s working, for of course he’s tired--oh, it -has been so dreadful--I wish I could cry, but I can’t, you know. I -never could. That’s why it hurts so. But I’m so glad you’ve come. I had -just written a note to you and was going to send it, when Fletcher came -up and said you were here. It was one of my intuitions--I’m always doing -those things.” - -It was so evidently a relief to her to talk that Katharine let her run -on till she paused, before asking a question. - -“What was the matter with him? Tell me, dear.” - -Mrs. Crowdie did not answer at once, but sat holding the young girl’s -hand and staring at the fire. - -“Katharine,” she said at last, “I’m in great trouble. I want a -friend--not to help me, for no one can--I must bear it alone--but I must -speak, or it will drive me mad.” - -“You can tell me everything if you will, Hester,” said Katharine, -gravely. “It will be quite safe with me. But don’t tell me, if you are -ever going to regret it.” - -“No--I was thinking--” - -Mrs. Crowdie hesitated and there was a short silence. She covered her -eyes for an instant with one small hand--her hands were small and -pointed, but not so thin as might have been expected from her face--and -then she looked at her companion. The strong, well-balanced features -apparently inspired her with confidence. She nodded slowly, as though -reaching a conclusion within herself, and then spoke. - -“I will tell you, Katharine. I’d much rather tell you than any one else, -and I know myself--I should be sure to tell somebody in the end. You’re -like a man in some things, though you are only a girl. If I had a man -friend, I think I should go to him--but I haven’t. Walter has always -been everything to me. Somehow I never get intimate with men, as some -women do.” - -“Surely--there’s your brother, Hester. Why don’t you go to him? I -should, in your place.” - -“No, dear. You don’t know--Hamilton never approved of my marriage. -Didn’t you know? He’s such a good fellow that he wouldn’t tell any one -else so. But he--well--he never liked Walter, from the first, though I -must say Walter was very nice to him. And about the arrangements--you -know I had a settlement--Ham insisted upon it--so that my little fortune -is in the hands of trustees--your father is one of them. As though -Walter would ever have touched it! He makes me spend it all on myself. -No, dear--I couldn’t tell my brother--so I shall tell you.” - -She stopped speaking and leaned forward, burying her face in her hands -for a moment, as though to collect her thoughts. Then she sat up again, -and looked at the fire while she spoke. - -“It was last night,” she said. “He dined with you, and I stayed at home -all by myself, not being asked, you see, because it was at a moment’s -notice--it was quite natural, of course. Walter came home early, and we -sat in the studio a long time, as we often do in the evening. There’s -such a beautiful light, and the big fireplace, and cushions--and all. I -thought he smoked a great deal, and you know he doesn’t usually smoke -much, on account of his voice, and he really doesn’t care for it as some -men do. I wish he did--I like the smell of it, and then a man ought to -have some little harmless vice. Walter never drinks wine, nor -coffee--nothing but Apollinaris. He’s not at all like most men. He never -uses any scent, but he likes to burn all sorts of queer perfumes in the -studio in a little Japanese censer. I like cigars much better, and I -always tell him so,--and he laughs. How foolish I am!” she interrupted -herself. “But it’s such a relief to talk--you don’t know!” - -“Go on, dear--I’m listening,” said Katharine, humouring her, and -speaking very gently. - -“Yes--but I must tell you now.” - -Katharine saw how she straightened herself to make the effort, and -sitting close beside her, so that they touched one another, she felt -that Hester was pressing back against the sofa, while she braced her -feet against a footstool. - -“It was very sudden,” she said in a low voice. “We were talking--I was -saying something--all at once his face changed so--oh, it makes me -shudder to think of it. It seemed--I don’t know--like--almost like a -devil’s face! And his eyes seemed to turn in--he was all purple--and his -lips were all wet--it was like foam--oh, it was dreadful--too awful!” - -Katharine was startled and shocked. She could say nothing, but pressed -the small hand in anxious sympathy. Hester smiled faintly, and then -almost laughed, but instantly recovered herself again. She was not at -all a hysterical woman, and, as she said, she could never cry. - -“That’s only the beginning,” she continued. “I won’t tell you how he -looked. He fell over on the divan and rolled about and caught at the -cushions and at me--at everything. He didn’t know me at all, and he -never spoke an articulate word--not one. But he groaned, and seemed to -gnash his teeth--I believe it went on for hours, while I tried to help -him, to hold him, to keep him from hurting himself. And then--after a -long, long time--all at once, his face changed again, little by little, -and--will you believe it, dear? He was asleep!” - -“How strange!” exclaimed Katharine. - -“Yes--wasn’t it? But it seemed so merciful, and I was so glad. And I sat -by him all night and watched him. Then early, early this morning--it -was just grey through the big skylight of the studio--he waked and -looked at me, and seemed so surprised to find himself there. I told him -he had fallen asleep--which was true, you know--and he seemed a little -dazed, and went to bed very quietly. But to-day, when he got up--it was -I who sent you word not to come, because he had told me about the -sitting--I told him everything, and insisted upon sending for Doctor -Routh. He seemed terribly distressed, but wouldn’t let me send, and he -walked up and down the room, looking at me as though his heart would -break. But he said nothing, except that he begged and begged me not to -send for the doctor.” - -“And he’s quite himself now, you say?” - -“Wait--the worst is coming. At last he sat down beside me, and said--oh, -so tenderly--that he had something to say to which I must listen, though -he was afraid that it would pain me very much--that he had thought it -would never be necessary to tell me, because he had imagined that he was -quite cured when he had married me. Of course, I told him that--well, -never mind what I said. You know how I love him.” - -Katharine knew, and it was incomprehensible to her, but she pressed the -little hand once more. - -“He told me that nearly ten years ago he had been ill with inflammatory -rheumatism--that’s the name of it, and it seems that it’s -excruciatingly painful. It was in Paris, and the doctors gave him -morphia. He could not give it up afterwards.” - -“And he takes morphia still?” asked Katharine, anxiously enough, for she -knew what it meant. - -“No--that’s it. He gave it up after five years--five whole years--to -marry me. It was hard, he said, but he felt that it was possible, and he -loved me, and he determined not to marry me while he was a slave to the -poison. He gave it up for my sake. Wasn’t that heroic?” - -“Yes,” said Katharine, gravely, and wondering whether she had misjudged -Crowdie. “It was really heroic. They say it is the hardest thing any one -can do.” - -“He did it. I love him ten times more for it--but--this is the result of -giving it up, dear. He will always be subject to these awful attacks. He -says that a dose of morphia would stop one of them instantly, and -perhaps prevent their coming back for a long time. But he won’t take it. -He says he would rather cut off his hand than take it, and he made me -promise not to give it to him when he is unconscious, if I ever see him -in that state again. He’s so brave about it,” she said, with a little -choking sigh. “I’ve told you my story, dear.” - -Her face relaxed a little, and she opened and shut her hands slowly as -though they had been stiffened. - -Katharine sat with her half an hour longer that afternoon, sympathizing -at first and then trying to divert her attention from the subject which -filled all her heart and mind. Then she rose to go. - -As they went out together from the little sitting-room, the sound of -Crowdie’s voice came down to them from the studio in the upper story. -The door must have been open. Katharine and Hester stood still and -listened, for he was singing, alone and to himself, high up above them, -a little song of Tosti’s with French words. - - “Si vous saviez que je vous aime.” - -It was indeed a marvellous voice, and as Katharine listened to the soft, -silver notes, and felt the infinite pathos of each phrase, she wondered -whether, with all his success as a painter, Crowdie had not mistaken his -career. She listened, spell-bound, to the end. - -“It’s divine!” she exclaimed. “There’s no other word for it.” - -Hester Crowdie was paler than ever, and her soft grey eyes were all on -fire. And yet she had heard him hundreds of times. Almost before -Katharine had shut the glass door behind her, she heard the sound of -light, quick footsteps as Hester ran upstairs to her husband. - -“It’s all very strange,” thought Katharine. “And I never heard of -morphia having those effects afterwards. But then--how should I know?” - -And meditating on the many emotions she had seen in others during the -last twenty-four hours, she hurried homewards. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -Mrs. Lauderdale had met with temptations in the course of her life, but -they had not often appealed to her as they would have appealed to many -women, for she was not easily tempted. A number of forms of goodness -which are very hard to most people had been so easy to her that she had -been good without effort, as, on the whole, she was good by nature. She -had been brought up in an absolutely fixed religious belief, and had -never felt any inclination to deviate from it, nor to speculate about -the details of it, for her intellect was rather indolent, and in most -positions in life her common-sense, which was strong, had taken the -place of the complicated mental processes familiar to imaginative people -like Katharine. Such imagination as Mrs. Lauderdale had was occupied -with artistic matters. - -Her vanity had always been satisfied quite naturally, without effort on -her part, by her own great and uncontested beauty. She knew, and had -always known, that she was commonly compared with the greatest beauties -of the world, by men and women who had seen them and were able to -judge. Social ambition never touched her either, and she never -remembered to have met with a single one of those small society rebuffs -which embitter the lives of some women. Nobody had ever questioned her -right, nor her husband’s right, nor that of any of the family, to be -considered equal with the first. In early days she had suffered a -little, indeed, from not being rich enough to exercise that gift of -almost boundless hospitality which is rather the rule than the exception -among Americans, and which is said, with some justice, to be an especial -characteristic of Kentuckians. Such troubles as she had met with had -chiefly arisen from the smallness of her husband’s income, from -peculiarities of her husband’s character, and from her elder daughter’s -headstrong disposition. And with all these her common-sense had helped -her continually. - -She loved amusement and she had it in abundance, in society, during a -great part of the year. Her talent had helped her to procure luxuries, -and she had been generous in giving a large share of them to her -daughters. She had soon learned to understand that society wanted her -for herself, and not for what she could offer it in her own home, and -she had been flattered by the discovery. As for Alexander, he had many -good qualities which she appreciated when she compared him with the -husbands of other women. Generosity with money was not his strong -point, but he had many others. He loved her tenaciously, not tenderly, -nor passionately, nor in any way that was at all romantic--if that word -means anything--and certainly not blindly, but tenaciously; and his -admiration for her beauty, though rarely expressed, found expression on -such occasions in short, strong phrases which left no manner of doubt as -to his sincere conviction. She had not been happy with him, as boys and -girls mean to be happy--for the rigidity of very great strength, when -not combined with a corresponding intellect, is excessively wearisome in -the companionship of daily married life. There is a coldness, a lack of -expression and of sympathy, a Pharaoh-like, stony quality about it which -do not encourage affection, nor satisfy an expansive nature. And though -not imaginative, Mrs. Lauderdale was expansive. She had a few moments of -despairing regret at first. She felt that she might just as well have -married a magnificent, clean-built, iron-bodied, steel-jointed -locomotive, as the man she had chosen, and that she could produce about -as much impression on his character as she could have made upon such an -engine. But she found out in time that, within certain limits, he was -quite willing to do what she asked of him, and that beyond them he ran -his daily course with a systematic and unvarying regularity, which was -always safe, if it was never amusing. She got such amusement as she -liked from other sources, and she often consoled herself for the dulness -of the family dinner, when she dined at home, with the certainty that, -during several hours before she went to bed, the most desirable men at a -great ball would contest the honour of dancing with her. And that was -all she wanted of them. She liked some of them. She took an interest in -their doings, and she listened sympathetically to the story of their -troubles. But it was not in her nature to flirt, nor to lose her head -when she was flattered, and if she sometimes doubted whether she really -loved her husband at all, she was quite certain that she could never -love any one else. Perhaps she deserved no credit for her faithfulness, -for it was quite natural to her. - -On the whole, therefore, her temptations had been few, in reality, and -she had scarcely noticed them. She had reached the most painful moment -of her life with very little experience of what she could resist--the -moment when she realized that the supremacy of her beauty was at an end. -Of course, she had exaggerated very much the change which had taken -place, for at the crucial instant when she had caught sight of her face -in the mirror she had been unusually tired, considerably bored and not a -little annoyed--and the mirror had a decidedly green tinge in the glass, -as she assured herself by examining it and comparing it with a good one -on the following morning. But the impression once received was never to -be effaced; she might look her very best in the eyes of others--to her -own, the lines of age being once discovered were never to be lost again, -the dazzling freshness was never to come back to her skin, nor the gold -to her hair, nor the bloom to her lips. And Crowdie, who was an artist, -and almost a great portrait painter, could not take his eyes from -Katharine, at whom no one would have looked twice when her mother had -been at the height of her beauty. At least, so Mrs. Lauderdale thought. - -And now, until Katharine was married and went away from home, the elder -woman was to be daily, almost hourly, compared with her daughter by all -who saw them together; for the first time in her life she was to be -second in that one respect in which she had everywhere been first ever -since she could remember, and she was to be second in her own house. -When she realized it, she was horrified, and for a time her whole nature -seemed changed. She clung desperately to that beauty of hers, which was, -had she known it, the thing she loved best on earth, and which had -reduced in her eyes the value of everything else. She clung to it, and -yet, from that fatal moment, she knew that it was hopeless to cling to -it, hopeless to try and recall it, hopeless to hope for a miracle which, -even in the annals of miracles, had never been performed--the recall of -youth. The only possible mitigation suggested itself as a spontaneous -instinct--to avoid that cruel comparison with Katharine. In the first -hours it overcame her altogether. She could not look at the girl. She -could hardly bring herself to speak kindly to her; though she knew that -she would willingly lay down her life for the child she loved best, she -could not lay down her beauty. - -She was terrified at herself when she began to understand that something -had overcome her which she felt powerless to resist. For she was a very -religious woman, and the idea of envying her own daughter, and of almost -hating her out of envy, was monstrous. When Ralston had come, she had -not had the slightest intention of speaking as she had spoken. Suddenly -the words had come to her lips of themselves, as it were. If things went -on as they were going, Katharine would wait for Ralston during years to -come--the girl had her father’s nature in that--and Katharine would be -at home, and the cruel, hopeless comparison must go on, a perpetual and -a keen torture from which there was to be no escape. It was simply -impossible, intolerable, more than human endurance could bear. Ralston -must be sent away, Katharine must be married as quickly as possible, and -peace would come. There was no other way. It would be easy enough to -marry the girl, with her position, and the hope of some of Robert -Lauderdale’s money, and with her beauty--that terrible beauty of hers -that was turning her mother’s to ugliness beside it. The first words had -spoken themselves, the others had followed of necessity, and then, at -the end, had come the overwhelming consciousness of what they had meant, -and the breaking down of the overstrained nerves, and the sobs and the -tears, gushing out as a spring where instant remorse had rent and cleft -her very soul. - -It was no wonder that Katharine did not understand what was taking -place. Fortunately, being much occupied with her own very complicated -existence, she did not attempt any further analysis of the situation, -did not accidentally guess what was really the matter, and wisely -concluded that it would be best to leave her mother to herself for a -time. - -On the morning after the events last chronicled, Mrs. Lauderdale -returned to her work, and at a quarter before eleven Katharine was ready -to go out and was watching for Ralston at the library window. As soon as -she saw him in the distance she let herself out of the house and went to -meet him. He glanced at her rather anxiously as they exchanged -greetings, and she thought that he looked tired and careworn. There were -shadows under his eyes, and his dark skin looked rather bloodless. - -“Why didn’t you tell me that you had an accident the day before -yesterday?” she asked at once. - -“Who told you I had?” he enquired. - -“Mr. Miner. I went out alone yesterday, after you had gone, and I met -him at the corner of Washington Square. He told me all about it. How can -you do such things, Jack? How can you risk your life in that way? And -then, not to tell me! It wasn’t kind. You seem to think I don’t care. I -wish you wouldn’t! I’m sure I turned perfectly green when Mr. Miner told -me--he must have thought it very extraordinary. You might at least have -given me warning.” - -“I’m very sorry,” said Ralston. “I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. -Wasn’t I all right when I came to see you?” - -He looked at her rather anxiously again--for another reason, this time. -But her answer satisfied him. - -“Oh--you were ‘dear’--even nicer than usual! But don’t do it again--I -mean, such things. You don’t know how frightened I was when he told me. -In fact, I’m rather ashamed of it, and it’s much better that you -shouldn’t know.” - -“All right!” And Ralston smiled happily. “Now,” he continued after a -moment’s thought, “I want to explain to you what I’ve found out about -this idea of yours.” - -“Don’t call it an idea, Jack. You promised that you would do it, you -know.” - -“Yes. I know I did. But it’s absolutely impossible to have it quite a -secret--theoretically, at least.” - -“Why?” She slackened her pace instinctively, and then, seeing that they -were just entering Fifth Avenue, walked on more briskly, turning down in -the direction of the Square. - -Ralston told her in a few words what he had learned from the lawyer. - -“You see,” he concluded, “there’s no way out of it. And, of course, -anybody may go to the Bureau of Vital Statistics and look at the -records.” - -“But is anybody likely to?” asked Katharine. “Is the Clerk of the -Records, or whatever you call him, the sort of man who would be likely -to know papa, for instance? That’s rather important.” - -“No. I shouldn’t think so. But everybody knows all about you. You might -as well be the President of the United States as be a Lauderdale, as far -as doing anything incognito is concerned.” - -“There’s only one President at a time, and there are twenty-three -Lauderdales in the New York directory besides ourselves, and six of them -are Alexanders.” - -“Are there? How did you happen to know that?” asked Ralston. - -“Grandpapa looked them up the other day. He’s always looking up things, -you know--when he’s not asleep, poor dear!” - -“That certainly makes a difference.” - -“Of course it does,” said Katharine. “No doubt the Clerk of the Records -has seen the name constantly. Besides, I don’t suppose he does the work -himself. He only signs things. He probably looks at the books once a -month, or something of that sort.” - -“Even then--he might come across the entry. He may have heard my name, -too--you see my father was rather a bigwig in the Navy--and then, seeing -the two together--” - -“And what difference does it make? It isn’t really a secret marriage, -you know, Jack--at least, it’s not to be a secret after I tell uncle -Robert, which will be within twenty-four hours, you know. On the -contrary, I shall tell him that we meant to tell everybody, and that it -will be an eternal disgrace to him if he does nothing for you.” - -“He’ll bear that with equanimity, dear. You won’t succeed.” - -“Something will have to be done for us. When we’re married and everybody -knows it, we can’t go on living as if we weren’t--indefinitely--it would -be too ridiculous. Papa couldn’t stand that--he’s rather afraid of -ridicule, I believe, though he’s not afraid of anything else. So, as I -was saying, something will have to be done.” - -“That’s a hopeful view,” laughed Ralston. “But I like the idea that it’s -not to be a secret for more than a day. It makes it look different.” - -“But I always told you that was what I meant, dear--I couldn’t do -anything mean or underhand. Didn’t you believe me?” - -“Of course--but somehow I didn’t see it exactly as I do now.” - -“Oh, Jack--you have no more sense than--than a small yellow dog!” - -At which very remarkable simile Ralston laughed again, as he caught -sight of the creature that had suggested it--a small yellowish cur -sitting on the pavement, bolt upright against the railing, and looking -across the street, grinning from ear to ear and making his pink tongue -shake with a perfectly unnecessary panting, the very picture of canine -silliness. - -“Yes--that’s the dog I mean,” said Katharine. “Look at him--he’s -behaving just as you do, sometimes. But let’s be serious. What am I to -do? Who is going to marry us?” - -“Oh--I’ll find somebody,” answered Ralston, confidently. “They all say -it’s easy enough to be married in New York, but that it’s awfully hard -to be divorced.” - -“All the better!” laughed Katharine. “By the bye--what time is it?” - -“Five minutes to eleven,” answered Ralston, looking at his watch. - -“Dear me! And at eleven I’m due at Mr. Crowdie’s for my portrait. I -shall be late. Go and see about finding a clergyman while I’m at the -studio. It can’t be helped.” - -Ralston glanced at her in surprise. Of her sitting for her portrait he -had not heard before. - -“I must say,” he answered, “you don’t seem inclined to waste time this -morning--” - -“Certainly not! Why should we lose time? We’ve lost a whole year -already. Do you think I’m the kind of girl who has to talk everything -over fifty times to make up her mind? When you came, day before -yesterday, I’d decided the whole matter. And now I mean--yes, you may -look at me and laugh, Jack--I mean to put it through. I’m much more -energetic than you seem to think. I believe you always imagined I was a -lazy, pokey, moony sort of girl, with too much papa and mamma and weak -tea and buttered toast in her nature. I’m not, you know. I’m just as -energetic for a girl as you are for a man.” - -“Rather more so,” said Ralston, watching her with intense admiration of -her strong and beautiful self, and with considerable indifference to -what she was saying, though her words amused him. “Please tell me about -Crowdie and the portrait.” - -“Oh--the portrait? Mr. Crowdie wants to paint it for Hester. I’m going -to sit the first time this morning. That’s all. Here we are at the -corner. We must cross here to get over to Lafayette Place.” - -“Well, then,” said Ralston, as they walked on, “there’s only one more -point, and that’s to find a clergyman. I suppose you can’t suggest -anybody, can you?” - -“Hardly! You must manage that. I’m sure I’ve done quite enough already.” - -They discussed the question as they walked, without coming to any -conclusion. Ralston determined to spend the day in looking for a proper -person. He could easily withhold his name in every case, until he had -made the arrangements. As a matter of fact, it is not hard to find a -clergyman under the circumstances, since no clergyman can properly -refuse to marry a respectable couple against whom he knows nothing. The -matter of subsequent secrecy becomes for him more a question of taste -than of conscience. - -They reached the door of the Crowdie house, and Katharine turned at the -foot of the white stone steps to say good-bye. - -“Say you’re glad, Jack dear!” she said suddenly, as she put out her -hand, and their eyes met. - -“Glad! Of course I’m glad--no, I really am glad now, though I wasn’t at -first. It looks different--it looks all right to-day.” - -“You don’t look just as I expected you would, though,” said Katharine, -doubtfully. “And yet it seems to me you ought--” She stopped. - -“Katharine--dear--you can’t expect me to be as enthusiastically happy as -though it really meant being married to you--can you?” - -“But it does mean it. What else should it mean, or could it mean? Why -isn’t it just the same as though we had a big wedding?” - -“Because things won’t turn out as you think they will,” answered -Ralston. “At least, not soon--uncle Robert won’t do anything, you know. -One can’t take fate and destiny and fortune and shuffle them about as -though they were cards.” - -“One can, Jack! That’s just it. Everybody has one chance of being happy. -We’ve got ours now, and we’ll take it.” - -“We’ll take it anyhow, whether it’s really a chance or not. -Good-bye--dear--dear--” - -He pressed her hand as he spoke, and his voice was tender and rang true, -but it had not that quaver of emotion in it which had so touched -Katharine on that one evening, and which she longed to hear again; and -Ralston missed the wave of what had seemed like deep feeling, and wished -it would come back. His nerves were perfectly steady now, though he had -been late at his club on the previous evening, and had not slept much. - -“I’ll write you a note this afternoon,” he said, “as soon as I’ve -arranged with the clergyman. If it has to be very early, you must find -some excuse for going out of the house. Of course, I’ll manage it as -conveniently as I can for you.” - -“Oh, there’ll be no trouble about my going out,” answered Katharine. -“Nobody ever asks me where I’m going in the morning. You’ll let me have -the note as soon as you can, won’t you?” - -“Of course. Before dinner, at all events. Good-bye again, dear.” - -“Good-bye--until to-morrow.” - -She added the last two words very softly. Then she nodded affectionately -and went up the steps. As she turned, after ringing the bell, she saw -him walking away. Then he also turned, instinctively, and waved his hat -once, and smiled, and was gone. Fletcher opened the door, and Katharine -went in. - -“How is Mr. Crowdie to-day--is he painting?” she asked of the servant. - -“Yes, Miss Katharine, Mr. Crowdie’s very well, and he left word that he -expected you at eleven, Miss.” - -“Yes, I know--I’m late.” - -And she hurried up the stairs, for she had often been to the studio with -Hester and with Crowdie himself, to see his pictures, and knew her way. -But she knocked discreetly at the door when she had reached the upper -story of the house. - -“Come in, Miss Lauderdale,” said Crowdie’s silvery voice, and she heard -his step on the polished floor as he left his work and came forward to -meet her. - -It seemed to her that his face was paler and his mouth redder than ever, -and the touch of his soft white hand was exceedingly unpleasant to her, -even through her glove. - -He had placed a big chair ready for her, and she sat down as she was, -with her hat and veil on, and looked about. Crowdie pushed away the -easel at which he had been working. It ran almost noiselessly over the -waxed oak, and he turned it with the face of the picture to the wall in -a corner at some distance. - -The studio was, as has been said, a very large room, occupying almost -the whole upper story of the house, which was deeper than ordinary -houses, though not very broad on the front. The studio was, therefore, -nearly twice as long as its width, and looked even larger than it was -from having no windows below, and only one door. There was, indeed, a -much larger exit, by which Crowdie had his pictures taken out, by an -exterior stair to the yard, but it was hidden by a heavy curtain on one -side of the enormous fireplace. There were great windows, high up, on -the north side, which must have opened above the roof of the -neighbouring house, and which were managed by cords and weights, and -could be shaded by rolling shades of various tints from white to dark -grey. Over it was a huge skylight, also furnished with contrivances for -modifying the light or shutting it out altogether. - -So far, the description might answer for the interior of a -photographer’s establishment, but none of the points enumerated struck -Katharine as she sat in her big chair waiting to be told what to do. - -The first impression was that of a magnificent blending of perfectly -harmonious colours. There was an indescribable confusion of soft and -beautiful stuffs of every sort, from carpets to Indian shawls and -Persian embroideries. The walls, the chairs and the divans were covered -with them, and even the door which gave access to the stairs was draped -and made to look unlike a door, so that when it was shut there seemed to -be no way out. The divans were of the Eastern kind--great platforms, as -it were, on which were laid broad mattresses, then stuffs, and then -endless heaps of cushions, piled up irregularly and lying about in all -directions. Only the polished floor was almost entirely bare--the rest -was a mass of richness. But that was all. There were no arms, such as -many artists collect in their studios, no objects of metal, save the -great dull bronze fire-dogs with lions’ heads, no plants, no flowers, -and, excepting three easels with canvases on them, there was nothing to -suggest the occupation of Walter Crowdie--nor any occupation at all. -Even the little Japanese censer in which Hester said that he burned -strange perfumes was hidden out of sight when not in use. There was not -so much as a sketch or a drawing or a bit of modelled clay to be seen. -There was not even a table with paints and brushes. Such things were -concealed in a sort of small closet built out upon the yard, on the -opposite side from the outer staircase, and hidden by curtains. - -The total absence of anything except the soft materials with which -everything was covered, produced rather a strange effect, and for some -mysterious reason it was not a pleasant one. Crowdie’s face was paler -and his lips were redder than seemed quite natural; his womanish eyes -were too beautiful and their glance was a caress--as warm velvet feels -to the hand. - -“Won’t you let me help you to take off your veil?” he said, coming close -to Katharine. - -“Thank you--I can do it myself,” she answered, with unnecessary -coldness. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Crowdie stepped backward from her, as she laid her hat and veil upon her -knee. He slowly twisted a bit of crayon between his fingers, as though -to help his thoughts, and he looked at her critically. - -“How are you going to paint me?” she asked, regretting that she had -spoken so very coldly a moment earlier. - -“That’s one of those delightful questions that sitters always ask,” -answered the artist, smiling a little. “That’s precisely what I’m asking -myself--how in the world am I going to paint you?” - -“Oh--that isn’t what I meant! I meant--full face or side face, you -know.” - -“Oh, yes,--of course. I was only laughing at myself. You have no idea -what an extraordinary change taking off your hat makes, Miss Lauderdale. -It would be awfully rude to talk to a lady about her face under ordinary -circumstances. In detail, I mean. But you must forgive me, because it’s -my profession.” - -He moved about with sudden steps, stopping and gazing at her each time -that he obtained a new point of view. - -“How does my hat make such a difference?” asked Katharine. “What sort of -difference?” - -“It changes your whole expression. It’s quite right that it should. When -you have it on, one only sees the face--the head from the eyes -downwards--that means the human being from the perceptions downwards. -When you take your hat off, I see you from the intelligence upwards.” - -“That would be true of any one.” - -“No doubt. But the intelligence preponderates in your case, which is -what makes the contrast so strong.” - -“I didn’t know I was as intelligent as all that!” Katharine laughed a -little at what she took for a piece of rather gross flattery. - -“No,” answered Crowdie, thoughtfully. “That is your peculiar charm. Do -you mind the light in your eyes? Just to try the effect? So? Does that -tire you?” - -He had changed the arrangement of some of the shades so as to throw a -strong glare in her face. She looked up and the white light gleamed like -fire in her grey eyes. - -“I couldn’t stand it long,” she said. “Is it necessary?” - -“Oh, no. Nothing is necessary. I’ll try it another way. So.” He moved -the shades again. - -“What a funny speech!” exclaimed Katharine. “To say that nothing is -necessary--” - -“It’s a very true speech. Nothing is the same as Pure Being in some -philosophies, and Pure Being is the only condition which is really -absolutely necessary. Now, would you mind letting me see you in perfect -profile? I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s only at first. When we’ve -made up our minds--if you’d just turn your head towards the fireplace, a -little more--a shade more, please--that’s it--one moment so--” - -He stood quite still, gazing at her side face as though trying to fix it -in his memory in order to compare it with other aspects. - -“I want to paint you every way at once,” he said. “May I ask--what do -you think, yourself, is the best view of your face?” - -“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered Katharine, with a little laugh. “What -does Hester think? As it’s to be for her, we might consult her.” - -“But she doesn’t know it’s for her--she thinks it’s for you.” - -“We might ask her all the same, and take her advice. Isn’t she at home?” - -“No,” answered Crowdie, after a moment’s hesitation. “I think she’s gone -out shopping.” - -Katharine was not naturally suspicious, but there was something in the -way Crowdie hesitated about the apparently insignificant answer which -struck - -[Illustration: “‘What have you decided?’ she enquired.”--Vol. I., p. -203.] - -her as odd. She had made the suggestion because his mere presence was so -absurdly irritating to her that she longed for Hester’s company as an -alleviation. But it was evident that Crowdie did not want his wife at -that moment. He wanted to be alone with Katharine. - -“You might send and find out,” said the young girl, mercilessly. - -“I’m pretty sure she’s gone out,” Crowdie replied, moving up an easel -upon which was set a large piece of grey pasteboard. “Even if she is in, -she always has things to do at this time.” - -He looked steadily at Katharine’s face and then made a quick stroke on -the pasteboard, then looked again and then made another stroke. - -“What have you decided?” she enquired. - -“Just as you are now, with your head a little on one side and that clear -look in your eyes--no--you were looking straight at me, but not in full -face. Think of what you were thinking about just when you looked.” - -Katharine smiled. The thought had not been flattering to him. But she -did as he asked and met his eyes every time he glanced at her. He worked -rapidly, with quick, sure strokes, using a bit of brown chalk. Then he -took a long, new, black lead pencil, with a very fine point, from the -breast-pocket of his jacket, and very carefully made a few marks with -it. Instead of putting it back when he used the bit of pastel again, he -held the pencil in his teeth. It was long and stuck out on each side of -his bright red lips. Oddly enough, Katharine thought it made him look -like a cat with black whiskers, and the straight black line forced his -mouth into a wide grin. She even fancied that to increase the -resemblance his eyes looked green when he gazed at her intently, and -that the pupils were not quite round, but were turning into upright -slits. She looked away for a moment and almost smiled. His legs were a -little in-kneed, as those of a cat look when she stands up to reach -after anything. There was something feline even in his little feet, -which were short with a very high instep, and he wore low shoes of dark -russet leather. - -“There is a smile in your eyes, but not in your face,” said Crowdie, -taking the pencil from between his teeth. “I suppose it’s rude to ask -you what you are thinking about?” - -“Not at all,” answered Katharine. “I was thinking how funny you looked -with that pencil in your mouth.” - -“Oh!” Crowdie laughed carelessly and went on with his work. - -Katharine noticed that when he next wished to dispose of the pencil he -put it into his pocket. As he had chosen a position in which she must -look directly at him, she could not help observing all his movements, -while her thoughts went back to her own interests and to Ralston. It was -much more pleasant to think of John than of Crowdie. - -“I’m discouraged already,” said Crowdie, suddenly, after a long silence, -during which he had worked rapidly. “But it’s only a first attempt at a -sketch. I want a lot of them before I begin to paint. Should you like to -rest a little?” - -“Yes.” - -Katharine rose and came forward to see what he had been doing. She felt -at once a little touch of disappointment and annoyance, which showed -that she was not altogether deficient in vanity, though of a pardonable -sort, considering what she saw. To her unpractised eye the sketch -presented a few brown smudges, through which a thin pencil-line ran here -and there. - -“You don’t see any resemblance to yourself, I suppose,” said Crowdie, -with some amusement. - -“Frankly--I hope I’m better looking than that,” laughed Katharine. - -“You are. Sometimes you’re divinely beautiful.” His voice grew -exquisitely caressing. - -Katharine was not pleased. - -“I didn’t ask for impossible compliments,” she said coolly. - -“Now look,” answered Crowdie, taking no notice of the little rebuke, and -touching the smudge with his fingers. “You mustn’t look too close, you -know. You must try and get the effect--not what you see, but what I -see.” - -Without glancing at her face he quickly touched the sketch at many -points with his thumb, with his finger, with his bit of crayon, with his -needle-pointed lead pencil. Katharine watched him intently. - -“Shut your eyes a little, so as not to see the details too distinctly,” -he said, still working. - -The face began to stand out. There was very little in the sketch, but -there was the beginning of the expression. - -“I begin to see something,” said Katharine, with increasing interest. - -“Yes--look!” - -He glanced at her for a moment. Then, holding the long pencil almost by -the end and standing well back from the pasteboard, he drew a single -line--the outline of the part of the face and head furthest from the -eye, as it were. It was so masterly, so simple, so faultless, and yet so -striking in its effect, that Katharine held her breath while the point -moved, and uttered an exclamation when it stopped. - -“You are a great artist!” - -Crowdie smiled. - -“I didn’t ask for impossible compliments,” he said, repeating her own -words and imitating her tone, as he stepped back from the easel and -looked at what he had done. “She’s not so bad-looking, is she?” He -fumbled in his pocket and found two or three bits of coloured pastels -and rubbed a little of each upon the pasteboard with his fingers. “More -life-like, now. How do you like that?” - -“It’s wonderful!” - -“Wonderfully like?” - -“How can I tell? I mean that it’s a wonderful performance. It’s not for -me to judge of the likeness.” - -“Isn’t it? In spite of proverbs, we’re the only good judges of -ourselves--outwardly or inwardly. Will you sit down again, if you are -rested? Do you know, I’m almost inclined to dab a little paint on the -thing--it’s a lucky hit--or else you’re a very easy subject, which I -don’t believe.” - -“And yet you were so discouraged a moment ago.” - -“That’s always my way. I don’t know about other artists, of course. It’s -only amateurs that tell each other their sensations about their daubs. -We don’t. But I’m always in a fit just before I’m going to succeed.” - -Katharine said nothing as she went back to her seat, but the expression -he had just used chilled her suddenly. She had received a vivid -impression from the account Hester had given her of his recent attack, -and she had unconsciously associated the idea of a fit with his -ailment. Then she was amused at her own folly. - -Crowdie looked at her keenly, then at his drawing, and then seemed to -contemplate a particular point at the top of her head. She was not -watching him, as she knew that he was not yet working again. There was -an odd look in his beautiful eyes which would not have pleased her, had -she seen it. He left the easel again and came towards her. - -“Would you mind letting me arrange your hair a little?” he asked, -stopping beside her. - -Katharine instinctively raised one hand to her head, and it unexpectedly -met his fingers, which were already about to touch her hair. The -sensation was so inexpressibly disagreeable to her that she started, -lowering her head as though to avoid him, and speaking sharply. - -“Don’t!” she cried. “I can do it myself.” - -“I beg your pardon,” said Crowdie, drawing back. “It’s the merest -trifle--but I don’t see how you can do it yourself. I didn’t know you -were so nervous, or I would have explained. Won’t you let me take the -end of my pencil and just lift your hair a little? It makes such a -difference in the outline.” - -It struck Katharine that she was behaving very foolishly, and she sat up -straight in her chair. - -“Of course,” she said, quite naturally. “Do it in any way you like. -I’ve a horror of being touched unexpectedly, that’s all. I suppose I -really am nervous.” - -Which was not at all true in general, though as regards Crowdie it was -not half the truth. - -“Thank you,” he answered, proceeding to move her hair, touching it very -delicately with his pointed white fingers. “It was stupid of me, but -most people don’t mind. There--if you only knew what a difference it -makes. Just a little bit more, if you’ll let me--on the other side. Now -let me look at you, please--yes--that’s just it.” - -Katharine suffered intensely during those few moments. Something within -her, of which she had never been conscious before, but which was most -certainly a part of herself, seemed to rise up in fury, outraged and -insulted, against something in the man beside her, which filled her with -a vague terror and a positive disgust. While his soft and womanish -fingers touched her hair, she clasped her hands together till they hurt, -and repeated to herself with set lips that she was foolish and nervous -and unstrung. She could not help the sigh of relief which escaped her -lips when he had finished and went back to his easel. Perhaps he noticed -it. At all events he became intent on his work and said nothing for -fully five minutes. - -During that time she looked at him and tried to solve the mystery of -her unaccountable sensations. She thought of what her mother had -said--that Crowdie was like a poisonous flower. He was so white and red -and soft, and the place was so still and warm, with its masses of rich -drapery that shut off every sound of life from without. And she thought -of what Miner had said--oddly enough, in exactly the same strain, that -he was like some strange tropical fruit--gone bad at the core. Fruit or -flower, or both, she thought. Either was apt enough. - -The air was perfectly pure. It was only warm and still. Possibly there -was the slightest smell of turpentine, which is a clean smell and a -wholesome one. Whatever the perfumes might be which he occasionally -burned, they left no trace behind. And yet Katharine fancied they were -there--unholy, sweet, heavy, disquieting, offending that something which -in the young girl had never been offended before. The stillness seemed -too warm--the warmth too still--his face too white--his mouth was as -scarlet and as heavy as the blossom of the bright red calla lily. There -was something repulsively fascinating about it, as there is in a wound. - -“You’re getting tired,” he said at last. “I’m not surprised. It must be -much harder to sit than to paint.” - -“How did you know I was tired?” asked Katharine, moving from her -position, and looking at a piece of Persian embroidery on the opposite -wall. - -“Your expression had changed when I spoke,” he said. “But it’s not at -all necessary to sit absolutely motionless as though you were being -photographed. It’s better to talk. The expression is like--” He stopped. - -“Like what?” she asked, curious to hear a definition of what is said too -often to be undefinable. - -“Well--I don’t know. Language isn’t my strong point, if I have any -strong point at all.” - -“That’s an affectation, at all events!” laughed Katharine, becoming -herself again when not obliged to look at him fixedly. - -“Is it? Well--affectation is a good word. Expression is not expression -when it’s an affected expression. It’s the tone of voice of the picture. -That sounds wild, but it means something. A speech in print hasn’t the -expression it has when it’s well spoken. A photograph is a speech in -print. It’s the truth done by machinery. It’s often striking at first -sight, but you get tired of it, because what’s there is all there--and -what is not there isn’t even suggested, though you know it exists.” - -“Yes, I see,” said Katharine, who was interested in what he said, and -had momentarily forgotten his personality. - -“That shows how awfully clever you are,” he answered with a silvery -little laugh. “I know it’s far from clear. There’s a passage somewhere -in one of Tolstoi’s novels--‘Peace and War,’ I think it is--about the -impossibility of expressing all one thinks. It ought to follow that the -more means of expression a man has, the nearer he should get to -expressing everything in him. But it doesn’t. There’s a fallacy -somewhere in the idea. Most things--ideas, anything you choose to call -them--are naturally expressible in a certain material--paint, wood, -fiddle-strings, bronze and all that. Come and look at yourself now. You -see I’ve restrained my mania for oils a few minutes. I’m trying to be -conscientious.” - -“I wish you would go on talking about expression,” said Katharine, -rising and coming up to the easel. “It seems very much improved,” she -added as she saw the drawing. “How fast you work!” - -“There’s no such thing as time when things go right,” replied Crowdie. -“Excuse me a moment. I’ll get something to paint with.” - -He disappeared behind the curtain in the corner, to the out-built closet -in which he kept his colours and brushes, and Katharine was left alone. -She stood still for a few moments contemplating the growing likeness of -herself. There was as yet hardly any colour in the sketch, no more, in -fact, than he had rubbed on while she had watched him do it, when she -had rested the first time. It was not easy to see what he had done -since, and yet the whole effect was vastly improved. As she looked, the -work itself, the fine pencil-line, the smudges of brown and the -suggestions of colouring seemed all so slight as to be almost -nothing--and yet she felt that her expression was there. She thought of -her mother’s laborious and minutely accurate drawing, which never -reached any such effect as this, and she realized the almost impossible -gulf which lies between the artist and the amateur who has tried too -late to become one--in whom the evidence of talent is made -unrecognizable by an excess of conscientious but wholly misapplied -labour. The amateur who has never studied at all may sometimes dash off -a head with a few lines, which would be taken for the careless scrawling -of a clever professional. But the amateur who, too late, attempts to -perfect himself by sheer study and industry is almost certainly lost as -an artist--a fact which is commonly interpreted to mean that art itself -comes by inspiration, and that so-called genius needs no school; whereas -it only means that if we go to school at all we must go at the scholar’s -age and get the tools of expression, and learn to handle them, before we -have anything especial to express. - -“Still looking at it?” asked Crowdie, coming out of his sanctum with a -large palette in his left hand, and a couple of brushes in his right. -“Now I’m going to begin by spoiling it all.” - -There were four or five big, butter-like squeezings of different colours -on the smooth surface of the board. Crowdie stuck one of his brushes -through the thumb-hole of the palette, and with the other mixed what he -wanted, dabbing it into the paints and then daubing them all together. -Katharine sat down once more. - -“I thought painters always used palette-knives,” she said, watching him. - -“Oh--anything answers the purpose. I sometimes paint with my -fingers--but it’s awfully messy.” - -“I should think so,” she laughed, taking her position again as he looked -at her. - -“Yes--thank you,” he said. “If you won’t mind looking at me for a minute -or two, just at first. I want your eyes, please. After that you can look -anywhere you like.” - -“Do you always paint the eyes first?” asked Katharine, idly, for the -sake of not relapsing into silence. - -“Generally--especially if they’re looking straight out of the picture. -Then they’re the principal thing, you know. They are like little -holes--if you look steadily at them you can see the real person inside. -That’s the reason why a portrait that looks at you, if it’s like at all, -is so much more like than one that looks away.” - -“How naturally you explain things!” exclaimed the young girl, becoming -interested at once. - -“Things are so natural,” answered the painter. “Everything is natural. -That’s one of my brother-in-law’s maxims.” - -“It sounds like a truism.” - -“Everything that is true sounds like a truism--and is one. We know -everything that’s true, and it all sounds old because we do know it -all.” - -“What an extraordinary way of putting it--to say that we know -everything! But we don’t, you know!” - -“Oh, yes, we do--as far as we ever can know at all. I don’t mean little -peddling properties of petroleum and tricks with telephones--what they -call science, you know. I mean about big things that don’t -change--ideas.” - -“Oh--about ideas. You mean right and wrong, and the future life and the -soul, I suppose.” - -“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean. In a hundred thousand ages we shall -never get one inch further than we are now. A little bit more to the -right, please--but go on looking at me a moment longer, if you’re not -tired.” - -“I’ve only just sat down again. But what you were saying--you meant to -add that we know nothing, and that it’s all a perfectly boundless -uncertainty.” - -“Not at all. I think we know some things and shan’t lose them, and we -don’t know some others and never shall.” - -“What kind of things, for instance?” asked Katharine. “In the first -place, there is a soul, and it is immortal.” - -“Lucretius says that there is a soul, but that it isn’t immortal. -There’s something, anyhow--something I can’t paint. People who deny the -existence of the soul never tried to paint portraits, I believe.” - -“You certainly have most original ideas.” - -“Have I? But isn’t that true? I know it is. There’s something in every -face that I can’t paint--that the greatest painter that ever lived can’t -paint. And it’s not on account of the material, either. One can get just -as near to it in black and white as in colours,--just near enough to -suggest it,--and yet one can see it. I call it the ghost. I don’t know -whether there are ghosts or not, but people say they’ve seen them. They -are generally colourless, apparently, and don’t stay long. But did you -ever notice, in all those stories, that people always recognize the -ghost instantly if it’s that of a person they’ve known?” - -“Yes. Now I think of it, that’s true,” said Katharine. - -“Well, that’s why I call the recognizable something about the living -person his ghost. It’s what we can’t get. Now, another thing. If one is -told that the best portrait of some one whom one knows is a portrait of -some one else instead, one isn’t much surprised. No, really--I’ve tried -it, just to test the likeness. Most people say they are surprised, but -they’re not. They fall into the trap in a moment, and tell you that they -see that they were mistaken, but that it’s a strong resemblance. That -couldn’t happen with a real person. It happens easily with a -photograph--much more easily than with a picture. But with a real person -it’s quite different, even though he may have changed immensely since -you saw him--far beyond the difference between a good portrait and the -sitter, so far as details are concerned. But the person--you recognize -him at once. By what? By that something which we can’t catch in a -picture. I call it the ghost--it’s a mere fancy, because people used to -believe that a ghost was a visible soul.” - -“How interesting!” exclaimed Katharine. “And it sounds true.” - -“A thing must sound true to be interesting,” said Crowdie. “Excuse me a -moment. I want another colour.” - -He dived into the curtained recess, and Katharine watched the -disagreeable undulation of his movements as he walked. She wondered why -she was interested as soon as he talked, and repelled as soon as he was -silent. Much of what he said was more or less paradoxical, she thought, -and not altogether unlike the stuff talked by cynical young men who pick -up startling phrases out of books, and change the subject when they are -asked to explain what they mean. But there was something more in what he -said, and there was the way of saying it, and there was the weight a -man’s sayings carry when he is a real master of one thing, no matter how -remote from the subject of which he is speaking. Crowdie came back -almost immediately with his paint. - -“Your eyes are the colour of blue fox,” he remarked, dabbing on the -palette with his brush. - -“Are they? They’re a grey of some sort, I believe. But you were talking -about the soul.” - -“Yes, I know I was; but I’m glad I’ve done with it. I told you that -language wasn’t my strong point.” - -“Yes--but you may be able to say lots of interesting things, besides -painting well.” - -“Not compared with people who are good at talking. I’ve often been -struck by that.” - -He stopped speaking, and made one or two very careful strokes, -concentrating his whole attention for the moment. - -“Struck by what?” asked Katharine. - -“By the enormous amount some men know as compared with what they can do. -I believe that’s what I meant to say. It wasn’t particularly worth -saying, after all. There--that’s better! Just one moment more, please. -I know I’m tiring you to death, but I’m so interested--” - -Again he executed a very fine detail. - -“There!” he exclaimed. “Now we can talk. Don’t you want to move about a -little? I don’t ask you to look at the thing--it’s a mere beginning of a -sketch--it isn’t the picture, of course.” - -“But I want to see it,” said Katharine. - -“Oh, of course. But you won’t like it so much now as you did at first.” - -Katharine saw at once that he was right, and that the painting was not -in a stage to bear examination, but she looked at it, nevertheless, with -a vague idea of learning something about the art by observing its -processes. Crowdie stood at a little distance behind her, his palette -and brushes still in his hand. Indeed, there was no place but the floor -where he could have laid them down. She knew that he was there, and she -was certain that he was looking at her. The strange nervousness and -sense of repulsion came over her at once, but in her determination not -to yield to anything which seemed so foolish, she continued to -scrutinize the rough sketch on the easel. Crowdie, on his part, said -nothing, as though fearing lest the sound of his voice should disturb -the graceful lines of her figure as she stood there. - -At last she moved and turned away, but not towards him. Suddenly, from -feeling that he was looking at her, she felt that she could not meet -his eyes. She knew just what they would be like, long, languishing and -womanish, with their sweeping lashes, and they attracted her, though she -did not wish to see them. She walked a few steps down the length of the -great room, and she was sure that those eyes were following her. An -intense and quite unaccustomed consciousness overcame her, though she -was never what is called shy. - -She was positively certain that his eyes were fixed on the back of her -head, willing her to turn and look at him; but she would not. Then she -saw that she was reaching the end of the room, and that, unless she -stood there staring at the tapestries and embroideries, she must face -him. She felt the blood rush suddenly to her throat and just under her -ears, and she knew that she who rarely blushed at all was blushing -violently. She either did not know or she forgot that a blush is as -beautiful in most dark women as it is unbecoming and even painful to see -in fair ones. She was only conscious that she had never, in all her many -recollections, felt so utterly foolish, and angry with herself, and -disgusted with the light, as she did at that moment. Just as she reached -the wall, she heard his footstep, and supposing that he had changed his -position, she turned at once with a deep sense of relief. - -Crowdie was standing before his easel again, studying what he had done, -as unconcernedly as though he had not noticed her odd behaviour. - -“I feel flushed,” she said. “It must be very warm here.” - -“Is it?” asked Crowdie. “I’ll open something. But if you’ve had enough -of it for the first day, I can leave it as it is till the next sitting. -Can you come to-morrow?” - -“Yes. That is--no--I may have an engagement.” She laughed nervously as -she thought of it. - -“The afternoon will do quite as well, if you prefer it. Any time before -three o’clock. The light is bad after that.” - -“I think the day after to-morrow would be better, if you don’t mind. At -the same hour, if you like.” - -“By all means. And thank you, for sitting so patiently. It’s not every -one who does. I suppose I mustn’t offer to help you with your hat.” - -“Thanks, I can easily manage it,” answered Katharine, careful, however, -to speak in her ordinary tone of voice. “If you had a looking-glass -anywhere--” She looked about for one. - -“There’s one in my paint room, if you don’t mind.” - -He led the way to the curtain behind which he had disappeared in search -of his colours, and held it up. There was an open door into the little -room--which was larger than Katharine had expected--and a dressing-table -and mirror stood in the large bow-window that was built out over the -yard. Crowdie stood holding the curtain back while she tied her veil and -ran the long pin through her hat. It did not take more than a minute, -and she passed out again. - -“That’s a beautiful arrangement,” she said. “A looking-glass would spoil -the studio.” - -“Yes,” he answered, as he walked towards the door by her side. “You see -there isn’t an object but stuffs and cushions in the place, and a chair -for you--and my easels--all colour. I want nothing that has shape except -what is human, and I like that as perfect as possible.” - -“Give my love to Hester,” said Katharine, as she went out. “Oh, don’t -come down; I know the way.” - -He followed her, of course, and let her out himself. It was past twelve -o’clock, and she felt the sun on her shoulders as she turned to the -right up Lafayette Place, and she breathed the sparkling air with a -sense of wild delight. It was so fresh and pure, and somehow she felt as -though she had been in a contaminating atmosphere during the last three -quarters of an hour. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Alexander Lauderdale Junior was a man of regular ways, as has been seen, -and of sternly regular affections, so far as he could be said to have -any at all. Most people were rather afraid of him. In the Trust Company -which occupied his attention he was the executive member, and it was -generally admitted that it owed something of its exceptional importance -to his superior powers of administration, his cast-iron probity and his -cold energy in enforcing regulations. The headquarters of the Company -were in a magnificent granite building, on the second floor at the -front, and Alexander Junior sat all day long in a spotless and speckless -office, behind a highly polished table and before highly polished -bookcases, upon which the light fell in the daytime through the most -expensive and highly polished plate glass windows, and on winter -afternoons from glittering electric brackets and chandeliers. He himself -was not less perfect and highly polished in appearance than his -surroundings. He was like one of those beautiful models of machinery -which work silently and accurately all day long, apparently for the -mere satisfaction of feeling their own wheels and cranks go round, -behind the show window of the shop where the patent is owned, producing -nothing, indeed, save a keen delight in the soul of the admiring -mechanician. - -He was perfect in his way. It was enough to catch one glimpse of him, as -he sat in his office, to be sure that the Trust Company could be -trusted, that the widow’s portion should yield her the small but regular -interest which comforts the afflicted, and that the property of the -squealing and still cradle-ridden orphan was silently rolling up, to be -a joy to him when he should be old enough to squander it. The Trust -Company was not a new institution. It had been founded in the dark ages -of New York history, by just such men as Alexander Junior, and just such -men had made it what it now was. Indeed, the primeval Lauderdale, whom -Charlotte Slayback called Alexander the Great, had been connected with -it before he died, his Scotch birth being counted to him for -righteousness, though his speech was imputed to him for sin. Neither of -his sons had, however, had anything to do with it, nor his sons’ sons, -but his great-grandson, Alexander the Safe, was predestined from his -childhood to be the very man wanted by the Company, and when he was come -to years of even greater discretion than he had shown as a small boy, -which was saying much, he was formally installed behind the plate glass -and the very shiny furniture of the office he had occupied ever since. -With the appearance of his name on the Company’s reports the business -increased, for in the public mind all Lauderdales were as one man, and -that one man was Robert the Rich, who had never been connected with any -speculation, and who was commonly said to own half New York. Acute -persons will see that there must have been some exaggeration about the -latter statement, but as a mere expression it did not lack force, and -pleased the popular mind. It mattered little that New York should have -enough halves to be distributed amongst a considerable number of very -rich men, of whom precisely the same thing was said. Robert the Rich was -a very rich man, and he must have his half like his fellow rich men. - -Alexander Junior had no more claim upon his uncle’s fortune than Mrs. -Ralston. His father was one of Robert’s brothers and hers had been the -other. Nor was Robert the Rich in any way constrained to leave any money -to any of his relations, nor to any one in particular in the whole wide -world, seeing that he had made it himself, and was childless and -answerable to no man for his acts. But it was probable that he would -divide a large part of it between his living brother, the -philanthropist, and the daughter of his dead brother Ralph--the soldier -of the family, who had been killed at Chancellorsville. Now as it was -certain that the philanthropist, for his part, if he had control of what -came to him, would forthwith attempt to buy the Central Park as an -airing ground for pauper idiots, or do something equally though -charitably outrageous, the chances were that his portion--if he got -any--would be placed in trust, or that it would be paid him as income by -his son, if the latter were selected to manage the fortune. This was -what most people expected, and it was certainly what Alexander Junior -hoped. - -It was natural, too, and in a measure just. The male line of the -Lauderdales was dying out, and Alexander Junior would be the last of -them, in the natural succession of mortality, being by far the youngest -as he was by far the strongest. It would be proper that he should -administer the estate until it was finally divided amongst the female -heirs and their children. - -He was really and truly a man of spotless probity, in spite of the -suspicion which almost inevitably attaches to people who seem too -perfect to be human. On the surface these perfections of his were so -hard that they amounted to defects. It is aggressive virtue that -chastises what it loves--by its mere existence. But neither his probity, -nor his exterior mechanical superiority, so to say, was connected with -the mainspring of his character. That lay much deeper, and he concealed -it with as much skill as though to reveal its existence would have -ruined him in fortune and reputation, though it would probably have -affected neither the one nor the other. The only members of the family -who suspected the truth were his daughter Charlotte and Robert the Rich. - -Charlotte, who was afraid of nothing, not even of certain things which -she might have done better to respect, if not to fear, said openly in -the family, and even to the face of her father, that she did not believe -he was poor. Thereupon, Alexander Junior usually administered a stern -rebuke in his metallic voice, whereat Charlotte would smile and change -the subject, as though she did not care to talk of it just then, but -would return to it by and by. She had magnificent teeth, and, when she -chose, her smile could be almost as terribly electric as Alexander’s -own. - -As for Robert Lauderdale, he had more accurate knowledge, but not much. -Like many eminently successful men he had an unusual mastery of details, -and an unfailing memory for those which interested him. He knew the -exact figure of his nephew’s salary from the Trust Company, and he was -able to calculate with tolerable exactness, also, what the Lauderdales -spent, what Mrs. Lauderdale earned and how much the annual surplus must -be. He knew also that Alexander Junior’s mother, who had thoroughly -understood her husband, the philanthropist, had left what she possessed -to her only son, and only a legacy to her husband. Her property had been -owned in New England; the executor had been a peculiarly taciturn New -England lawyer, and Alexander had never said anything to any one else -concerning the inheritance. His mother had died after he had come of -age, but before he had been married, and there were no means whatever of -ascertaining what he had received. The philanthropist and his son had -continued to live together, as they still did; but the old gentleman had -always left household matters and expenses in his wife’s charge, and had -never in the least understood, nor cared to understand, the details of -daily life. He had his two rooms, he had enough to eat and he spent -nothing on himself, except for the large quantity of tobacco he consumed -and for his very modest toilet. As for the cigars, Alexander had brought -him down, in the course of ten years, by very fine gradations, from the -best Havanas which money could buy to ‘old Virginia cheroots,’ at ten -cents for a package of five,--a luxury which even the frugal inhabitant -of Calabrian Mulberry Street would consider a permissible extravagance -on Sundays. Alexander, who did not smoke, saw that the change had not -had any ill effect upon his father’s health, and silently triumphed. If -the old gentleman’s nerves had shown signs of weakness, Alexander had -previously determined to retire up the scale of prices to the extent of -one cent more for each cigar. In the matter of dress the elder Alexander -pleased himself, and in so doing pleased his son also, for he generally -forgot to get a new coat until the old one was dropping to pieces, and -he secretly bought his shoes of a little Italian shoemaker in the South -Fifth Avenue, as has been already noticed; the said shoemaker being the -unhappy father of one of the philanthropist’s most favourite and -unpromising idiots. - -But of old Mrs. Lauderdale’s money, nothing more was ever heard, nor of -several thousand dollars yearly, which, according to old Robert’s -calculations, Alexander Junior saved regularly out of his salary. - -Yet the youngest of the Lauderdale men was always poor, and his wife -worked as hard as she could to earn something for her own little -pleasures and luxuries. Robert the Rich had once been present when -Alexander Junior had borrowed five dollars of his wife. It had impressed -him, and he had idly wondered whether the money had ever been returned, -and whether Alexander did not manage in this way to extract a -contribution from his wife’s earnings, as a sort of peace-offering to -the gold-gods, because she wasted what she got by such hard work, in -mere amusement and hats, as Alexander cruelly put it. But Robert, who -had a broader soul, thought she was quite right, since, next to true -love, those were the things by which a woman could be made most happy. -It is true that Robert the Rich had never been married. As a matter of -fact, Alexander Lauderdale never returned the small sums he succeeded in -borrowing from his wife from time to time. But he kept a rigidly -accurate account of them, which he showed her occasionally, assuring her -that she ‘might draw on him’ for the money, and that he credited her -with five per cent interest so long as it was ‘in his hands’--which were -of iron, as she knew--and further, that it would be to her advantage to -invest all the money she earned in the same way, with him. A hundred -dollars, he said, would double itself in fourteen years, and in time it -would become a thousand, which would be ‘a nice little sum for her.’ He -had a set of expressions which he used in speaking of money, wherewith -he irritated her exceedingly. More than once she asked him to give her a -trifle out of what she had lent him, when she was in a hurry, or really -had nothing. But he invariably answered that he had nothing about him, -as he always paid everything by cheque,--which was true,--and never -spent but ten cents daily for his fare in the elevated road to and from -his office. He lunched somewhere, she supposed, during the day, and -would need money for that; but in this she was mistaken, for his strong -constitution needed but two meals daily, breakfast at eight and dinner -at half-past seven. At one o’clock he drank a glass of water in his -office, and in fine weather took a turn in Broad Street or Broadway. He -sometimes, if hard pressed by her, said that he would include what she -wanted in the next cheque he drew for household expenses--and he -examined the accounts himself every Saturday afternoon--but he always -managed to be alone when he did this, and invariably forgot to make any -allowance for the purpose of paying his just debts. - -Robert Lauderdale knew, therefore, that there must be a considerable sum -of money, somewhere, the property of Alexander Junior, unless the latter -had privately squandered it. This, however, was a supposition which not -even the most hopelessly moonstruck little boy in the philanthropist’s -pet asylum would have entertained for a moment. The rich man had watched -his nephew narrowly from his boyhood to his middle age, and was a knower -of men and a good judge of them, and he was quite sure that he was not -mistaken. Moreover, he knew likewise Alexander’s strict adherence to the -letter of truth, for he had proved it many times, and Alexander had -never said that he had no money. But he never failed to say that he was -poor--which was a relative term. He would go so far as to say that he -had no money for a particular object, clearly meaning that he would not -spend anything in that direction, but he had never said that he had -nothing. Now the great Robert was not the man to call a sum of several -hundred thousands a nothing, because he had so much more himself. He -knew the value of money as well as any man living. He used to say that -to give was a matter of sentiment, but that to have was a matter of -fact,--probably meaning thereby that the relation between length of head -and breadth of heart was indeterminate, but that although a man might -not have fifty millions, if he had half a million he was well enough off -to be able to give something to somebody, if he chose. But Robert the -Rich was fond of rather enigmatical sayings. He had seen the world from -quite an exceptional point of view and believed that he had a right to -judge it accordingly. - -He had watched his nephew during more than thirty years, and one half of -that period had sufficed to bring him to the conclusion that Alexander -Junior was a thoroughly upright but a thoroughly miserly person, and the -remaining half of the time had so far confirmed this judgment as to make -him own that the younger man was not only miserly, but in the very most -extended sense an old-fashioned miser in the midst of a new-fashioned -civilization, and therefore an anachronism, and therefore, also, not a -man to be treated like other men. - -Robert had long ago determined that Alexander should have some of the -money to do with as he pleased. His sole idea would be to hoard it and -pile it up to fabulous dimensions, and if anything happened to it he -would probably go mad, thought the great man. But the others were also -to have some of it, more or less according to their characters, and it -was interesting to speculate upon their probable actions when they -should be very rich. None of them, Robert believed, were really poor, -and certainly Alexander Junior was not. If they had been in need, the -old gentleman would have helped them with actual sums of money. But they -were not. As for Mrs. Lauderdale and her daughters, they really had all -that was necessary. Alexander did not starve them. He did not go so far -as that--perhaps because in his social position it would have been found -out. His wife was an excellent housekeeper, and old Robert liked the -simplicity of the little dinners to which he occasionally came without -warning, asking for ‘a bite,’ as though he were a poor relation. He -loved what was simple and, in general, all things which could be loved -for their own sake, and not for their value, and which were not beyond -his rather limited æsthetic appreciation. - -It was a very good thing, he thought, that Mrs. Lauderdale should do a -little work and earn a little money. It was an interest and an -occupation for her. It was fitting that people should be willing to do -something to earn money for their charities, or even for their smaller -luxuries, though it was very desirable that they should not feel obliged -to work for their necessities. If everybody were in that position, he -supposed that every one would be far happier. And Mrs. Lauderdale had -her beauty, too. Robert the Rich was fond of her in a fatherly way, and -knowing what a good woman she was, he had determined to make her a -compensation when she should lose her good looks. When her beauty -departed, she should be made rich, and he would manage it in such a way -that her husband should not be able to get hold of any of her wealth, to -bury with what Robert was sure he had, in secret and profitable -investment. Alexander Junior should have none of it. - -As for his elder brother, the philanthropist, Robert Lauderdale had his -own theories. He did not think that the old man’s charities were by any -means always wise ones, and he patronized others of his own, of which he -said nothing. Robert thought that too much was done for the deserving -poor, and too little for the undeserving poor, and that the starving -sinner might be just as hungry as the starving saint--a point of view -not popular with the righteous, who covet the unjust man’s sunshine for -themselves and accuse him unfairly of bringing about cloudy weather, -though every one knows that clouds, even the very blackest, are -produced by natural evaporation. - -But it was improbable, as Robert knew, that his brother should outlive -him, and he contributed liberally to the support and education of the -idiots, and his brother was mentioned in the will in connection with a -large annuity which, however, he had little chance of surviving to -enjoy. - -There were plenty of others to divide the vast inheritance when the time -should come. There were Mrs. Lauderdale and her two daughters, and her -baby grandson, Charlotte’s little boy. And there was Katharine Ralston -and there was John. And then there were the two Brights and their -mother, whose mother had been a Lauderdale, so that they were direct -relations. And there were the Miners--the three old-maid sisters and -little Frank Miner, who really seemed to be struggling hard to make a -living by literature--not near connections, these Miners, but certainly -included in the tribe of the Lauderdales on account of their uncle’s -marriage with the millionaire’s first cousin--whom he remembered as -‘little cousin Meg’ fifty years ago. Robert the Rich always smiled--a -little sadly--when he reached this point in the enumeration of the -family, and was glad that the Miners were in his will. - -The Miners would really have been the poorest of the whole connection, -for their father had been successively a spendthrift bankrupt, a -drunkard and a lunatic,--which caused Alexander Junior to say severely -that Livingston Miner had an unnatural thirst for emotions; but a -certain very small investment which Frank Miner had made out of the -remnants of the estate had turned out wonderfully well. Miner had never -known that old Lauderdale had mentioned the investment to old Beman, and -that the two great men had found the time to make it roll over and over -and grow into a little fortune at a rate which would have astonished -persons ignorant of business--after which they had been occupied with -other things, each in his own way, and had thought nothing more about -the matter. So that the Miners were comparatively comfortable, and the -three old maids stayed at home and ‘took care’ of their extremely -healthy brother instead of going out as governesses--and when they were -well stricken in old-maidhood they had a queer little love story all to -themselves, which perhaps will be told some day by itself. - -The rich man made few presents, for he had few wants, and did not -understand them in others. He was none the less on that account a -generous man, and would often have given, had he known what to give; but -those who expressed their wishes were apt to offend him by expressing -them too clearly. The relations all lived in good houses and had an -abundance of bread and a sufficient allowance of butter, and John -Ralston was the only one in connection with whom he had heard mention of -a tailor’s bill--John Ralston was more in the old gentleman’s mind than -any one knew. What did the others all want? Jewels, perhaps, and horses -and carriages and a lot of loose cash to throw out of the window. That -was the way he put it. He had never kept a brougham himself until he was -fifty years of age. It was true that he had no womankind and was a -strong man, like all his tribe. But then, many of his acquaintances who -might have kept a dozen horses, said it was more trouble than it was -worth, and hired what they wanted. His relations could do the same--it -was a mere curiosity on their part to experience the sensation of -looking rich. Robert Lauderdale knew the sensation very well and knew -that it was quite worthless. Of course, he thought, they all knew that -at his death they would be provided for--even lazy Jack, as he mentally -nicknamed Ralston. At least, he supposed that they knew it. They should -have a fair share of the money in the end. - -But he was conscious, and acutely conscious, that most of them wanted -it, and he had very little belief in the disinterested affection of any -of them. Even the old philanthropist, if he had been offered the chance -by a playful destiny, would have laid violent hands on it all for his -charities, to the exclusion of the whole family. His son would have -buried it in his own Trust Company, and longed to have it for that -purpose, and for no other. Jack Ralston wanted to squander it; Hamilton -Bright wanted to do banking with it and to out-Rothschild the -Rothschilds in the exchanges of the world. Crowdie, whom Robert the Rich -detested, wanted his wife to have it in order that he might build marble -palaces with it on the shores of more or less mythic lakes. Katharine -Ralston would have liked some of it because she liked to be above all -considerations of money, and her husband’s death had made a great -difference in her income. Mrs. Lauderdale wanted it, of course, and her -ideal of happiness would be realized in having three or four princely -establishments, in moving with the seasons from one to the other and in -always having her house full of guests. She was born in Kentucky--and -she would be a superb hostess. Perhaps she should have a chance some -day. Charlotte Slayback wanted as much as she could get because her -husband was rich, and she had nothing, and she had good blood in her -veins, but an abundance of evil pride in her heart. There was Katharine -Lauderdale, about whom the great man was undecided. He liked her and -thought she understood him. But of course she wanted the money too--in -order to marry lazy Jack--and wake up love’s young dream with a jump, as -he expressed it familiarly. She should not have it for that purpose, at -all events. It would be much better that she should marry Hamilton -Bright, who was a sensible fellow. Had not Ralston been offered two -chances, at both of which he had pitiably failed? He had no idea of -doing anything more for the boy at present. If he ever got any of the -money it should be from his mother. The two Katharines were out and out -the best of the tribe. He had a great mind to tear up his old will and -divide the whole fortune equally between Katharine Ralston and Katharine -Lauderdale. No doubt there would be a dispute about the will in any -case--he might just as well follow his inclinations, if he could not -prevent fighting. - -And then, when he reached that point, he was suddenly checked by a -consideration which does not present itself to ordinary men. As he -leaned back in his leathern writing chair, while his knotted fingers -played with the cork pen-holder he used, his great head slowly bowed -itself, and he sat long in deep thought. - -It was all very well for him to play at being just a capricious old -uncle with some money to leave, as he pleased, to this one or that one, -as old uncles did in story books, making everybody happy in the end. -That was all very well. He had his little likes and dislikes, his -attachments and his detestations, and he had a right to have them, as -smaller men had. A little here and a little there would of course give -pleasure and might even make happiness. But how much would it need to -make them all rich, compared with their present position? Robert -Lauderdale did not laugh as he answered the question to himself. One -year’s income alone, divided amongst them, would give each a fortune. -The income of two years would give them wealth. And the capital would -remain--the vast possession which in a few years he must lay down -forever, which at any moment might be masterless, for he was an old man, -over seventy years of age. If he had a son, it would be different. -Things would follow their natural course for good or evil, and he would -not himself be to blame for what happened. But he had no one, and the -thing he must leave to some one was great power in its most serviceable -form--money. - -He had been face to face with the problem for years and had not solved -it. It is a great one in America, at the present day, and Robert -Lauderdale knew it. He was well aware that he and a score of others, -some richer, some less rich than himself, were execrated by a certain -proportion of the community and pointed out as the disturbers of the -equal distribution of wealth. He was made personally sure of the fact by -hundreds of letters, anonymous and signed, warning him of the -approaching destruction of himself and his property. People who did not -even know that he was a bachelor, threatened to kidnap his children and -keep them from him until he should give up his wealth. He was -threatened, entreated, admonished, preached at and held up to ridicule -by every species of fanatic which the age produces. He was not afraid of -any of them. He did not have himself guarded by detectives in plain -clothes and athletes in fashionable coats, when he chose to walk in the -streets, and he did not yield to the entreaties of women who wrote to -him from Texas that they should be perfectly happy if he would send them -grand pianos to the addresses they gave. He was discriminating, he was -just according to his light and he tried to do good, while he took no -notice of those who raved and abused him. But he knew that there was a -reason for the storm, and was much more keenly alive to the difficulties -of the situation than any of his anonymous correspondents. - -He had in his own hands and at his absolute disposal the wealth which, -under a proper administration, would perpetually supply between seven -and eight thousand families with the necessaries of life. He had made -that calculation one day, not idly, but in the endeavour to realize what -could really be done with so much money. He was not a visionary -philanthropist like his brother, though he helped him in many of his -schemes. He was not a saint, though he was a good man, as men go. He -had not the smallest intention of devoting a gigantic fortune -exclusively to the bettering of mankind, for he was human. But he felt -that in his lonely wealth he was in a measure under an obligation to all -humanity--that he had created for himself a responsibility greater than -one man could bear, and that he and others like him had raised a -question, and proposed a problem which had not before been dreamt of in -the history of the world. He, an individual with no especial gifts -besides his keen judgment in a certain class of affairs, with nothing -but his wealth to distinguish him from any other individual, possessed -the equivalent of a sum of money which would have seemed very large in -the treasury of a great nation, or which would have been considered -sufficient as a reserve wherewith to enter upon a great war. And there -were others in an exactly similar position. He knew several of them. He -could count half a dozen men who, together with himself, could upset the -finances of the world if they chose. It needed no tortuous reasoning and -but little vanity to show him that he and they did not stand towards -mankind as other men stood. And the thought brought with it the -certainty that there was a right course for him to pursue in the -disposal of his money, if he could but see it in the right light. - -This was the man whom all the Lauderdale tribe called uncle Robert, and -to whom Katharine intended to appeal as soon as she had been secretly -married to John Ralston, and from whom she felt sure of obtaining what -she meant to ask. He was capable of surprising her. - -‘You have a good house, good food, good clothes--and so has your -husband. What right have you, Katharine Lauderdale, or Mrs. John -Ralston, to claim more than any member of each of the seven or eight -thousand families whom I could support would get in the distribution?’ - -That was the answer she might receive--in the form of a rather -unanswerable question. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -The afternoon which followed the first sitting in Crowdie’s studio -seemed very long to Katharine. She did all sorts of things to make the -time pass, but it would not. She even set in order a whole drawer full -of ribbons and gloves and veils and other trifles, which is generally -the very last thing a woman does to get rid of the hours. - -And all the time she was thinking, and not sure whether it would not be -better to fight against her thoughts. For though she was not afraid of -changing her mind she had a vague consciousness that the whole question -might raise its head again and face her like a thing in a dream, and -insist that she should argue with it. And then, there was the plain and -unmistakable fact that she was on the eve of doing something which was -hardly ever done by the people amongst whom she lived. - -It was not that she was timid, or dreaded the remarks which might be -made. Any timidity of that sort would have checked her at the very -outset. If the man she loved had been any one but Jack Ralston, whom she -had known all her life, she could never have thought of proposing such -a thing. Oddly enough, she felt that she should blush, as she had -blushed that morning at the studio, at the mere idea of a secret -marriage, if Ralston were any one else. But not from any fear of what -other people might say. Not only had the two been intimate from -childhood--they had discussed during the last year their marriage, and -all the possibilities of it, from every point of view. It was a subject -familiar to them, the difficulties to be overcome were clear to them -both, they had proposed all manner of schemes for overcoming them, they -had talked for hours about running away together and had been sensible -enough to see the folly of such a thing. The mere matter of saying -certain words and of giving and receiving a ring had gradually sunk into -insignificance as an event. It was an inevitable formality in Ralston’s -eyes, to be gone through with scrupulous exactness indeed, and to be -carefully recorded and witnessed, but there was not a particle of -romance connected with it, any more than with the signing and witnessing -of a title-deed or any other legal document. - -Katharine had a somewhat different opinion of it, for it had a real -religious value in her eyes. That was one reason why she preferred a -secret wedding. Of course, the moment would come, sooner or later, for -they were sure to be married in the end, publicly or privately. But in -any case it would be a solemn moment. The obligations, as she viewed -them, were for life. The very words of the promise had an imposing -simplicity. In the church to which she strongly inclined, marriage was -called a sacrament, and believed to be one, in which the presence of the -Divine personally sanctified the bond of the human. Katharine was quite -willing to believe that, too. And the more she believed it, the more she -hated the idea of a great fashionable wedding, such as Charlotte -Slayback had endured with much equanimity. She could imagine nothing -more disagreeable, even painful, than to be the central figure of such -an exhibition. - -That holy hour, when it came at last, should be holy indeed. There -should be nothing, ever thereafter, to disturb the pure memory of its -sanctity. A quiet church, the man she loved, herself and the interpreter -of God. That was all she wanted--not to be disturbed in the greatest -event of her life by all the rustling, glittering, flower-scented, -grinning, gossiping crowd of critics, whose ridiculous presence is -considered to lend marriage a dignity beyond what God or nature could -bestow upon it. - -This was Katharine’s view, and as she had no intention of keeping her -marriage to Ralston a secret during even so much as twenty-four hours, -it was neither unnatural nor unjustifiable. But in spite of all the real -importance which she gave to the ceremony as a fact, it seemed so much a -matter of course, and she had thought of it so long and under so many -aspects, that in the chain of future events it was merely a link to be -reached and passed as soon as possible. It was not the ring, nor the -promise nor the blessing, by which her life was to be changed. She knew -that she loved John Ralston, and she could not love him better still -from the instant in which he became her lawful husband. The difficulties -began beyond that, with her intended attack upon uncle Robert. She told -herself that she was sure of success, but she was not, since she could -not see into the future one hour beyond the moment of her meeting with -the old gentleman. That seeing into the future is the test of -confidence, and the only one. - -It struck her suddenly that everything which was to happen after the -all-important interview was a blank to her. She paused in what she was -doing--she was winding a yellow ribbon round her finger--and she looked -out of the window. It was raining, for the weather had changed quickly -during the afternoon. Rain in Clinton Place is particularly dreary. -Katharine sat down upon the chair that stood before her little writing -table in the corner by the window, and watched the grey lace veil which -the falling raindrops wove between her and the red brick houses -opposite. - -A feeling of despair came over her. Uncle Robert would refuse to do -anything. What would happen then? What could she do? She was brave -enough to face her father’s anger and her mother’s distress, for she -loved Ralston with all her heart. But what would happen? If uncle Robert -failed her, the future was no longer blank but black. No one else could -do anything. Of what use would the family battle be? Her father could -not, and would not, do anything for her or her husband. He was the sort -of man who would take a stern delight in seeing her bear the -consequences of her mistake--it could not be called a fault, even by -him. To impose herself on Mrs. Ralston was more than Katharine’s pride -could endure to contemplate. Of course, it would be possible to -live--barely to live--on the charity of her husband’s mother. Mrs. -Ralston would do anything for her son, and would sacrifice herself -cheerfully. But to accept any such sacrifice was out of the question. -And then, too, Katharine knew what extreme economy meant, for she had -suffered from it long under her father’s roof, and it was not pleasant. -Yet they would be poorer still at the Ralstons, and she would be the -cause of it. - -If uncle Robert refused to help them, the position would be desperate. -She watched the rain and tried to think it all over. She supposed that -her father would insist upon--what? Not upon keeping the secret, for -that would not be like him. He was a horribly virtuous man, Charlotte -used to say. Oh, no! he would not act a lie on any account, not he! -Katharine wondered why she hated this scrupulous truthfulness in her -father and admired it above all things in Ralston. Jack would not act a -lie either. But then, if there were to be no secret, and if the marriage -were to be announced, what would happen? Would her father insist upon -her living at home until her husband should be able to support her? What -a situation! She cared less than most girls about social opinion, but -she really wondered what society would say. Her father would say -nothing. He would smile that electric smile of his, and hold his head -higher than ever. ‘This is what happens to daughters who disobey their -parents,’ he would seem to tell the world. She had always thought that -he might be like the first Brutus, and she felt sure of it now. - -It seemed like weakness to think of going to uncle Robert that very -afternoon, before the inevitable moment was past. Yet it would be such -an immense satisfaction to have had the interview and to have his -promise to do something for Ralston. The thought seemed cowardly and yet -she dwelt on it. Of course, her chief weapon with the old gentleman was -to be the fact that the thing was done and could not be undone, so that -he could have no good advice to give. And, yet, perhaps she might move -him by saying that she had made up her mind and was to be married -to-morrow. He might not believe her, and might laugh and send her -away--with one of his hearty avuncular kisses--she could see his dear -old face in her imagination. But if he did that, she could still return -to-morrow, and show him the certificate of her marriage. He would not -then be able to say that she had not given him fair warning. She wished -it would not rain. She would have walked in the direction of his house, -and when she was near it she knew in her heart that she would -yield--since it seemed like a temptation--and perhaps it would be -better. - -But it was raining, and uncle Robert lived far away from Clinton Place -in a house he had built for himself at the corner of a new block facing -the Central Park. He had built the whole block and had kept possession -of it afterwards. It was almost three miles from Alexander Lauderdale’s -house in unfashionable Clinton Place--three miles of elevated road, or -of horse-car or of walking--and in any case it meant getting wet in such -a rain storm. Moreover, Katharine rarely went alone by the elevated -road. She wished it would stop raining. If it would only stop for half -an hour she would go. Perhaps it was as well to let fate decide the -matter in that way. - -Just then a carriage drove up to the door. She flattened her face -against the window, but could not see who got out of it. It was a cab, -however, and the driver had a waterproof hat and coat. In all -probability it came from one of the hotels. Any one might have taken it. -Katharine drew back a little and looked idly at the little mottled mist -her breath had made upon the window pane. The door of her room opened -suddenly. - -“Kitty, are you there?” asked a woman’s voice. - -Katharine knew as the handle of the latch was turned that her sister -Charlotte had come. No one else ever entered her room without knocking, -and no one else ever called her ‘Kitty.’ She hated the abbreviation of -her name and she resented the familiarity of the unbidden entrance. She -turned rather sharply. - -“Oh--is that you? I thought you were in Washington.” She came forward, -and the two exchanged kisses mechanically. - -“Benjamin Slayback of Nevada had business in New York, so I came up to -get a breath of my native microbes,” said Charlotte, going to the mirror -and beginning to take off her hat very carefully so as not to disturb -her hair. “We are at a hotel, of course--but it’s nice, all the same. I -suppose mamma’s at work and I know papa’s down town, and the ancestor is -probably studying some new kind of fool--so I came to your room.” - -“Will you have some tea?” asked Katharine. - -“Tea? What wild extravagance! I suppose you offer it to me as ‘Mrs. -Slayback.’ I wonder if papa would. I can see him smile--just like -this--isn’t it just like him?” - -She smiled before the mirror and then turned suddenly on Katharine. The -mimicry was certainly good. Mrs. Slayback, however, was fair, like her -mother, with a radiant complexion, golden hair and good -features,--larger and bolder than Mrs. Lauderdale’s, but not nearly so -classically perfect. There was something hard in her face, especially -about the eyes. - -“It’s just the same as ever,” she said, seating herself in the -small arm-chair--the only one in the room. “The same dear, -delightful, dreary, comfortless, furnace-heated, gas-lighted, -‘put-on-your-best-hat-to-go-to-church’ sort of existence that it always -was! I wonder how you all stand it--how I stood it so long myself!” - -Katharine laughed and turned her head. She had been looking out of the -window again and wondering whether the rain would stop after all. She -and her sister had never lived very harmoniously together. Their pitched -battles had begun in the nursery with any weapons they could lay hands -on, pillows, moribund dolls, soapy sponges, and the nurse’s shoes. -Though Katharine was the younger, she had soon been the stronger at -close quarters. But Charlotte had the sharper tongue and was by far the -better shot with any projectile when safely entrenched behind the bed. -At the first show of hostilities she made for both sponges--a rag-doll -was not a bad thing, if she got a chance to dip it into the basin, but -there was nothing like a sponge, when it was ‘just gooey with soap,’ as -the youthful Charlotte expressed it. She carried the art of throwing to -a high degree of perfection, and on very rare occasions, after she was -grown up, she surprised her adorers by throwing pebbles at a mark with -an unerring accuracy which would have done credit to a poacher’s -apprentice. - -Since the nursery days the warfare had been carried on by words and the -encounters had been less frequent, but the contrast was always apparent -between Katharine’s strength and Charlotte’s quickness. Katharine -waited, collected her strength, chose her language and delivered a heavy -blow, so to say. Charlotte, as Frank Miner put it, ‘slung English all -over the lot.’ Both were effective in their way. But they had the good -taste to quarrel in private and, moreover, in many things they were -allies. With regard to their father, Katharine took an evil and silent -delight in her sister’s sarcasms, and Charlotte could not help admiring -Katharine’s solid, unyielding opposition on certain points. - -“Oh, yes!” said Katharine, answering Charlotte’s last remark. “There’ll -be less change than ever now that you’re married.” - -“I suppose so. Poor Kitty! We used to fight now and then, but I know -you enjoyed looking on when I made a row at dinner. Didn’t you?” - -“Of course I did. I’m a human being.” Katharine laughed again. “Won’t -you really have tea? I always have it when I want it.” - -“You brave little thing! Do you? Well--if you like. You quiet people -always have your own way in the end,” added Mrs. Slayback, rather -thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s the steady push that does it.” - -“Don’t you have your way, too?” asked Katharine, in some surprise at her -sister’s tone of voice. - -“No. I’m ashamed to say that I don’t. No--” She seemed to be -recapitulating events. “No--I don’t have my way at all--not the least -little bit. I have the way of Benjamin Slayback of Nevada.” - -“Why do you talk of your husband in that way?” enquired Katharine. - -“Shall I call him Mr. Slayback?” asked Charlotte, “or Benjamin--dear -little Benjamin! or Ben--the ‘soldier bold’? How does ‘Ben’ strike you, -Kitty? I know--I’ve thought of calling him Minnie--last syllable of -Benjamin, you see. There was a moment when I hesitated at -‘Benjy’--‘Benjy, darling, another cup of coffee?’--it would sound so -quiet and home-like at breakfast, wouldn’t it? It’s fortunate that papa -made us get up early all our lives. My dream of married happiness--a -nice little French maid smiling at me with a beautiful little tea-tray -just as I was opening my eyes--I had thought about it for years! Well, -it’s all over. Benjamin Slayback of Nevada takes his breakfast like a -man--a regular Benjamin’s portion of breakfast, and wants to feast his -eyes on my loveliness, and his understanding on my wit, and his inner -man on the flesh of kine--and all that together at eight o’clock in the -morning--Benjamin Slayback of Nevada--there’s no other name for him!” - -“The name irritates me--you repeat it so often!” - -“Does it, dear? The man irritates me, and that’s infinitely worse. I -wish you knew!” - -“But he’s awfully good to you, Charlie. You can’t deny that, at all -events.” - -“Yes--and he calls me Lottie,” answered Charlotte, with much disgust. -“You know how I hate it. But if you are going to lecture me on my -husband’s goodness--Kitty, I tell you frankly, I won’t stand it. I’ll -say something to you that’ll make you--just frizzle up! Remember the -soapy sponge of old, my child, and be nice to your sister. I came here -hoping to see you. I want to talk seriously to you. At least--I’m not -sure. I want to talk seriously to somebody, and you’re the most serious -person I know.” - -“More so than your husband?” - -“He’s grave enough sometimes, but not generally. It’s almost always -about his constituents. They are to him what the liver is to some -people--only that they are beyond the reach of mineral waters. -Besides--it’s about him that I want to talk. You look surprised, though -I’m sure I don’t know why. I suppose--because I’ve never said anything -before.” - -“But I don’t even know what you’re going to say--” - -Mrs. Slayback looked at her younger sister steadily for a moment, and -then looked at the window. The rain was still falling fast and steadily; -and the room had a dreary, dingy air about it as the afternoon advanced. -It had been Charlotte’s before her marriage, and Katharine had moved -into it since because it was better than her own. The elder girl had -filled it with little worthless trifles which had brightened it to a -certain extent; but Katharine cared little for that sort of thing, and -was far more indifferent to the aspect of the place in which she lived. -There were a couple of dark engravings of sacred subjects on the -walls,--one over the narrow bed in the corner, and the other above the -chest of drawers, and there was nothing more which could be said to be -intended for ornament. Yet Charlotte Slayback’s hard face softened a -little as her eyes wandered from the window to the familiar, faded wall -paper and the old-fashioned furniture. The silence lasted some time. -Then she turned to her sister again. - -[Illustration: “‘Kitty--don’t do what I’ve done,’ she said -earnestly.”--Vol. I., p. 257.] - -“Kitty--don’t do what I’ve done,” she said, earnestly. - -She watched the girl’s face for a change of expression, but Katharine’s -impassive features were not quick to express any small feeling beyond -passing annoyance. - -“Aren’t you happy, Charlie?” Katharine asked, gravely. - -“Happy!” - -The elder woman only repeated the single word, but it told her story -plainly enough. She would have given much to have come back to the old -room, dreary as it looked. - -“I’m very sorry,” said Katharine, in a lower voice and beginning to -understand. “Isn’t he kind to you?” - -“Oh, it’s not that! He’s kind--in his way--it makes it worse--far -worse,” she repeated, after a moment’s pause. “I hadn’t been much used -to that sort of kindness before I was married, you know--except from -mamma, and that was different--and to have it from--” She stopped. - -Katharine had never seen her sister in this mood before. Charlotte was -generally the last person to make confidences, or to complain softly of -anything she did not like. Katharine thought she must be very much -changed. - -“You say you’re unhappy,” said the young girl. “But you don’t tell me -why. Has there been any trouble--anything especial?” - -“No. You don’t understand. How should you? We never did understand each -other very well, you and I. I don’t know why I come to you with my -troubles, either. You can’t help me. Nobody can--unless it were--a -lawyer.” - -“A lawyer?” Katharine was taken by surprise now, and her eyes showed it. - -“Yes,” answered Charlotte, her voice growing cold and hard again. -“People can be divorced for incompatibility of temper.” - -“Charlotte!” The young girl started a little, and leaned forward, laying -her hand upon her sister’s knee. - -“Oh, yes! I mean it. I’m sorry to horrify you so, my dear, and I suppose -papa would say that divorce was not a proper subject for conversation. -Perhaps he’s right--but he’s not here to tell us so.” - -“But, Charlie--” Katharine stopped short, unable to say the first word -of the many that rushed to her lips. - -“I know,” said Charlotte, paying no attention. “I know exactly what -you’re going to say. You are going to argue the question, and tell me in -the first place that I’m bad, and then that I’m mad, and then that I’m a -mother,--and all sorts of things. I’ve thought of them all, my dear; and -they’re very terrible, of course. But I’m quite willing to be them all -at once, if I can only get my freedom again. I don’t expect much -sympathy, and I don’t want any good advice--and I haven’t seen a lawyer -yet. But I must talk--I must say it out--I must hear it! Kitty--I’m -desperate! I never knew what it meant before.” - -She rose suddenly from her seat, walked twice up and down the room, and -then stood still before Katharine, and looked down into her face. - -“Of course you can’t understand,” she said, as she had said before. “How -should you?” She seemed to be waiting for an answer. - -“I think I could, if you would tell me more about yourself,” Katharine -replied. “I’m trying to understand. I’d help you if I knew how.” - -“That’s impossible.” Mrs. Slayback seated herself again. “But it’s this. -You must have wondered why I married him, didn’t you?” - -“Well--not exactly. But it seemed to me--there were other men, if you -meant to marry a man you didn’t love.” - -“I don’t believe in love,” said Charlotte. “But I wanted to be married -for many reasons--most of all, because I couldn’t bear the life here.” - -“Yes--I know. You’re not like me. But why didn’t you choose somebody -else? I can’t understand marrying without love; but it seems to me, as I -said, that if one is going to do such a thing one had better make a -careful choice.” - -“I did. I chose my husband for many reasons. He is richer than any of -the men who proposed to me, and that’s a great thing. And he’s very -good-natured, and what they call ‘an able man.’ There were lots of good -reasons. There were things I didn’t like, of course; but I thought I -could make him change. I did--in little things. He never wears a green -tie now, for instance--” - -“As if such things could make a difference in life’s happiness!” cried -Katharine, contemptuously. - -“My dear--they do. But never mind that. I thought I could--what shall I -say?--develop his latent social talent. And I have. In that way he’s -changed a good deal. You’ve not seen him this year, have you? No, of -course not. Well, he’s not the same man. But it’s in the big things. I -thought I could manage him, by sheer force of superior will, and make -him do just what I wanted--oh, I made such a mistake!” - -“And because you’ve married a man whom you can’t order about like a -servant, you want to be divorced,” said Katharine, coldly. - -“I knew you couldn’t understand,” Charlotte answered, with unusual -gentleness. “I suppose you won’t believe me if I tell you that I suffer -all the time, and--very, very much.” - -Katharine did not understand, but her sister’s tone told her plainly -enough that there was real trouble of some sort. - -“Charlie,” she said, “there’s something on your mind--something else. -How can I know what it is, unless you tell me, dear?” - -Mrs. Slayback turned her head away, and bit her lip, as though the kind -words had touched her. - -“It’s my pride,” she said suddenly and very quickly. “He hurts it so!” - -“But how? Merely because he does things in his own way? He probably -knows best--they all say he’s very clever in politics.” - -“Clever! I should think so! He’s a great, rough, good-natured, -ill-mannered--no, he’s not a brute. He’s painfully kind. But with that -exterior--there’s no other word. He has the quickness of a woman in some -ways. I believe he can be anything he chooses.” - -“But all you say is rather in his favour.” - -“I know it is. I wish it were not. If I loved him--the mere idea is -ridiculous! But if I did, I would trot by his side and carry the basket -through life, like his poodle. But I don’t love him--and he expects me -to do it all the same. I’m curled, and scented, and fed delicately, and -put to sleep on a silk cushion, and have a beautiful new ribbon tied -round my neck every morning, just like a poodle-dog--and I must trot -quietly and carry the basket. That’s all I am in his life--it wasn’t -exactly my dream,” she added bitterly. - -“I see. And you thought that it was to be the other way, and that he was -to trot beside you.” - -“You put it honestly, at all events. Yes. I suppose I thought that. I -did not expect this, anyhow--and I simply can’t bear it any longer! So -long as there’s any question of social matters, of course, everything is -left to me. He can’t leave a card himself, he won’t make visits--he -won’t lift a finger, though he wants it all properly and perfectly done. -Lottie must trot--with the card-basket. But if I venture to have an -opinion about anything, I have no more influence over him than the -furniture. I mustn’t say this, because it will be repeated that his wife -said it; and I mustn’t say that, because those are not his political -opinions; and I mustn’t say something else, because it might get back to -Nevada and offend his constituents--and as for doing anything, it’s -simply out of the question. When I’m bored to death with it all, he -tells me that his constituents expect him to stay in Washington during -the session, and he advises me to go away for a few days, and offers to -draw me a cheque. He would probably give me a thousand dollars for my -expenses if I wanted to stay a week with you. I don’t know whether he -wants to seem magnificent, or whether he thinks I expect it, or if he -really imagines that I should spend it. But it isn’t that I want, -Kitty--it isn’t that! I didn’t marry for money, though it was very nice -to have so much--it wasn’t for that, it really, really wasn’t! I suppose -it’s absurd--perfectly wild--but I wanted to be somebody, to have some -influence in the world, to have just a little of what people call real -power. And I haven’t got it, and I can’t have it; and I’m nothing but -his poodle-dog, and I’m perfectly miserable!” - -Katharine could find nothing to say when her sister paused after her -long speech. It was not easy for her to sympathize with any one so -totally unlike herself, nor to understand the state of mind of a woman -who wanted the sort of power which few women covet, who had practically -given her life in exchange for the hope of it, and who had pitiably -failed to obtain it. She stared out of the window at the falling rain, -and it all seemed very dreary to her. - -“It’s my pride!” exclaimed Charlotte, suddenly, after a pause. “I never -knew what it meant before--and you never can. It’s intolerable to feel -that I’m beaten at the very beginning of life. Can’t you understand -that, at least?” - -“Yes--but, Charlie dear,--it’s a long way from a bit of wounded pride to -a divorce--isn’t it?” - -“Yes,” answered Charlotte, disconsolately. “I suppose it is. But if you -knew the horrible sensation! It grows worse and worse--and the less I -can find fault with him for other things, the worse it seems to grow. -And it’s quite useless to fight. You know I’m good at fighting, don’t -you? I used to think I was, until I tried to fight my husband. My -dear--I’m not in it with him!” - -Katharine rose and turned her back, feeling that she could hardly -control herself if she sat still. There was an incredible frivolity -about her sister at certain moments which was almost revolting to the -young girl. - -“What is it?” asked Charlotte, observing her movement. - -“Oh--nothing,” answered Katharine. “The shade isn’t quite up and it’s -growing dark, that’s all.” - -“I thought you were angry,” said Mrs. Slayback. - -“I? Why should I be angry? What business is it of mine?” Katharine -turned and faced her, having adjusted the shade to her liking. “Of -course, if you must say that sort of thing, you had better say it to me -than to any one else. It doesn’t sound well in the world--and it’s not -pleasant to hear.” - -“Why not?” asked Charlotte, her voice growing hard and cold again. “But -that’s a foolish question. Well--I’ve had my talk out--and I feel -better. One must sometimes, you know.” Her tone softened again, -unexpectedly. “Don’t be too hard on me, Kitty dear--just because you’re -a better woman than I am.” There was a tremor in her last words. - -Katharine did not understand. She understood, however, and for the -first time in her life, that a frivolous woman can suffer quite as much -as a serious one--which is a truth not generally recognized. She put her -arm round her sister’s neck very gently, and pressed the fair head to -her bosom, as she stood beside her. - -“I’m not better than you, Charlie--I’m different, that’s all. Poor dear! -Of course you suffer!” - -“Dear!” And Charlotte rubbed her smooth cheek affectionately against the -rough grey woollen of her sister’s frock. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -The rain continued to fall, and even if the weather had changed it would -have been too late for Katharine to go and see Robert Lauderdale after -her sister had left her. On the whole, she thought, it would probably -have been a mistake to speak to him beforehand. She had felt a strong -temptation to do so, but it had not been the part of wisdom. She waited -for Ralston’s note. - -At last it came. It was short and clear. He had, with great difficulty, -found a clergyman who was willing to marry them, and who would perform -the ceremony on the following morning at half-past nine o’clock. The -clergyman had only consented on Ralston’s strong representations, and on -the distinct understanding that there was to be no unnecessary secrecy -after the fact, and that the couple should solemnly promise to inform -their parents of what they had done at the earliest moment consistent -with their welfare. Ralston had written out his very words in regard to -that matter, for he liked them, and felt that Katharine should. - -John had been fortunate in his search, for he had accidentally come -upon a man whose own life had been marred by the opposition of a young -girl’s family to her marriage with him. He himself had in consequence -never married; the young girl had taken a husband and had been a most -unhappy woman. He sympathized with Ralston, liked his face, and agreed -to marry Ralston and Katharine immediately. His church lay in a distant -part of the city, and he had nothing to do with society, and therefore -nothing to fear from it. If trouble arose he was justified beforehand by -the fact that no clergyman has an absolute right to refuse marriage to -those who ask it, and by the thought that he was contributing to -happiness of the kind which he himself had most desired, but which had -been withheld from him under just such circumstances as those in which -Ralston and Katharine were placed. The good man admired, too, the wisdom -of the course they were taking. When he had said that he would consider -the matter favourably, provided that there was no legal obstacle, -Ralston had told him the whole truth, and had explained exactly what -Katharine and he intended to do. Of course, he had to explain the -relationship which existed between them and old Robert Lauderdale, and -the clergyman, to Ralston’s considerable surprise, took Katharine’s view -of the possibilities. He only insisted that the plan should be -conscientiously carried out as soon as might be, and that Katharine -should therefore go, in the course of the same day, and tell her story -to Mr. Robert Lauderdale. Ralston made no difficulty about that, and -agreed to be at the door of the clergyman’s house on the following -morning at half-past nine. The latter would open the church himself. It -was very improbable that any one should see them at that hour, and in -that distant part of the city. - -There is no necessity for entering upon a defence of the clergyman’s -action in the affair. It was a case, not of right or wrong, nor of doing -anything irregular, but possibly excusable. Theoretically, it was his -duty to comply with Ralston’s request. In practice, it was a matter of -judgment and of choice, since if he had flatly refused, as several -others had done without so much as knowing the names of the parties, -Ralston would certainly have found it out of the question to force his -consent. He believed that he was doing right, he wished to do what was -kind, and he knew that he was acting legally and that the law must -support him. He ran the risk of offending his own congregation if the -story got abroad, but he remembered his own youth and he cheerfully took -that risk. He would not have done as much for any two who might have -chanced to present themselves, however. But Ralston impressed him as a -man of honour, a gentleman and very truthful, and there was just enough -of socialistic tendency in the good man, as the pastor of a very poor -congregation, to enjoy the idea that the rich man should be forced, as a -matter of common decency, to do something for his less fortunate -relation. With his own life and experience behind him, he could not -possibly have seen things as Robert Lauderdale saw them. - -So the matter was settled, and Katharine had Ralston’s note. He added -that he would be in Clinton Place at half-past eight o’clock in the -morning, on foot. They might be seen walking together at almost any -hour, by right of cousinship, but to appear together in a carriage, -especially at such an hour, was out of the question. - -It would have been unlike her to hesitate now. She had made up her mind -long before she had spoken to Ralston on Monday evening, and there was -nothing new to her in the idea. But she could not help wondering about -the future, as she had been doing when Charlotte Slayback had -unexpectedly appeared in the afternoon. Meanwhile the evening was before -her. She was going to a dinner-party of young people and afterwards to -the dance at the Thirlwalls’, of which she had spoken to Ralston. He -would be there, but would not be at the dinner, as she knew. At the -latter there were to be two young married women who were to chaperon the -young girls to the other house afterwards. - -At eight o’clock Katharine sat down to table between two typical, -fashion-struck youths, one of whom took more champagne than was good for -him, and talked to her of college sports and football matches in which -he had not taken part, but which excited his enthusiasm, while the other -drank water, and asked if she preferred Schopenhauer or Hegel. Of the -two, she preferred the critic of athletics. But the dinner seemed a very -long one to Katharine, though it was really of the short and fashionable -type. - -Then came another girls’ talk while the young men smoked furiously -together in another room. The two married women managed to get into a -corner, and told each other long stories in whispers, while the young -girls, who were afraid of romping and playing games because they were in -their ball-dresses, amused themselves as they could, with a good deal of -highly slangy but perfectly harmless chaff, and an occasional attempt at -a little music. As all the young men smoked the very longest and -strongest cigars, because they had all been told that cigarettes were -deadly, it was nearly ten o’clock when they came into the drawing-room. -They were all extremely well behaved young fellows, and the one who had -talked about athletics to Katharine was the only one who was a little -too pink. The dance was an early affair, and in a few moments the whole -party began to get ready to go. They transferred themselves from one -house to another in big carriages, and all arrived within a short time -of one another. - -Ralston was in the room when Katharine entered, and she saw instantly -that he had been waiting for her and expected a sign at once. She smiled -and nodded to him from a distance, for he had far too much tact to make -a rush at her as soon as she appeared. It was not until half an hour -later that they found themselves together in the crowded entrance hall, -and Ralston assured himself more particularly that everything was as she -wished it to be. - -“So to-morrow is our wedding day,” he said, looking at her face. Like -most dark beauties, she looked her best in the evening. - -“Yes--it’s to-morrow, Jack. You are glad, aren’t you?” she asked, -repeating almost exactly the last words she had spoken that morning as -he had left her at the door of the Crowdies’ house. - -“Do you doubt that I’m as glad as you are?” asked Ralston, earnestly. -“I’ve waited for you a long time--all my life, it seems to me.” - -“Have you?” - -Her grey eyes turned full upon him as she put the question, which -evidently meant more to her than the mere words implied. He paused -before answering her, with an over-scrupulous caution, the result of her -own earnestness. - -“Why do you hesitate?” she asked, suddenly. “Didn’t you mean exactly -what you said?” - -“I said it seemed to me as though I had waited all my life,” he -answered. “I wanted to be--well--accurate!” He laughed a little. “I am -trying to remember whether I had ever cared in the least for any one -else.” - -Katharine laughed too. He sometimes had an almost boyish simplicity -about him which pleased her immensely. - -“If it takes such an effort of memory, it can’t have been very serious,” -she said. “I’m not jealous. I only wish to know that you are.” - -“I love you with all my heart,” he answered, with emphasis. - -“I know you do, Jack dear,” said Katharine, and a short silence -followed. - -She was thinking that this was the third time they had met since Monday -evening, and that she had not heard again that deep vibration, that -heart-stirring quaver, in his words, which had touched her that first -time as she had never been touched before. She did not analyze her own -desire for it in the least, any more than she doubted the sincerity of -his words because they were spoken quietly. She had heard it once and -she wanted to hear it again, for the mere momentary satisfaction of the -impression. - -But Ralston was very calm that evening. He had been extremely careful -of what he did since Monday afternoon, for he had suffered acutely when -his mother had first met him on the landing, and he was determined that -nothing of the sort should happen again. The excitement, too, of -arranging his sudden marriage had taken the place of all artificial -emotions during the last forty-eight hours. His nerves were young and -could bear the strain of sudden excess and equally sudden abstention -without troubling him with any physical distress. And this fact easily -made him too sure of himself. To a certain extent he was cynical about -his taste for strong drink. He said to himself quite frankly that he -wanted excitement and cared very little for the form in which he got it. -He should have preferred a life of adventure and danger. He would have -made a good soldier in war and a bad one in peace--a safe sailor in -stormy weather and a dangerous one in a calm. That, at least, was what -he believed, and there was a foundation of truth in it, for he was -sensible enough to tell himself the truth about himself so far as he was -able. - -On the evening of the dance at which he met Katharine he had dined at -home again. His mother was far too wise to ask many questions about his -comings and goings when he was with her, and it was quite natural that -he should not tell her how he had spent his day. He wished that he were -free to tell her everything, however, and to ask her advice. She was -eminently a woman of the world, though of the more serious type, and he -knew that her wisdom was great in matters social. For the rest, she had -always approved of his attachment for Katharine, whom she liked best of -all the family, and she intended that, if possible, her son should marry -the young girl before very long. With her temper and inherited impulses -it was not likely that she should blame Ralston for any honourable piece -of rashness. Having once been convinced that there was nothing underhand -or in the least unfair to anybody in what he was doing, Ralston had not -the slightest fear of the consequences. The only men of the family whom -he considered men were Katharine’s father and Hamilton Bright. The -latter could have nothing to say in the matter, and Ralston knew that -his friendship could be counted on. As for Alexander Junior, John looked -forward with delight to the scene which must take place, for he was a -born fighter, and quarrelsome besides. He would be in a position to tell -Mr. Lauderdale that neither righteous wrath nor violent words could undo -what had been done properly, decently and in order, under legal -authority, and by religious ceremony. Alexander Junior’s face would be a -study at that moment, and Ralston hoped that the hour of triumph might -not be far distant. - -“I wonder whether it seems sudden to you,” said Katharine, presently. -“It doesn’t to me. You and I had thought about it ever so long.” - -“Long before you spoke to me on Monday?” asked John. “I thought it had -just struck you then.” - -“No, indeed! I began to think of it last year--soon after you had seen -papa. One doesn’t come to such conclusions suddenly, you know.” - -“Some people do. Of course, I might have seen that you had thought it -all out, from the way you spoke. But you took me by surprise.” - -“I know I did. But I had gone over it again and again. It’s not a light -matter, Jack. I’m putting my whole life into your hands because I love -you. I shan’t regret it--I know that. No--you needn’t protest, dear. I -know what I’m doing very well, but I don’t mean to magnify it into -anything heroic. I’m not the sort of girl to make a heroine, for I’m far -too sensible and practical. But it’s practical to run risks sometimes.” - -“It depends on the risk, I suppose,” said Ralston. “Many people would -tell you that I’m not a safe person to--” - -“Nonsense! I didn’t mean that,” interrupted the young girl. “If you were -a milksop, trotting along at your mother’s apron strings, I wouldn’t -look at you. Indeed, I wouldn’t! I know you’re rather fast, and I like -it in you. There was a little boy next to me at dinner this evening--a -dear little pale-faced thing, who talked to me about Schopenhauer and -Hegel, and drank five glasses of Apollinaris--I counted them. There are -lots of them about nowadays--all the fittest having survived, it’s the -turn of the unfit, I suppose. But I wouldn’t have you one little tiny -bit better than you are. You don’t gamble, and you don’t drink, and -you’re merely supposed to be fast because you’re not a bore.” - -Ralston was silent, and his face turned a little pale. A violent -struggle arose in his thoughts, all at once, without the slightest -warning nor even the previous suspicion that it could ever arise at all. - -“That’s not the risk,” continued Katharine. “Oh, no! And perhaps what I -mean isn’t such a very great risk after all. I don’t believe there is -any, myself--but I suppose other people might. It’s that uncle Robert -might not, after all--oh, well! We won’t talk about such things. If one -only takes enough for granted, one is sure to get something in the end. -That isn’t exactly Schopenhauer, is it? But it’s good philosophy.” - -Katharine laughed happily and looked at him. But his face was unusually -grave, and he would not laugh. - -“It’s too absurd that I should be telling you to take courage and be -cheerful, Jack!” she said, a moment later. “I feel as though you were -reproaching me with not being serious enough for the occasion. That -isn’t fair. And it is serious--it is, indeed.” Her tone changed. “I’m -putting my very life into your hands, dear, as I told you, because I -trust you. What’s the matter, Jack? You seem to be thinking--” - -“I am,” answered Ralston, rather gloomily. “I was thinking about -something very, very important.” - -“May I know?” asked Katharine, gently. “Is it anything you should like -me to know--or to ask me about, before to-morrow?” - -“To-morrow!” Ralston repeated the word in a low voice, as though he were -meditating upon its meaning. - -They were seated on a narrow little sofa against the lower woodwork of -the carved staircase. The hall was crowded with young people coming and -going between the other rooms. Katharine was leaning back, her head -supported against the dark panel, her eyes apparently half closed--for -she was looking down at him as he bent forward. He held one elbow on his -knee and his chin rested in his hand, as he looked up sideways at her. - -“Katharine”--he began, and then stopped suddenly, and she saw now that -he was turning very pale, as though in fear or pain. - -“Yes?” She paused. “What is it, Jack dear? There’s something on your -mind--are you afraid to tell me? Or aren’t you sure that you should?” - -“I’m afraid,” said Ralston. “And so I’m going to do it,” he added a -moment later. “Did you ever hear that I was what they call dissipated?” - -“Is that it?” Katharine laughed, almost carelessly. “No, I never heard -that said of you. People say you’re fast, and rather wild--and all that. -I told you what I thought of that--I like it in you. Perhaps it isn’t -right, exactly, to like a dash of naughtiness--is it?” - -“I don’t know,” answered Ralston, evidently not comprehending the -question, but intent upon his own thoughts. In the short pause which -followed he did not change his position, but the veins swelled in his -temples, and his eyelids drooped a little when he spoke again. -“Katharine--I sometimes drink too much.” - -Katharine trembled a little, but he did not see it. For some seconds she -did not move, and did not take her eyes from him. Then she very slowly -raised her hand and passed it over her brow, as though she were -confused, and presently she bent forward, as he was bending, resting one -elbow on her knee and looking earnestly into his face. - -“Why do you do it, Jack? Don’t you love me?” She asked the two questions -slowly and distinctly, but in the one there was all her pity--in the -other all her love. - -Again, as more than once lately, Ralston was almost irresistibly -impelled to make a promise, simple and decisive, which should change -his life, and which at all costs and risks he would keep. The impulse -was stronger now, with Katharine’s eyes upon his, and her happiness on -his soul, than it had been before. But the arguments for resisting it -were also stronger. He was calm enough to know the magnitude of his -temptations and his habitual weakness in resisting them. He said -nothing. - -“Why don’t you answer me, dear?” Katharine asked softly. “They were not -hard questions, were they?” - -“You know that I love you,” he answered--then hesitated, and then went -on. “If I did not love you, I should not have told you. Do you believe -that?” - -He guessed that she only half realized and half understood all the -meaning of what he had said. He had no thought of gaining credit in her -opinion for having done what very few men would have risked in his -position. The wish to speak had come from the heart, not from the head. -But he had not foreseen that it must appear very easy to her for him to -overcome a temptation which seemed insignificant in her eyes, compared -with a life’s happiness. - -“Yes--I know that,” she answered. “But, Jack dear--yes, it was brave and -honest of you--but you don’t think I expected a confession, do you? I -daresay you have done many things that weren’t exactly wrong and that -were not at all dishonourable, but which you shouldn’t like to tell me. -Haven’t you?” - -“Of course I have. Every man has, by the time he’s five and twenty--lots -of things.” - -“Well--but now, Jack--now, when we are married, you won’t do such -things--whatever they may be--any more--will you?” - -“That’s it--I don’t know,” answered Ralston, determined to be honest to -the very end, with all his might, in spite of everything. - -“You don’t know?” As Katharine repeated the words her face changed in a -way that shocked him, and he almost started as he saw her expression. - -“No,” he answered, steadily enough. “I don’t--in regard to what I spoke -of. For other things, for anything else in the world that you ask me, I -can promise, and feel sure. But that one thing--it comes on me -sometimes, and it gets the better of me. I know--it’s weak--it’s -contemptible, it’s brutal, if you like. But I can’t help it, every time. -Of course you can’t understand. Nobody can, who hasn’t felt it.” - -“But, Jack--if you promised me that you wouldn’t?” - -Her face changed again, and softened, and her voice expressed the -absolute conviction that he would and could do anything which he had -given his word that he would do. That perfect belief is more flattering -than almost anything else to some men. - -“Katharine--I can’t!” Ralston shook his head. “I won’t give you a -promise which I might break. If I broke it, I should--you wouldn’t see -me any more after that. I’ll promise that I’ll try, and perhaps I shall -succeed. I can’t do more--indeed, I can’t.” - -“Not for me, Jack dear?” Her whole heart was in her voice, pleading, -pathetic, maidenly. - -“Don’t ask me like that. You don’t know what you’re asking. You’ll make -me--no, I won’t say that. But please don’t--” - -Once more Katharine’s expression changed. Her face was quite white, and -her grey eyes were light and had a cold flash in them. The small, angry -frown that came and went quickly when she was annoyed, seemed chiselled -upon the smooth forehead. Ralston’s head was bent down and his hand -shaded his eyes. - -“And you made me think you loved me,” said Katharine, slowly, in a very -low voice. - -“I do--” - -“Don’t say it again. I don’t want to hear it. It means nothing, now that -I know--it never can mean anything again. No--you needn’t come with me. -I’ll go alone.” - -She rose suddenly to her feet, overcome by one of those sudden -revulsions of the deepest feelings in her nature, to which strong people -are subject at very critical moments, and which generally determine -their lives for them, and sometimes the lives of others. She rose to -leave him with a woman’s magnificent indifference when her heart speaks -out, casting all considerations, all details, all questions of future -relation to the winds, or to the accident of a chance meeting at some -indefinite date. - -There were many people in the hall just then. A dance was beginning, and -the crowd was pouring in so swiftly that for a moment the young girl -stood still, close to Ralston, unable to move. He did not rise, but -remained seated, hidden by her and by the throng. He seized her hand -suddenly, as it hung by her side. No one could have noticed the action -in the press. - -“Katharine--” he cried, in a low, imploring tone. - -She drew her hand away instantly. He remembered afterwards that it had -felt cold through her glove. He heard her voice, and, looking past her, -saw Crowdie’s pale face and red mouth--and met Crowdie’s languorous -eyes, gazing at him. - -“I want to go somewhere else, Mr. Crowdie,” Katharine was saying. “I’ve -been in a draught, and I’m cold.” - -Crowdie gave her his arm, and they moved on with the rest. Ralston had -risen to his feet as soon as he saw that Crowdie had caught sight of -him, and stood looking at the pair. His face was drawn and tired, and -his eyes were rather wild. - -His first impulse was to get out of the house, and be alone, as soon as -he could, and he began to make his way through the crowd to a small room -by the door, where the men had left their coats. But, before he had -succeeded in reaching the place, he changed his mind. It looked too much -like running away. He allowed himself to be wedged into a corner, and -stood still, watching the people absently, and thinking over what had -occurred. - -In the first place, he wondered whether Katharine had meant as much as -her speech and action implied--in other words, whether she intended to -let him know that everything was altogether at an end between them. It -seemed almost out of the question. After all, he had spoken because he -felt that it was a duty to her. He was, indeed, profoundly hurt by her -behaviour. If she meant to break off everything so suddenly, she might -have done it more kindly. She had been furiously angry because he would -not promise an impossibility. It was true that she could not understand. -He loved her so much, even then, that he made excuses for her conduct, -and set up arguments in her favour. - -Was it an impossibility, after all? He stood still in his corner, and -thought the matter over. As he considered it, he deliberately called the -temptation to him to examine it. And it came, in its full force. Men who -have not felt it no more know what it means than Katharine Lauderdale -knew, when she accused John Ralston of not loving her, and left him, -apparently forever, because he would not promise never to yield to it -again. - -During forty-eight hours he had scarcely tasted anything stronger than a -cup of coffee, for the occurrence of Monday had produced a deep -impression on him--and this was Wednesday night. For several years he -had been used to drinking whatever he pleased, during the day, merely -exercising enough self-control to keep out of women’s society when he -had taken more than was good for him, and enough discretion in the -matter of hours to avoid meeting his mother when he was not quite -himself. There are not so many men in polite society who regulate their -lives on such principles as there used to be, but there are many still. -Men know, and keep the matter to themselves. Insensibly, of course, John -Ralston had grown more or less dependent on a certain amount of -something to drink every day, and he had very rarely been really -abstemious for so long a time as during the last two days. He had lived, -too, in a state of considerable anxiety, and had scarcely noticed the -absence of artificial excitement. But now, with the scene of the last -quarter of an hour, the reaction had come. He had received a violent -shock, and his head clamoured for its accustomed remedy against all -nervous disturbances. Then, too, he was very thirsty. He honestly -disliked the taste of water--as his father had hated it before him--and -he had not really drunk enough of it. He was more thirsty than he had -been when he had swallowed a pint of champagne at a draught on Monday -afternoon. That, to tell the truth, was the precise form in which the -temptation presented itself to him at the present moment. It was -painfully distinct. He knew that the Thirlwalls, in whose house he was, -always had Irroy Brut, which chanced to be the best dry wine that year, -and he knew that he had only to follow the crowd to the supper room and -swallow as much of it as he desired. Everybody was drinking it. He could -hear the glasses faintly ringing in the distance, as he stood in his -corner. He let the temptation come to see how strong it would be. - -It was frightfully vivid, as he let the picture rise before his eyes. He -was now actually in physical pain from thirst. He could see clearly the -tall pint-glass, foaming and sparkling with the ice-cold, pale wine. He -could hear the delicious little hiss of the tiny bubbles as thousands -of them shot to the surface. He could smell the aromatic essence of the -lemon peel as the brim seemed to come beneath his nostrils. He could -feel the exquisite sharp tingle, the inexpressible stinging delight of -the perfect liquid, all through his mouth, to his very throat--just as -he had seen and smelt and tasted it all on Monday afternoon, and a -thousand times before that--but not since then. - -It became intolerable, or almost intolerable, but still he bore it, with -that curious pleasure in the pain of it which some people are able to -feel in self-imposed suffering. Then he opened his eyes wide, and tried -to drive it away. - -But that was not so easy. That diabolical clinking and ringing of -distant glasses, away, far away, as it seemed, but high and distinct -above the hum of voices, tortured him, and drew him towards it. His -mouth and throat were actually parched now. It was no longer -imagination. And now, too, the crowd had thinned, and as he looked he -saw that it would be very easy for him to get to the supper room. - -After all, he thought, it was a perfectly legitimate craving. He was -excessively thirsty, and he wanted a glass of champagne. He knew very -well that in such a place he should not take more than one glass, and -that could not hurt him. Did he ever drink when there were women -present, in the sense of drinking too much? On Monday the accident had -made a difference. Surely, as he had often heard, the manly course was -to limit himself to what he needed, and not go beyond it. All those -other people did that--why should not he? What was the difference -between them and him? How the thirst burned him, and the ring of the -glasses tortured him! - -He moved a step from the corner, in the direction of the door, fully -intending to have his glass of wine. Then something seemed to snap -suddenly over his heart, with a sharp little pain. - -“I’ll be damned if I do,” said Ralston, almost audibly. - -And he went back to his corner, and tried to think of something else. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -Crowdie’s artistic temperament was as quick as a child’s to understand -the moods of others, and he saw at a glance that something serious had -happened to Katharine. He had not the amateur’s persistent desire to -feel himself an artist at every moment. On the contrary, he had far more -of the genuine artist’s wish to feel himself a man of the world when he -was not at his work. What he saw impressed itself upon his accurate and -retentive memory for form and colour, but he was not always studying -every face he met, and thinking of painting it. He was fond of trying to -read character, and prided himself upon his penetration, which was by no -means great. It is a common peculiarity of highly gifted persons to -delight in exhibiting a small talent which seems to them to be their -greatest, though unappreciated by the world. Goethe thought himself a -painter. Michelangelo believed himself a poet. Crowdie, a modern artist -of reputation, was undoubtedly a good musician as well, but in his own -estimation his greatest gift was his knowledge of men. Yet in this he -was profoundly mistaken. Though his reasoning was often as clear as his -deductions were astute, he placed the centre of human impulses too low, -for he judged others by himself, which is an unsafe standard for men who -differ much from the average of their fellow-men. He mistook his -quickness of perception for penetration, and the heart of men and things -escaped him. - -He looked at Katharine and saw that she was very angry. He had caught -sight of Ralston’s face, and he supposed that the latter had been -drinking. He concluded that Ralston had offended Katharine, and that -there was to be a serious quarrel. Katharine, too, had evidently been in -the greatest haste to get away, and had spoken to Crowdie and taken his -arm merely because of the men she knew he had been nearest to her in the -crowd. The painter congratulated himself upon his good fortune in -appearing at that moment. - -“Will you have some supper?” he asked, guiding his companion toward the -door. - -“It’s too early--thanks,” answered the young girl, almost absently. “I’d -rather dance, if you don’t mind,” she added, after a moment. - -“Of course!” And he directed his course towards the dancing room. - -In spite of his bad figure, Crowdie danced very well. He was very light -on his feet, very skilful and careful of his partner, and, strange to -say, very enduring. Katharine let herself go on his arm, and they -glided and swayed and backed and turned to the right and left to the -soft music. For a time she had altogether forgotten her strong antipathy -for him. Indeed, she had almost forgotten his existence. Momentarily, he -was a nonentity, except as a means of motion. - -As she moved the colour slowly came back to her pale face, the frown -disappeared and the cold fire in her eyes died away. She also danced -well and was proud of it, though she was far from being equal to her -mother, even now. With Katharine it was an amusement; with Mrs. -Lauderdale it was still a passion. But now she did not care to stop, and -went on and on, till Crowdie began to wonder whether she were not -falling into a dreamy and half-conscious state, like that of the Eastern -dervishes. - -“Aren’t you tired?” he asked. - -“No--go on!” she answered, without hesitation. - -He obeyed, and they continued to dance till many couples stopped to look -at them, and see how long they would keep it up. Even the musicians -became interested, and went on playing mechanically, their eyes upon the -couple. At last they were dancing quite alone. As soon as the young girl -saw that she was an object of curiosity, she stopped. - -“Come away!” she said quickly. “I didn’t realize that they were all -looking at us--it was so nice.” - -It was not without a certain degree of vanity that Crowdie at last led -her out of the room. He remembered her behaviour to him that morning and -on former occasions, and he thought that he had gained a signal success. -It was not possible, he thought, that if he were still as repulsive to -her as he undoubtedly had been, she should be willing to let him dance -with her so long. Dancing meant much to him. - -“Shall we sit down somewhere?” he asked, as they got away from the crowd -into a room beyond. - -“Oh, yes--if there’s a place anywhere. Anything!” She spoke carelessly -and absently still. - -They found two chairs a little removed from the rest, and sat down side -by side. - -“Miss Lauderdale,” said Crowdie, after a momentary pause, “I wish you’d -let me ask you a question. Will you?” - -“If it’s not a rude one,” answered Katharine, indifferently, and -scarcely looking at him. “What is it?” - -“Well--you know--we’re relations, or connections, at least. Hester is -your cousin, and she’s your most intimate friend. Isn’t she?” - -“Yes. Is it about her? There she is, just over there--talking to that -ugly, thin man with the nice face. Do you see her?” - -Crowdie looked in the direction indicated, though he did not in the -least wish to talk about his wife to Katharine. - -“Oh, yes; I see her,” he answered. “She’s talking to Paul Griggs, the -writer. You know him, don’t you? I wonder how he comes here!” - -“Is that Paul Griggs?” asked Katharine, with a show of interest. “I’ve -always wished to see him.” - -“Yes. But it has nothing to do with Hester--” - -“What has nothing to do with Hester?” asked Katharine, with despairing -absence of mind, as she watched the author’s face. - -“The question I was going to ask you--if you would let me.” - -Katharine turned towards him. He could produce extraordinarily soft -effects with his beautiful voice when he chose, and he had determined to -attract her attention just then, seeing that she was by no means -inclined to give it. - -“Oh, yes--the question,” she said. “Is it anything very painful? You -spoke--how shall I say?--in such a pathetic tone of voice.” - -“In a way--yes,” answered Crowdie, not at all disturbed by her manner. -“Painful is too strong a word, perhaps--but it’s something that makes me -very uncomfortable. It’s this--why do you dislike me so much? Or don’t -you know why?” - -Katharine paused a moment, being surprised by what he asked. She had no -answer ready, for she could not tell him that she disliked his white -face and scarlet lips and the soft sweep of his eyelashes. She took -refuge in her woman’s right to parry one question with another. - -“What makes you think I dislike you?” she enquired. - -“Oh--a thousand things--” - -“I’m very sorry there are so many!” She laughed good-humouredly, but -with the intention of turning the conversation if possible. - -“No,” said Crowdie, gravely. “You don’t like me, for some reason which -seems a good one to you. I’m sure of that, because I know that you’re -not capricious nor unreasonable by nature. I should care, in any -case--even if we were casual acquaintances in society, and only met -occasionally. Nobody could be quite indifferent to your dislike, Miss -Lauderdale.” - -“No? Why not? I’m sure a great many people are. And as for that, I’m not -so reasonable as you think, I daresay. I’m sorry you think I don’t like -you.” - -“I don’t think--I know it. No--please! Let me tell you what I was going -to say. We’re not mere ordinary acquaintances, though I don’t in the -least hope ever to be a friend of yours, exactly. You see--owing to -Hester--and on account of the portrait, just now--I’m thrown a good deal -in your way. I can’t help it. I don’t want to give up painting you--” - -“But I don’t wish you to! I’ll come every day, if you like--every day I -can.” - -“Yes; you’re very good about it. It’s just because you are, that I’m -more sensitive about your dislike, I suppose.” - -“But, my dear Mr. Crowdie, how--” - -“My dear Miss Lauderdale, I’m positively repulsive to you. You can’t -deny it really, though you’ll put it much more gently. To-day, when I -wanted to help you to take off your hat, you started and changed -colour--just as though you had touched a snake. I know that those things -are instinctive, of course. I only want you to tell me if you have any -reason--beyond a mere uncontrollable physical repulsion. There’s no -other way of putting it, I’m afraid. I mean, whether I’ve ever done -anything to make you hate the sight of me--” - -“You? Never. On the contrary, you’re always very kind, and nice in every -way. I wish you would put it out of your head--the whole idea--and talk -about something else. No, honestly, I’ve nothing against you, and I -never heard anything against you. And I’m really very much distressed -that I should have given you any such impression. Isn’t that the answer -to your question?” - -“Yes--in a way. It reduces itself to this--if you never looked at me, -and never heard my voice, you wouldn’t hate me.” - -“Oh--your voice--no!” The words escaped her involuntarily, and conveyed -a wrong impression; for though she meant that his voice was beautiful, -she knew that its mere beauty sometimes repelled her as much as his -appearance did. - -“Then it’s only my looks,” he said with a laugh. “Thanks! I’m quite -satisfied now, and I quite agree with you in that. You noticed to-day -that there were no mirrors in the studio.” He laughed again quite -naturally. - -“Really!” exclaimed Katharine, as a sort of final protest, and taking -the earliest opportunity of escaping from the difficult situation he had -created. “I wish you would tell me something about Mr. Griggs, since you -know him. I’ve been watching him--he has such a curious face!” - -“Paul Griggs? Oh, yes--he’s a curious creature altogether.” And Crowdie -began to talk about the man. - -Katharine was in reality perfectly indifferent, and followed her own -train of thought while Crowdie made himself as agreeable as he could, -considering that he was conscious of her inattention. He would have been -surprised had he known that she was thinking about him. - -Since Hester had told her the story of his strange illness, Katharine -could not be near him without remembering her cousin’s vivid description -of his appearance and condition during the attack. It was but a step -from such a picture to the question of the morphia and Crowdie’s story, -and one step further brought the comparison between slavery to one form -of excitement and slavery to another; in other words, between John -Ralston and the painter, and then between Hester’s love for Crowdie and -Katharine’s for her cousin. But at this point the divergence began. -Crowdie, who looked weak, effeminate and anything but manly, had found -courage and strength to overcome a habit which was said to be almost -unconquerable. Katharine would certainly never have guessed that he had -such a strong will, but Hester had told her all about it, and there -seemed to be no other explanation of the facts. And Ralston, with his -determined expression and all his apparently hardy manliness, had -distinctly told her that he did not feel sure of keeping a promise, even -for the sake of her love. It seemed incredible. She would have given -anything to be able to ask Crowdie questions about his life, but that -was impossible, under the circumstances. He might never forgive his wife -for having told his secret. - -Her sudden and violent anger had subsided, and she already regretted -what she had said and done with Ralston. Indeed, she found it hard to -understand how she could have been so cruelly unkind, all in a moment, -when she had hardly found time to realize the meaning of what he had -told her. Another consideration and another question presented -themselves now, as she remembered and recapitulated the circumstances of -the scene. For the first time she realized the man’s loyalty in -thrusting his shortcomings under her eyes before the final step was -taken. It must have been a terrible struggle for him, she thought. And -if he was brave enough to do such a thing as that,--to tell the truth to -her, and the story of his shameful weakness,--what must that temptation -be which even he was not brave enough to resist? No doubt, he did resist -it often, she thought, and could do so in the future, though he said -that he could not be sure of himself. He was so brave and manly. Yet it -was horrible to think of him in connection with something which appeared -to be unspeakably disgusting in her eyes. - -The vice was one which she could not understand. Few women can; and it -would be strange, indeed, if any young girl could. She had seen drunken -men in the streets many times, but that was almost all she knew of it. -Occasionally, but by no means often, she had seen a man in society who -had too much colour, or was unnaturally pale, and talked rather wildly, -and people said that he had taken too much wine--and generally laughed. -Such a man was making himself ridiculous, she thought, but she -established no connection between him and the poor wretch reeling blind -drunk out of a liquor shop, who was pointed out to her by her father as -an awful example. She had even seen a man once who was lying perfectly -helpless in the gutter, while a policeman kicked him to make him get -up--and it had made a strong impression upon her. She remembered -distinctly his swollen face, his bloodshot blue eyes and his filthy -clothes--all disgusting enough. - -That was the picture which rose before her eyes when John Ralston, -putting his case more strongly than was necessary in order to clear his -conscience altogether, had told her that he could not promise to give up -a bad habit for her sake. In the first moment she had thought merely of -the man in society who behaved a little foolishly and talked too loud, -but Ralston’s earnest manner had immediately evoked the recollection of -her father’s occasional discourses upon what he called the besetting sin -of the lower classes in America, and had vividly recalled therewith the -face of the besotted wretch in the gutter. She knew of no intermediate -stage. To be a slave to drink meant that and nothing else. The society -man whom she took as an example was not a slave to drink; he was merely -foolish and imprudent, and might get into trouble. To think of marrying -a man who had lain in the gutter, half blind with liquor, to be kicked -by a policeman, was more than she could bear. The inevitable comic side -to things is rarely discernible to those brought most closely into -connection with them. It was not only serious to Katharine; it was -horrible, repulsive, sickening. It was no wonder that she had sprung -from her seat and turned her back on Ralston, and that she had done the -first thing which presented itself as a means of distracting her -thoughts. - -But now, matters began to look differently to her calmer judgment. It -was absurd to think that Ralston should make a mountain of a mole-hill, -and speak as he had spoken of himself, if he only meant that he now and -then took a glass of champagne more than was good for him. Besides, if -he did it habitually, she must have seen him now and then behaving like -her typical young gentleman, and making a fool of himself. But she had -never noticed anything of the kind. On the other hand, she could not -believe that he could ever, under any circumstances, turn into the kind -of creature who had been held up to her as an example of the habitual -drunkard. There must be something between the two, she felt sure, -something which she could not understand. She would find out. And she -must see John again, before she left the dance. Her eyes began to look -for him in the crowd. - -There are times when the processes of a girl’s mind are primitive in -their simplicity. Katharine suddenly remembered hearing that men drank -out of despair. She had seen Ralston’s face when she had risen and left -him, and it had certainly expressed despair very strongly. Perhaps he -had gone at once to drown his cares--that was the expression she had -heard--and it would be her fault. - -Such a sequence of ideas looks childish in this age of profound -psychological analysis, but it is just such reasoning which sometimes -affects people most when their hearts are touched. We have all thought -and done very childish things at times. - -Katharine forgot all about Crowdie and what he was saying. She had given -a sort of social, mechanical attention to his talk, nodding -intelligently from time to time, and answering by vague monosyllables, -or with even more vague questions. Crowdie had the sense to understand -that she did not mean to be rude, and that her mind was wholly -absorbed--most probably with what had taken place between her and -Ralston a quarter of an hour earlier. He talked on patiently, since he -could do nothing else, but he was not at all surprised when she at last -interrupted him. - -“Would you mind looking to see if my cousin--Jack Ralston, you know,--is -still in the hall?” she asked, without ceremony. - -“Certainly,” said Crowdie, rising. “Shall I tell him you want him, if -he’s there?” - -“Do, please. It’s awfully good of you, Mr. Crowdie,” she added, with a -preoccupied smile. - -Crowdie dived into the crowd, looking about him in every direction, and -then making his way straight to Ralston, who had not left his corner. - -“Miss Lauderdale wants to speak to you, Ralston,” said the painter, as -he reached him. “Hallo! What’s the matter? You look ill.” - -“I? Not a bit!” answered Ralston. “It’s the heat, I suppose. Where is -Miss Lauderdale?” He spoke in a curiously constrained tone. - -“I’ll take you to her--come along!” - -The two moved away together, Ralston following Crowdie through the -press. Through the open door of the boudoir Ralston saw Katharine’s eyes -looking for him. - -“All right,” he said to Crowdie, “I see her. Don’t bother.” - -“Over there in the low chair by the plants,” answered the painter, in -unnecessary explanation. - -“All right,” said Ralston again, and he pushed past Crowdie, who turned -away to seek amusement in another direction. Katharine looked up gravely -at him as he came to her side, and then pointed to the chair Crowdie had -left vacant. - -“Sit down. I want to talk to you,” she said quickly, and he obeyed, -drawing the chair a little nearer. - -“I thought you never meant to speak to me again,” he said bitterly. - -“Did you? You thought that? Seriously?” - -“I suppose most men would have thought very much the same.” - -“You thought that I could change completely, like that--in a single -moment?” - -“You seemed to change.” - -“And that I did not love you any more?” - -“That was what you made me think--what else? You’re perfectly justified, -of course. I ought to have told you long ago.” - -“Please don’t speak to me so--Jack.” - -“What do you expect me to say?” he asked, and with a weary look in his -eyes he leaned back in his low chair and watched her. - -“Jack--dear--you didn’t understand when I told Mr. Crowdie to call -you--you don’t understand now. I was angry then--by the staircase. I’m -sorry. Will you forgive me?” - -Ralston’s face changed instantly, and he leaned forward again, so as to -be able to speak in a lower tone. - -“Darling--don’t say such things! I’ve nothing to forgive--” - -“You have, Jack! Indeed, you have--oh! why can’t we be alone for ten -minutes--I’d explain it all--what I thought--” - -“But there’s nothing to explain, if you love me still--at least, not for -you.” - -“Yes, there is. There’s ever so much. Jack, why did you tell me? You -frightened me so--you don’t know! And it seemed as though it were the -end of everything, and of me, myself, when you said you couldn’t be sure -of keeping a promise for my sake. You didn’t mean what you said--at -least, not as I thought you meant it--you didn’t mean that you wouldn’t -try--and of course you would succeed in the end.” - -“I think I should succeed very soon, with you to help me, Katharine. But -that’s not what a man--who is a man--accepts from a woman.” - -“Her help--not her help, Jack? How can you say so!” - -“Yes, I mean it. Suppose that I should fail, what sort of life should -you lead--tied to a man who drinks? Don’t start, dear--it’s the truth. -We shall never talk about it again, after this, perhaps, and I may just -as well say what I think. I must say it, if I’m ever to respect myself -again.” - -Katharine looked at him, realized again what his courage had been in -making the confession, and she loved him more than ever. - -“Jack--” she began, and hesitated. “Since we are talking of it, and must -talk of it--can’t you tell me what makes you do it--I mean--you know! -What is it that attracts you? It must be something very strong--isn’t -it? What is it?” - -“I wish I knew!” answered Ralston, half savagely. “It began--oh, at -college, you know. I was vain of being able to stand more than the -other fellows and of going home as steady as though I’d had nothing.” - -“But a man who can walk straight isn’t drunk, Jack--” - -“Oh, isn’t he!” exclaimed Ralston, with a sour smile. “They’re the worst -kind, sometimes--” - -“But I thought that a man who was really drunk--was--was quite -senseless, and tumbled down, you know--in a disgusting state.” - -“It’s not a pretty subject--especially when you talk about it, dear--but -it’s not always of that description.” - -It shocked Ralston’s refined nature to hear her speak of such things. -For he had all the refinement of nervous natures, like many a man who -has been wrecked by drink--even to men of genius without number. - -“Isn’t it quite--no, of course it’s not. I know well enough.” Katharine -paused an instant. “I don’t care if it’s not what they call refined, -Jack. I’m not going to let that sort of squeamishness come between you -and me. It’s not as though I’d come upon it as a subject of -conversation--and--and I’m not afraid you’ll think any the worse of me -because I talk about horrid things, when I must talk about them--when -everything depends on them--you and I, and our lives. I must know what -it is that you feel--that you can’t resist.” - -Ralston felt how strong she was, and was glad. - -“Go on,” she said. “Tell me all about it--how it began.” - -“That was it--at college, I suppose,” he answered. “Then it grew to be a -habit--insensibly, of course. I thought it didn’t hurt me and I liked -the excitement. Perhaps I’m naturally melancholic and depressed.” - -“I don’t wonder!” - -“No--it’s not the result of anything especial. I’ve not had at all an -unhappy life. I was born gloomy, I suppose--and unlucky, too. You see -the trouble is that those things get hold of one’s nerves, and then it -becomes a physical affair and not a mere question of will. Men get so -far that it would kill them to stop, because they’re used to it. But -with me--no, I admit the fact--it is a question of will and nothing -else. Just now--oh, well, I’ve talked enough about myself.” - -“What--‘just now’? What were you going to say? You wanted to go and -drink, just after I left you?” - -“How did you guess that?” - -“I don’t know. I was sure of it. And--and you didn’t, Jack?” - -“No, I didn’t.” - -“Why not? What stopped you? It was so easy!” - -“I felt that I should be a brute if I did--so I didn’t. That’s all. -It’s not worth mentioning--only it shows that it is a question of will. -I’m all right now--I don’t want it any more. Perhaps I shan’t, for days. -I don’t know. It’s a hopeless sort of thing, anyway. Sometimes I’m just -on the point of taking an oath. But if I broke it, I should blow my -brains out, and I shouldn’t be any better off. So I have the sense not -to promise myself anything.” - -“Promise me one thing,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “It’s a thing you -can promise--trust me, won’t you?” - -“Yes--I promise,” answered Ralston, without hesitation. - -“That you will never bind yourself by any oath at all, will you?” - -Ralston paused a moment. - -“Yes--I promise you that,” he said. “I think it’s very sensible. Thank -you, dear.” - -There was a short silence after he had spoken. Then Katharine laughed a -little and looked at him affectionately. - -“How funny we are!” she exclaimed. “Half an hour ago I quarrelled with -you because you wouldn’t promise, and now I’ve got you to swear that you -never will promise, under any circumstances.” - -“Yes,” he answered. “It’s very odd. But other things are changed, too, -since then, though it’s not long.” - -“You’re mistaken, Jack,” she said, misunderstanding him. “Haven’t I said -enough? Don’t you know that I love you just as much as I ever did--and -more? But nothing is changed--nothing--not the least little bit of -anything.” - -“Dear--how good you are!” Ralston’s voice was very tender just then. -“But I mean--about to-morrow.” - -“Nothing’s changed, Jack,” said Katharine, leaning forward and speaking -very earnestly. - -But Ralston shook his head, sadly, as he met her eyes. - -“Yes, dear, it’s all changed. That can’t be as you wanted it--not now.” - -“But if I say that I will? Oh, don’t you understand me yet? It’s made no -difference. I lost my head for a moment--but it has made no difference -at all, except that I respect you ever so much more than I did, for -being so honest!” - -“Respect me!” repeated Ralston, with grave incredulity. “Me! You can’t!” - -“I can and I do. And I mean to be married to you--to-morrow, just as we -said. I wonder what you think I’m made of, to change and take back my -word and promise! Don’t you see that I want to give you everything--my -whole life--much more than I did this morning? Yes, ever so much more, -for you need me more than I knew or guessed. You see, I didn’t quite -understand at first, but it’s all clear now. You’re much more -unhappy--and much more foolish about it--than I am. I don’t want to go -back over it all again, but won’t it be much easier for you when you -have me to help you? It seems to me that it must be, because I love you -so! Won’t it be much easier? Tell me!” - -“Yes--of course it would. I don’t like to think of it, because I mustn’t -do it. I should never have asked you to marry me at all, until I was -sure of myself. But--well, I couldn’t help it. We loved each other.” - -“Jack--what do you mean?” - -“That I love you far too much to tie myself round your life, like a -chain. I won’t do it. I’ll do the best I can to get over this thing and -if I do--I shan’t be half good enough for you--but if you will still -have me then, we’ll be married. If I can’t get over it--why then, that -means that I shall go to the devil, I suppose. At all events, you’ll be -free.” - -He spoke very quietly, but the words hurt him as they came. He did not -realize until he had finished speaking that the resolution had been -formed within the last five minutes, though he felt that he was right. - -“If you knew how you hurt me, when you talk like that!” said Katharine, -in a low voice. - -“It’s a question of absolute right and wrong--it’s a question of -honour,” he continued, speaking quickly to persuade himself. “Just put -yourself in the position of a third person, and think about it. What -should you say of a man who did such a thing--who accepted such a -sacrifice as you wish to make?” - -“It isn’t a sacrifice--it’s my life.” - -“Yes--that’s it! What would your life be, with a man on whom you -couldn’t count--a man you might be ashamed of, at any moment--who can’t -even count on himself--a fellow who’s good for nothing on earth, and -certainly for nothing in heaven--a failure, like me, who--” - -“Stop! You shan’t say any more. I won’t listen! Jack, I shall go away, -as I did before--” - -“Well--but isn’t it all true?” - -“No--not a word of it is true! And if it were true twenty times over, -I’d marry you--now, in spite of everybody. I--I believe I’d commit a sin -to marry you. Oh, it’s of no use! I can’t live without you--I can’t, -indeed! I called you back to tell you so--” - -She stopped, and she was pale. He had never seen her as she was now, and -she had never looked so beautiful to him. - -“For that matter, I couldn’t live without you,” he said, in a rather -uncertain voice. - -“And you shall not!” she answered, with determination. “Don’t talk to me -of sacrifice--what could anything be compared with that--with giving -you up? You don’t know what you’re saying. I couldn’t--I couldn’t do -it--not if it meant death!” - -“But, dear--Katharine dear--if I fail, as I shall, I’m sure--just -think--” - -“If you do--but you won’t--well, if you should think you had--oh, Jack! -If you were the worst man alive, I’d rather die with you than live for -any one else! God knows I would--” - -“It’s very, very hard!” Ralston twisted his fingers together and bowed -his head, still trying to resist her. - -She bent forward again. - -“Dear--tell me! A little while ago--out there--when you wanted -it--wasn’t that hard?” - -Ralston nodded silently. - -“And didn’t you resist because it was a little--just a little for my -sake? Just at that moment when you said to yourself that you wouldn’t, -you know, or just before, or just afterwards--didn’t you think a little -of me, dear?” - -“Of course I did. Oh, Katharine, Katharine--” His voice was shaking now. - -“Yes. I know now,” she answered. “I don’t want anything but that--all my -life.” - -Still Ralston bent his head again, looking down at his hands and -believing that he was still resisting. He could not have spoken, had he -tried, and Katharine saw it. She leaned still nearer to him. - -“Dear--I’m going home now. I shall be walking in Clinton Place at -half-past eight to-morrow morning, as we arranged. Good-night--dear.” - -Before he realized what she meant to do, she had risen and reached the -door. He sprang to his feet and followed her, but the crowd had closed -again and she was gone. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -Katharine Lauderdale slept sweetly that night. She had, as she thought, -at last reached the crisis of her life, and the moment of action was at -hand. She felt, too, that almost at the last moment she had avoided a -great risk and made a good resolution--she felt as though she had saved -John Ralston from destruction. Loving him as truly as she did, her -satisfaction over what she had done was far greater than her pain at -what he had told her of himself. - -But this was not insignificant, though she wilfully made it seem as -small as she could. It was quite clear that it was not a matter to be -laughed at, and that Ralston did not deserve to be called quixotic -because he had thought it his duty to tell her of his weakness. It was -not a mountain, she was sure, but she admitted that it was not a -mole-hill either. Men who exaggerated the golden letter of virtue at the -expense of the gentle spirit of charity, as her father did, exaggerated -also, as a rule, those forms of wickedness to which they were themselves -least liable. She knew that. But she was also aware that drinking too -much was not by any means an imaginary vice. It was a matter of fact, -with which whole communities had to deal, and about which men very -unlike her father in other ways spoke gravely. Nevertheless, though a -fact, all details connected with it were vague. It seemed to her a -matter of certainty that John Ralston would at once change his life and -become in that respect, as in all others, exactly what her ideal of a -man always had been since she had loved him. - -Her mistake, if it were one, was pardonable enough. Had she become aware -of his fault by accident, and when, having succumbed to his weakness, -she could have seen him not himself, the whole effect upon her mind -would have been very different. But she had never seen him, as she -believed, in any such condition. It was as though he had told it as of -another man, and she found it impossible really to connect any such -ideas of inebriety as she had with the man she loved. It was as vague as -though he had told her that he had once had the scarlet fever. She would -have known very well what the scarlet fever was like, but she could not -have associated it with him in any really distinct way. It was because -it had seemed such a small matter at first sight that she had been -suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of bitter disappointment when he had -refused to give his promise for her sake. As soon as she had begun to -understand even a little of what he really felt, she had been as ready -and as determined to stand by him through everything as though it had -been a question of a bodily illness, for which he was not responsible, -but in which she could really help him. When she had been angry, and -afterwards, when, in spite of him, she had so strongly insisted upon the -marriage, she had been alike under a false impression, though in -different degrees. She had not now any idea of what she had really -undertaken to do. - -With her nature she would probably have acted just as she did in the -last case, even had she understood all, by actual experience. She was -capable of great sacrifices--even greater than she dreamed of. But, not -understanding, it did not seem to her that she had done or promised -anything very extraordinary, and she was absolutely confident of -success. It was natural to her to accept wholly what she accepted at -all, and it had always seemed to her that there was something mean in -complaining of what one had taken voluntarily, and in finding fault with -details when one had agreed, as it were, to take over the whole at a -moral valuation. - -It has seemed necessary to dwell at great length on the events which -filled the days preceding Katharine’s marriage. Her surroundings had -made her what she was, and justified, if anything could justify, the -extraordinary step she was about to take, and which she actually took -on the morning after the dance at the Thirlwalls’. It is under such -circumstances that such things are done, when they are done at all. The -whole balance of opinion in her family was against her marrying John -Ralston. The whole weight of events, so far as she was concerned, was in -favour of the marriage. - -That she loved him with all her heart, there was no doubt; and he loved -her with all that his nature could give of love, which was, indeed, less -than what she gave, but was of a good and faithful sort in its way. -Love, like most passions, good and bad, flourishes under restraint when -it is real and perishes almost immediately before opposition when it has -grown out of artificial circumstances--to revive, sometimes, in the -latter case, if the artificiality is resuscitated. Katharine had found -herself opposed at every turn in her love for Ralston. The result was -natural and simple--it had grown to be altogether the dominant reality -of her life. - -Even those persons who did not actively do their best to hinder her -marriage, contributed, by their actions and even by their existence, to -the fortifying of her resolution, as it seemed to her, but in reality to -the growth of the passion which needed no resolutions to direct it. For -instance, Crowdie’s repulsive personality threw Ralston’s undeniable -advantages into higher relief. His wife’s devotion to him made -Katharine’s devotion to John seem ten times more reasonable than it was. -Charlotte Slayback’s wretchedly petty and miserable life with a man whom -she had not married for love, made a love match seem the truest -foundation for happiness. Old Robert Lauderdale’s solitary existence was -itself an argument in favour of marriage. The small, daily discomfort -which Alexander Junior’s miserly economy imposed upon his household, and -which Katharine had been forced to endure all her life, made Ralston’s -careless generosity a virtue by contrast. Even Mrs. Lauderdale had -turned against her daughter at last, for reasons which the young girl -could not understand, either at the time or for a long time afterwards. - -She felt herself very much alone in the world, in spite of her position. -And yet, since her mother had begun to lose her supreme beauty, -Katharine was looked upon as the central figure of the Lauderdale tribe, -next to Robert the Rich himself. ‘The beautiful Miss Lauderdale’ was a -personage of much greater importance than she herself knew, in the eyes -of society. She had grown used to hearing reports to the effect that she -was engaged to be married to this man, or that, and that her uncle -Robert had announced his intention of wrapping his wedding present in a -cheque for a million of dollars. Stories of that sort got into the -papers from time to time, and Alexander Junior never failed to write a -stern denial of the report to the editor of the journal in which the -tale appeared. Katharine was used to seeing the family name in print on -all possible occasions and paid little attention to it. She did not know -how far people must have become subjects of general conversation before -they become the paragraphist’s means of support in the dull season of -the year. The paragraphists on a great daily paper have an intimate -knowledge of the public taste, for which they get little credit amongst -the social lights, who flatter themselves that the importance of the -paper in question depends very largely on their opinion of it. Society -is very much like a little community of lunatics, who live in an asylum -all by themselves, and who know nothing whatever about the great public -that lives beyond the walls, whereas the public knows a good deal about -the lunatics, and takes a lively interest in their harmless, or -dangerous, vagaries. And in the same way society itself forms a small -public for its own most prominent individuals,--for its own favourite -lunatics, so to say,--and watches their doings and talks about them with -constant interest, and flatters them when it thinks they are agreeable, -and abuses them bitterly behind their backs when it thinks they are not. -The daily dinner-party conversation is society’s imprinted but widely -circulated daily paper. It is often quite ignorant of state secrets, -but it is never unacquainted with social events, and generally has -plenty of sound reasons with which to explain them. Society’s -comparative idleness, even in America, gives it opportunities of -conversation which no equally large body of men and women can be said to -possess outside of its rather elastic limits. It talks the same sort of -matter which the generally busy great public reads and wishes to read in -the daily press--and as talking is a quicker process than controversy in -print, society manages to say as much for and against the persons it -discusses, in a day, as the newspapers can say in a week, or perhaps -more. As a mere matter of statistics, there is no doubt that a couple of -talkative people spending an evening together can easily ‘talk off’ ten -thousand words in an hour--which is equal to about eight columns of an -ordinary big daily paper, and they are not conscious of making any great -effort. It is manifestly possible to say a great many things in eight -columns of a newspaper, especially if one is not very particular about -what one says. - -Katharine realized, no doubt, that there would some day be plentiful -discussion of her rashness in marrying Ralston against the wishes of the -family, and she knew that the circumstances would to some extent be -regarded as public property. But she was far from realizing her own -social importance, or that of the whole Lauderdale tribe, as compared -with that of many people who spent enormous sums in amusing their -friends, consciously and unconsciously, but who could never be -Lauderdales, though it was not their fault. - -At the juncture she had now reached, such considerations would have had -little weight with her, but the probability is that, had she known -exactly what she was doing, and how it would be regarded should others -know of it, she would have vastly preferred to rebel openly and to leave -New York with John Ralston on the day she married him, in uncompromising -defiance of her family. Most people have known in the course of life of -one or two secret marriages and must have noticed that the motives to -secrecy generally seem inadequate. As a rule, they are, if taken by -themselves. But in actual fact they have mostly acted upon the persons -concerned through a medium of some sort of ignorance and in conjunction -with an impatient passion. It is common enough, even in connection with -more or less insignificant matters, to hear some one say, ‘I wonder why -I did that--I might have known better!’ Humanity is never wholly -logical, and is never more than very partially wise, even when it is old -enough to ‘know better.’ In nine cases out of ten, when it is said of a -man that ‘a prophet is without honour in his own country,’ the reason is -that his own country is the best judge of what he prophesies. And -similarly, society judges the doings of all its members by its own -individual knowledge of its own customs, so that very few who do -anything not sanctioned by those customs get any credit, but, on the -contrary, are in danger of being called fools for believing that -anything not customary can be done at all. - -At half-past eight on Thursday morning Katharine left the house in -Clinton Place, and turned eastward to meet John Ralston. Her only source -of anxiety was the fear lest her father should by some accident go out -earlier than usual. There was no particular reason to expect that he -should be irregular on that particular day of all others, and she had -left him over his beefsteak, discussing the relative amounts of the -nutriment--as compared with the price per pound--contained in beef and -mutton. He had never been able to understand why any one who could get -meat should eat anything else, and the statistics of food consumption -interested his small but accurate mind. His wife listened quietly but -without response, so that the discussion was very one-sided. The -philanthropist generally shuffled down to breakfast when everything was -cold, a point about which he was utterly indifferent. He had long ago -discovered that by coming down late he could always be the last to -finish his meal, and could therefore begin to smoke as soon as he had -swallowed his last mouthful which was a habit very important to his -enjoyment and very destructive to that of any one else, especially -since his son had reduced him to ‘Old Virginia Cheroots’ at ten cents -for five. - -But Alexander Junior was no more inclined than usual to reach his office -a moment before his accustomed time. Katharine generally left the -dining-room as soon as she had finished breakfast, and often went out -immediately afterwards for a turn in Washington Square, so that her -departure excited no remark. The rain had ceased, and though the air was -still murky and the pavements wet, it was a decently fine morning. -Ralston was waiting for her, walking up and down on a short beat, and -the two went away together. - -At first they were silent, and the silence had a certain constraint -about it which both of them felt, but did not know how to escape from. -Ralston was the first to speak. - -“You ought not to have come,” he said rather awkwardly, with a little -laugh. - -“But I told you I was coming,” she answered demurely. “Didn’t I?” - -“I know. That’s just it. You told me so suddenly that I couldn’t -protest. I ran after you, but you were gone to get your things, and when -you came downstairs there were a lot of people, and I couldn’t speak to -you.” - -“I saw you,” said Katharine. “It was just as well. You had nothing to -say to me that I didn’t know, and we couldn’t have begun the discussion -of the matter all over again at the last instant. And now, please, Jack -dear, don’t begin and argue. I’ve told you a hundred times that I know -exactly what I’m doing--and that it’s I who am making you do it. And -remember that unless we are married first uncle Robert will never make -up his mind to do anything for us. It’s never of any use to try and -overcome people’s objections. The only way is to ignore them, which is -just what we’re doing.” - -“There’s no doubt about that,” answered Ralston. “There’s one thing I -look forward to with pleasure, in the way of a row, though--I mean when -your father finds it out. I hope you’ll let me tell him and not spoil my -fun. Won’t you?” - -“Oh, yes, if you like. Why not? Not that I’m at all afraid. You don’t -know papa. When he finds that the thing is done, that it’s the -inevitable course of events, in fact, he’ll be quite different. He’ll -very likely talk of submission to the Divine will and offer to speak to -Beman Brothers about letting you try the clerkship again. I know papa! -Providence has an awfully good time with him--but nobody else does.” - -At which piece of irreverence Ralston laughed, for it exactly expressed -his idea of Alexander Junior’s character. - -“And there’s one other thing I don’t want you to speak of, Jack,” -pursued Katharine, more gravely. “I mean what you told me last night. I -don’t intend ever to mention it again--do you understand, dear? I’ve -thought it all over since then. I’m glad you told me, and I admire you -for telling me, because it must have been hard, especially until I began -to understand. A woman doesn’t know everything, you see! Indeed, we -don’t know much about anything. We can only feel. And it did seem very -hard at first--only for a moment, Jack--that you should not be willing -to promise what I asked, when it was to make such a difference to me, -and I was willing to promise you anything. You see how I felt, don’t -you?” - -“Of course,” answered Ralston, looking down at the pavement as he walked -on and listened. “It was natural.” - -“Yes. I’m so glad you see it. But afterwards, when I thought of things -I’d heard--why, then I thought a great deal too much, you know--dreadful -things! But I understood better what it all meant. You see, at first, it -seemed so absurd! Just as though I had asked you not to--not to wear a -green tie, for instance, as Charlotte asked her husband. Absurd, wasn’t -it? So I was frightfully angry with you and got up and went away. I’m so -ashamed of myself for it, now. But then, when it grew clearer--when I -really knew that there was suffering in it, and remembered hearing that -it was something like morphia and such things, that have to be cured by -degrees--you know what I mean--why, then I wanted you more than ever. -You know I’d give anything to help you--just to make it a little easier -for you, dear.” - -“You do! You’re doing everything--you’re giving me everything,” said -Ralston, earnestly. - -“Well--not everything--but myself, because that’s all I have to give--if -it’s any use to you.” - -“Dear--as if you weren’t everything the world has, and the only thing -and the best thing altogether!” - -“And if I didn’t love you better than anything--better than kings and -queens--I wouldn’t do it. Because, after all, though I’m not much, I’m -all I have. And then--I’m proud--inside, you know, Jack. Papa says I’m -not, because mamma and I sometimes go to the theatre in the gallery, for -economy. But that’s hardly a test in real life, I think--and besides, I -know I am. Don’t you think so?” - -“Yes--a little, in the right way. It’s nice. I like it in you.” - -“I’m so glad. It’s because I’m proud that I don’t want to talk about -that matter any more. It just doesn’t exist for me. That’s what I want -you to feel. But I want you to feel, too, that I’m always there, that I -shall always understand, and that if I can help you the least little -bit, I mean to. I’ve turned into a woman all at once, Jack, in the last -twenty-four hours, and now in an hour I shall be your wife, though -nobody will know about it for a day or two. But I don’t mean to turn -into your grandmother, too, and be always lecturing you and asking -questions, and that sort of thing. You wouldn’t like it either, would -you?” - -“Hardly!” - -Ralston laughed again, for everything she said made him feel happier and -helped to destroy the painful impression of the previous night. - -“Why do you laugh, Jack? Oh, I suppose it’s my way of putting it. But -it’s what I mean, and that’s the principal thing. I’d rather die than -watch you all the time, to see what you do. Imagine if I were always -asking questions--‘Jack, where did you go last night?’ And--‘Jack, is -that your third or fourth glass of wine to-day?’ The mere idea is -disgusting. No. You must just do your best, and feel that I’m always -there--even when I’m not--and that I’m never watching you, even when I -look as though I were, and that neither you nor I are ever going to say -a word about it--from this very minute, forever! Do you understand? -Isn’t that the best way, Jack? And that I’m perfectly sure that it will -be all right in the end--you must remember that, too.” - -“I think you’re right,” said Ralston. “You’ve suddenly turned into a -woman, and into a very clever one. Those are just the things which most -women never will understand. They’d be much happier if they did.” - -The two walked on rapidly, talking as they went, and assuredly not -looking at all like a runaway couple. But though it was very early, they -avoided the streets in which they might easily meet acquaintances, for -it was the hour when men who had any business were going to it in -various ways, according to their tastes, but chiefly by the elevated -road. They had no difficulty in reaching unobserved the house of the -clergyman who had promised to marry them. - -He was in readiness, and at his window, and as they came in sight he -left the house and met them. All three walked silently to his church, -and he let them in with his own key, followed them and locked the door -behind them. - -In ten minutes the ceremony was over. The clergyman beckoned them into -the vestry, and immediately signed a form of certificate which he had -already filled in, and handed it to John without a word. John took a new -treasury note from his pocket-book and laid it upon the oak table. - -“I’m sure you must have many poor people in your parish,” he said, in -explanation. - -“I have,” said the clergyman. “Thank you,” he added, placing the money -in his own pocket-book, which was an old black one, much the worse for -wear. - -“It is we who have to thank you,” answered John, “for helping us out of -a very difficult situation.” - -“Hm!” ejaculated the elder man, rubbing his chin with his hand and -fixing a penetrating glance on Ralston’s face. “Perhaps you won’t thank -me hereafter,” he said suddenly. “Perhaps you think it strange that a -man in my position should be a party to a secret marriage. But I do not -anticipate that you will ask me for a justification of my action. I had -reasons--reasons--old reasons.” He continued to rub his chin -thoughtfully. “I should like to say a word to you, Mrs. Ralston,” he -added, turning to Katharine. - -She started and blushed a little. She had not expected to be addressed -by what was now her name. But she held up her head, proudly, as though -she were by no means ashamed of it. - -“I shall not detain you a moment,” continued the clergyman, looking at -her as earnestly as he had looked at John. “I have perfect confidence in -Mr. Ralston, as I have shown by acceding to his very unusual request. He -has told you what I said to him yesterday, and I do not wish him to -doubt that I am sure that he has done so. It is merely as a matter of -conscience, to satisfy my own scruples in fact, that I wish to repeat, -as nearly as possible, the same words, ‘mutatis mutandis,’ which I said -to him. I have married you and have given you my certificate that the -ceremony has been duly and properly performed, and you are man and wife. -But I have married you thus secretly and without witnesses--none being -indispensable--on the distinct understanding that your union is not to -be kept a secret by you any longer than you shall deem secrecy -absolutely necessary to your future happiness. Mr. Ralston informed me -that it was your intention to acknowledge what you had done to a near -relation, the head of your family, in fact, without any delay. I am sure -that it is really your intention to do so. But let me entreat you, if it -is possible, to lose no time, but to go, even at this hour, to the -person in question and tell your story, one or the other of you, or both -together. I am an old man, and human life is very uncertain, and human -honour is rightly held very dear, for if honour means anything, it means -the social application of that truth which is by nature divine. -To-morrow I may no longer be here to testify that I signed that document -with my own hand. To-day the person in whom you intend to confide can -come and see me and I will answer for what I have done, or he can -acknowledge your marriage without question, whichever he chooses to do; -it will be better if it be done quickly. It always seems to me that -to-morrow is the enemy of to-day, and lies in ambush to attack it -unawares. Therefore, I entreat you to go at once to him you have chosen -and tell him what you have done. And so good-bye, and may God bless you -and make you happy and good.” - -“I shall go now,” said Katharine. “And we thank you very much,” she -added, holding out her hand. - -The clergyman let them out and stood looking after them for a few -seconds. Then he slowly nodded twice and re-entered the church. Ralston -and Katharine walked away very slowly, both looking down, and each -inwardly wondering whether the other would break the silence. It was -natural that they should not speak at first. The words of the service -had brought very clearly before them the meaning of what they had done, -and the clergyman’s short speech, made as he said for the sake of -satisfying his own scruples of conscience, had influenced them by its -earnestness. They reached a crossing without having exchanged a -syllable. As usual in such cases, a chance exclamation broke the ice. - -“Take care!” exclaimed Ralston, laying his hand on Katharine’s arm, and -looking at an express wagon which was bearing down on them. - -“It’s ever so far off still,” said Katharine, smiling suddenly and -looking into his face. “But I like you to take care of me,” she added. - -He smiled, too, and they waited for the wagon to go by. The clouds had -broken away at last and the low morning sun shone brightly upon them. - -“I’m so glad it’s fine on our wedding day, Jack!” exclaimed Katharine. -“It was horrid yesterday afternoon. How long ago that seems! Did you -hear him call me Mrs. Ralston? Katharine Ralston--how funny it sounds! -It’s true, that’s your mother’s name.” - -“You’ll be Mrs. John Ralston--to distinguish.” John laughed. “Yes--it -does seem long ago. What did you do with yourself yesterday?” - -“Yesterday? Let me see--I sat for my portrait, and then I went home, and -then late in the afternoon Charlotte suddenly appeared, and then I dined -with the Joe Allens--the young couple, you know, don’t you? And then I -went to the dance. I hardly knew what I was doing, half the time.” - -“And I hardly know why I asked the question. Isn’t it funny? I believe -we’re actually trying to make conversation!” - -“You are--I’m not,” laughed Katharine. “It was you who began asking. I -was talking quite sentimentally and appropriately about yesterday -seeming so long ago, you know. But it’s true. It does--it seems ages. I -wonder when time will begin again--I feel as though it had stopped -suddenly.” - -“It will begin again, and it will seem awfully long, before this -afternoon--when uncle Robert has refused to have anything to do with -us.” - -“He won’t refuse--he shan’t refuse!” Katharine spoke with an energy -which increased at every syllable. “Now that the thing is done, Jack, -just put yourself in his position for a moment. Just imagine that you -have anywhere between fifty and a hundred millions, all of your own. -Yes--I know. You can’t imagine it. But suppose that you had. And suppose -that you had a grand-niece, whom you liked, and who wasn’t altogether a -disagreeable young person, and whom you had always rather tried to pet -and spoil--not exactly knowing how to do it, but out of sheer good -nature. And suppose that you had known ever so long that there was only -one thing which could make your nice niece perfectly happy--” - -“It’s all very well, Katharine,” interrupted Ralston, “but has he known -that?” - -“I’ve never failed to tell him so, on the most absurdly inadequate -provocation. So it must be his fault if he doesn’t know it--and I shall -certainly tell him all over again before I bring out the news. It -wouldn’t do to be too sudden, you know. Well, then--suppose all that, -and that the young gentleman in question was a proper young gentleman -enough, as young gentlemen go, and didn’t want money, and wouldn’t take -it if it were offered to him, but merely asked for a good chance to -work and show what he could do. That’s all very simple, isn’t it? And -then realize--don’t suppose any more--just what’s going to happen inside -of half an hour. The devoted niece goes to the good old uncle, and says -all that over again, and calmly adds that she’s done the deed and -married the young gentleman and got a certificate, which she -produces--by the bye, you must give it to me. Don’t be afraid of my -losing it--I’m not such a goose. And she goes on to say that unless the -good uncle does something for her husband, she will simply make the -uncle’s life a perfectly unbearable burden to him, and that she knows -how to do it, because if he’s a Lauderdale, she’s a Lauderdale, and her -husband is half a Lauderdale, so that it’s all in the family, and no -entirely unnecessary consideration is to be shown to the victim--well? -Don’t you think that ought to produce an effect of some sort? I do.” - -“Yes,” laughed Ralston, “I think so, too. Something is certainly sure to -happen.” - - END OF VOL. I. - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Katherine Lauderdale; vol. 1 of 2, by -F. 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Marion Crawford. -</title> -<style type="text/css"> - p {margin-top:.2em;text-align:justify;margin-bottom:.2em;text-indent:4%;} - -.c {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - -.cb {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;font-weight:bold;} - -.cbg {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;font-weight:bold; -font-size:140%;margin-top:1em;} - -.eng {font-family: "Old English Text MT",fantasy,sans-serif;} - -.nind {text-indent:0%;} - -small {font-size: 70%;} - -big {font-size: 130%;} - - h1 {margin-top:5%;text-align:center;clear:both;} - - h2 {margin-top:4%;margin-bottom:2%;text-align:center;clear:both; - font-size:120%;} - - hr.full {width: 50%;margin:5% auto 5% auto;border:4px double gray;} - - table {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;border:none;} - - body{margin-left:2%;margin-right:2%;background:#ffffff;color:black;font-family:"Times New Roman", serif;font-size:medium;} - -a:link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:underline;} - - link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:underline;} - -a:visited {background-color:#ffffff;color:purple;text-decoration:none;} - -a:hover {background-color:#ffffff;color:#FF0000;text-decoration:underline;} - -.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;font-size:100%;} - - img {border:2px solid blue;} - img.none {border:none;} -.caption {font-weight:normal;font-size:85%;} - -.figcenter {margin-top:3%;margin-bottom:3%;clear:both; -margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - @media print, handheld - {.figcenter - {page-break-before: avoid;} - } - -div.poetry {text-align:center;} -div.poem {font-size:90%;margin:auto auto;text-indent:0%; -display: inline-block; text-align: left;} -.poem .stanza {margin-top: 1em;margin-bottom:1em;} -.poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -</style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -Project Gutenberg's Katherine Lauderdale; vol. 1 of 2, by F. Marion Crawford - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Katherine Lauderdale; vol. 1 of 2 - -Author: F. Marion Crawford - -Release Date: December 4, 2015 [EBook #50607] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KATHERINE LAUDERDALE; VOL. 1 OF 2 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/cover_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="294" height="450" alt="book-cover image not available" /></a> -</p> - -<p class="cb">KATHARINE LAUDERDALE</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/colophon.png" class="none" width="150" height="45" alt="colophon" /> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/frontispiece-a_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/frontispiece-a_sml.jpg" width="274" height="332" alt="F. Marion Crawford with signature." /></a> -<br /> -<a href="images/frontispiece-b_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/frontispiece-b_sml.jpg" class="none" width="265" height="41" alt="F. Marion Crawford with signature." /></a> -</div> - -<h1>KATHARINE LAUDERDALE</h1> - -<p class="cb">BY<br /> -F. MARION CRAWFORD<br /> -<small><span class="smcap">Author of “saracinesca,” “Pietro Ghisleri,” etc.</span></small><br /> -<br /><br /> -<span class="smcap">Vol. I</span><br /> -<br /><br /> -<span class="smcap">With Illustrations by Alfred Brennan</span><br /> -<br /> -<span class="eng">New York</span><br /> -MACMILLAN AND CO.<br /> -AND LONDON<br /> -1894<br /> -<br /> -<i>All rights reserved</i><br /> -<br /><small> -<span class="smcap">Copyright</span>, 1893,<br /> -<span class="smcap">By</span> F. MARION CRAWFORD.<br /> -<br /> -<span class="eng">Norwood Press:</span><br /> -J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith.<br /> -Boston, Mass., U.S.A.</small> -</p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary=""> - -<tr><td> </td><td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_001">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_025">25</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_047">47</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_069">69</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_092">92</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_113">113</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_137">137</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_159">159</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_182">182</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_200">200</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_223">223</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_244">244</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_266">266</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_288">288</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.</a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_312">312</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.<br /> -<small><span class="smcap">Vol. I.</span></small></h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td> </td><td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td>“A place probably unique in the world”</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_010">10</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td>“She rose suddenly and pretended to busy herself with the single light”</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_079">79</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td>“ ‘What have you decided?’ she enquired”</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_203">203</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td>“ ‘Kitty—don’t do what I’ve done,’ she said earnestly”</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_257">257</a></td></tr> - -</table> - -<p><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a></p> - -<p class="cbg">KATHERINE LAUDERDALE.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p>“I <span class="smcap">prefer</span> the dark style, myself—like my cousin,” said John Ralston, -thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>“And you will therefore naturally marry a fair woman,” answered his -companion, Hamilton Bright, stopping to look at the display in a -florist’s window. Ralston stood still beside him.</p> - -<p>“Queer things—orchids,” he observed.</p> - -<p>“Why?” Nothing in the world seemed queer or unnatural to Bright, who was -normally constituted in all respects, and had accepted the universe -without comment.</p> - -<p>“I am not sure why. I think the soul must look like an orchid.”</p> - -<p>“You are as bad as a Boston girl,” laughed Bright. “Always thinking of -your soul! Why should the soul be like an orchid, any more than like a -banana or a turnip?”</p> - -<p>“It must be like something,” said Ralston, in explanation.<a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a></p> - -<p>“If it’s anything, it’s faith in a gaseous state, my dear man, and -therefore even less visible and less like anything than the common or -market faith, so to say—the kind you get at from ten cents to a dollar -the seat’s worth, on Sundays, according to the charge at the particular -place of worship your craving for salvation leads you to frequent.”</p> - -<p>“I prefer to take mine in a more portable shape,” answered Ralston, -grimly. “By the bottle—not by the seat—and very dry.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—if you go on, you’ll get one sort of faith—the lively evidence of -things unseen—snakes, for instance.”</p> - -<p>Bright laughed again as he spoke, but he glanced at his friend with a -look of interest which had some anxiety in it. John Ralston was said to -drink, and Bright was his good angel, ever striving to be entertained -unawares, and laughing when he was found out in his good intentions. But -if Bright was a very normal being, Ralston was a very abnormal one, and -was, to some extent, a weak man, though not easily influenced by strong -men. A glance at his face would have convinced any one of that—a keen, -nervous, dark face, with those deep lines from the nostrils to the -corners of the mouth which denote uncertain, and even dangerous -tempers—a square, bony jaw, aggressive rather than firm, but not -coarse—the nose,<a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a> aquiline but delicate—the eyes, brown, restless, and -bright, the prominence of the temples concealing the eyelids entirely -when raised—the forehead, broad, high, and visibly lean like all the -features—the hair, black and straight—the cheek bones, moderately -prominent. Possibly John Ralston had a dash of the Indian in his -physical inheritance, which showed itself, as it almost always does, in -a melancholic disposition, great endurance and an unnatural love of -excitement in almost any shape, together with an inborn idleness which -it was hard to overcome.</p> - -<p>Nothing is more difficult than to convey by words what should be -understood by actual seeing. There are about fifteen hundred million -human beings alive to-day, no two of whom are exactly alike, and we have -really but a few hundreds of words with which to describe any human -being at all. The argument that a few octaves of notes furnish all the -music there is, cannot be brought against us as a reproach. We cannot -speak a dozen words at once and produce a single impression, any more -than we can put the noun before the article as we may strike any one -note before or after another. So I have made acknowledgment of inability -to do the impossible, and apology for not being superhuman.</p> - -<p>John Ralston was dark, good-looking, nervous, excitable, enduring, and -decidedly dissipated, at<a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a> the age of five and twenty years, which he had -lately attained at the time of the present tale. Of his other gifts, -peculiarities and failings, his speech, conversation and actions will -give an account. As for his position in life, he was the only son of -Katharine Ralston, widow of Admiral Ralston of the United States Navy, -who had been dead several years.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston’s maiden name had been Lauderdale, and she was of Scotch -descent. Her cousin, Alexander Lauderdale, married a Miss Camperdown, a -Roman Catholic girl of a Kentucky family, and had two children, both -daughters, the elder of whom was Mrs. Benjamin Slayback, wife of the -well-known member of Congress. The younger was Katharine Lauderdale, -named after her father’s cousin, Mrs. Ralston, and she was the dark -cousin whom John admired.</p> - -<p>Hamilton Bright was a distant relative to both of these persons. But by -his father’s side he had not originally belonged to New York, as the -others did, but had settled there after spending some years of his early -youth in California and Nevada, and had gone into business. At four and -thirty he was the junior partner in the important firm of Beman Brothers -and Company, Bankers, who had a magnificent building of their own in -Broad Street, and were very solidly prosperous, having shown themselves -to be among the fittest to survive the financial<a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a> storms of the last -half century. Ralston’s friend was a strong, squarely built, very fair -man, of what is generally called the Saxon type. At first sight, he -inspired confidence, and his clear blue eyes were steady and true. He -had that faculty of looking almost superhumanly neat and spotless under -all circumstances, which is the prerogative of men with straight, flaxen -hair, pink and white complexions, and perfect teeth. It was easy to -predict that he would become too stout with advancing years, and he was -already a heavy man, though not more than half an inch taller than his -friend and distant cousin, John Ralston. But no one would have believed -at first sight that he was nine years older than the latter.</p> - -<p>The nature of friendship between men has been almost as much discussed -as that of love between man and woman, but with very different results. -He laughs at the idea of friendship who turns a little pale at the -memory of love. At all events, most of us feel that friendship is -generally a less certain and undeniable thing, inasmuch as it is harder -to exclude from it the element of personal interest and advantage. The -fact probably is, that no one person can possibly combine all the -elements supposed to make up what every one means by friendship. It -would be far more reasonable to construct one friendship out of many -persons, securing in each of them one at least of the qualities<a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a> -necessary. For instance, the discreet man, to whom it is safe to tell -secrets when they must be told at all, is not as a matter of course the -man most capable of giving the best advice; nor, if a certain individual -is extremely generous and ready to lend all he has to his friend, does -it follow that he possesses the tough, manly nature that will face -public scorn rather than abandon that friend in his hour of need. Some -men, too, want sympathy in their troubles, and will have it, even at the -cost of common sense. Others need encouragement; others, again, need -most of all to be told the unpleasant truth about themselves in the most -pleasant form practicable. Altogether it seems probable that the ideal -friend must either be an altogether superhuman personage, or a failure -in so far as his own life is concerned.</p> - -<p>Hamilton Bright approached as nearly to that ideal as his humanity would -allow. He did not in the least trouble himself to find out why he liked -Ralston, and wished to be of service to him, and he wisely asked for -nothing whatever in return for what he gave. But he was very far from -looking up to him, and perhaps even from respecting him as he wished -that he might. He simply liked him better than other men, and stood by -him when he needed help, which often happened.</p> - -<p>They left the florist’s window and walked slowly up Fifth Avenue. John -Ralston was a born New<a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a> Yorker and preferred his own city to any other -place in the world with that solid, satisfactory, unreasoning prejudice -which belongs especially to New Yorkers and Parisians, and of which it -is useless to attempt any explanation. Hamilton Bright, on the contrary, -often wished himself away, and in spite of his excessively correct -appearance even the easy formality of American metropolitan life was -irksome to him. He had loved the West, and in the midst of great -interests and advantages, he regretted his former existence and daily -longed for the clearer air and bolder breath of Nevada. The only objects -about which he ever displayed much enthusiasm were silver and cattle, -about which Ralston knew nothing and cared less.</p> - -<p>“When is it to be?” asked Bright after a long silence.</p> - -<p>Ralston looked at him quickly.</p> - -<p>“What?” he asked in a short tone.</p> - -<p>Bright did not answer at once, and when he spoke his voice was rather -dull and low.</p> - -<p>“When are you going to be married? Everybody knows that you are -engaged.”</p> - -<p>“Then everybody is wrong. I am not engaged.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—I thought you were. All right.”</p> - -<p>Another pause followed and they walked on.</p> - -<p>“Alexander Junior said I was a failure,” observed Ralston at last. “That -was some time ago.”<a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a></p> - -<p>“Oh—was that the trouble?”</p> - -<p>Bright did not seem to expect any reply to the question, but his tone -was thoughtful.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” answered Ralston, with a short, discontented laugh. “He said that -I was of no use whatever, that I never did anything and never should.”</p> - -<p>“That settled it, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. That settled it. There was nothing more to be said—on his side, -at least.”</p> - -<p>“And how about your side?”</p> - -<p>“We shall see.”</p> - -<p>Ralston shut his lips viciously and his clean-cut, prominent chin looked -determined enough.</p> - -<p>“The fact is,” said his friend, “that Alexander Junior was not so -awfully far wrong—about the past, at all events. You never did anything -in your life except make yourself agreeable. And you don’t seem to have -succeeded in that with him.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he used to think me agreeable enough,” laughed the younger man. “He -used to play billiards with me by the month for his liver, and then call -me idle for playing with him. I suppose that if I had given up billiards -he would have been impressed with the idea that I was about to reform. -It wouldn’t have cost me much. I hated the stupid game and only played -to amuse him.”</p> - -<p>“All the same—I wish I had your chances—I mean, I wish I may have as -good a chance as you, when I think of getting married.”<a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a></p> - -<p>“My chances!” Ralston did not smile now, and his tone was harsh as he -repeated the words. He glanced at his companion. “When will that be?” he -asked after a moment’s pause. “Why don’t you get married, Ham? I’ve -often wondered. But then—you’re so cursedly reasonable about -everything! I suppose you’ll stick to the single ticket as long as you -have strength to resist, and then you’ll marry a nurse. Wise man!”</p> - -<p>“Thank you. You’re as encouraging as usual.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t need encouragement a bit, old man. You’re so full of it -anyhow, that you can spare a lot for other people. You have a deuced -good effect on my liver, Ham. Do you know it? You ought to look -pleased.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes. I am. I only wish the encouragement might last a little -longer.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t help being gloomy sometimes—rather often, I ought to say. I -fancy I’m a born undertaker, or something to do with funerals. I’ve -tried a lot of other things for a few days and failed—I think I’ll try -that. By the by, I’m very thirsty and here’s the Hoffman House.”</p> - -<p>“It’s not far to the club, if you want to drink,” observed Bright, -stopping on the pavement.</p> - -<p>“You needn’t come in, if you think it’s damaging to your reputation,” -answered Ralston.</p> - -<p>“My reputation would stand a good deal of knocking about,” laughed -Bright. “I think my<a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a> character would bear three nights a week in a -Bowery saloon and spare time put in now and then in a University Place -bar, without any particular harm.”</p> - -<p>“By Jove! I wish mine would!”</p> - -<p>“It won’t,” said Bright. “But I wasn’t thinking of your reputation, nor -of anything especial except that things are generally better at a club -than at a hotel.”</p> - -<p>“The Brut is good here. I’ve tried it—often. Come along.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll wait for you outside. I’m not thirsty.”</p> - -<p>“I told you so,” retorted Ralston. “You’re afraid somebody will see -you.”</p> - -<p>“You’re an idiot, Jack!”</p> - -<p>Thereupon Bright led the way into the gorgeous bar, a place probably -unique in the world. A number of pictures by great French masters hang -on the walls—pictures unrivalled, perhaps, in beauty of execution and -insolence of conception. The rest is a blaze of polished marble and -woodwork and gleaming metal.</p> - -<p>Ralston nodded to the bar-tender.</p> - -<p>“What will you have?” he asked, turning to Bright.</p> - -<p>“Nothing, thanks. I’m not thirsty.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—all right,” answered Ralston discontentedly. “I’ll have a pint of -Irroy Brut with a bit of lemon peel in it. Champagne isn’t wine—it’s<a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_010_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_010_sml.jpg" width="250" height="412" alt="“A place probably unique in the world.”—Vol. I., p. -10." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">“A place probably unique in the world.”—Vol. I., <a href="#page_010">p. -10</a>.</span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">only a beverage,” he added, turning to Bright as though to explain his -reasons for wanting so much.</p> - -<p>“I quite agree with you,” said Bright, lighting a cigar. “Champagne -isn’t wine, and it’s not fit to drink at the best. Either give me wine -that is wine, or give me whiskey.”</p> - -<p>“Whichever you like.”</p> - -<p>“Did you say whiskey, sir?” enquired the bar-tender, who was in the act -of rubbing the rim of a pint glass with a lemon peel.</p> - -<p>“Nothing, thank you. I’m not thirsty,” answered Bright a third time.</p> - -<p>“Hallo, Bright, my little man! What are you doing here? Oh—Jack -Ralston—I see.”</p> - -<p>The speaker was a very minute and cheerful specimen of human New York -club life,—pink-cheeked, black-eyed, neat and brisk, not more than five -feet six inches in height, round as a little barrel, with tiny hands and -feet. He watched Ralston, as soon as he noticed him. The bar-tender had -emptied the pint bottle of champagne into the glass and Ralston had set -it to his lips with the evident intention of finishing it at a draught.</p> - -<p>“Hold on, Jack!” cried Frank Miner, the small man. “I say—easy there! -You’ll have apoplexy or something—I say—”</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak to a man on his drink, Frank,” said Bright, calmly. “When I -drove cattle in the Nacimiento Valley we used to shoot for that.”<a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a></p> - -<p>“I shall avoid that place,” answered Miner.</p> - -<p>Ralston drew a long breath as he set down the empty glass.</p> - -<p>“I wanted that,” he said, half to himself. “Hallo, Frank—is that you? -What will you have?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing—now—thank you,” answered Miner. “I’ve satisfied my thirst and -cured my tendency to vice by seeing you take that down. You’re a -beautiful sight and an awful example for a thirsty man. Get -photographed, Jack—they could sell lots of copies at temperance -meetings. Heard the story about the temperance tracts? Stop me if you -have. Man went out to sell teetotal tracts in Missouri. Came back and -his friends were surprised to see him alive. ‘Never had such a good time -in my life,’ said he. ‘Every man to whom I offered a tract pulled out a -pistol and said, “Drink or I’ll shoot.” And here I am.’ There’s a chance -for you, Jack, when you get stuck.”</p> - -<p>Bright and Ralston laughed at the little man’s story and all three -turned and left the bar-room together.</p> - -<p>“Seen the old gentleman lately?” enquired Frank Miner, as they came out -upon the pavement.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean uncle Robert?” asked Bright.</p> - -<p>“Yes—cousin Robert, as we call him.”</p> - -<p>“It always amuses me to hear a little chap like you calling that old -giant ‘cousin,’ ” said Bright.<a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a></p> - -<p>“He likes it. It makes him feel frisky. Besides, he is a sort of cousin. -My uncle Thompson married Margaret Lauderdale—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—I know all about the genealogy,” laughed Bright.</p> - -<p>“Who was Robert Lauderdale’s own cousin,” continued Miner. “And as -Robert Lauderdale is your great-uncle and Jack Ralston’s great-uncle, -that makes you second cousins to each other and makes me your—let me -see—both—”</p> - -<p>“Shut up, Frank!” exclaimed Ralston. “You’ve got it all wrong again. -Uncle Robert isn’t Bright’s great-uncle. He’s first cousin to your -deceased aunt Margaret, who was Bright’s grandmother, and you’re first -cousin to his mother and first cousin, once removed, to him; and he’s my -third cousin and you’re no relation to me at all, except by your uncle’s -marriage, and if you want to know anything more about it you have your -choice between the family Bible and the Bloomingdale insane -asylum—which is a quiet, healthy place, well situated.”</p> - -<p>“Well then, what relation am I to my cousin Robert?” asked Miner, with a -grin.</p> - -<p>“An imaginary relation, my dear boy.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I say! And his being my very own aunt by marriage’s own cousin is -not to count for anything, because you two are such big devils and I am -only a light weight, and you could polish your<a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a> boots with me if I made -a fuss! It’s too bad! Upon my word, brute force rules society as much as -it ever did in the middle ages. So there goes my long-cherished claim -upon a rich relation. However, you’ve destroyed the illusion so often -before that I know how to resurrect it.”</p> - -<p>“For that matter,” said Bright, “the fact is about as illusory as the -illusion itself. If you insist upon being considered as one of the -Lauderdale tribe, we’re glad to have you on your own merits—but you’ll -get nothing out of it but the glory—”</p> - -<p>“I know. It gives me a fictitious air of respectability to be one of -you. Besides, you should be proud to have a man of letters—”</p> - -<p>“Say an author at once,” suggested Ralston.</p> - -<p>“No. I’m honest, if I’m anything,—which is doubtful. A man of letters, -I say, can be useful in a family. Suppose, for instance, that Jack -invented an electric street-dog, or—”</p> - -<p>“What?” enquired Ralston, with a show of interest. “An electric what?”</p> - -<p>“I was only thinking of something new,” said Miner, thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>“I thought you said, an electric street-dog—”</p> - -<p>“I did—yes. Something of that sort, just for illustration. I believe -they had one at Chicago, with an india-rubber puppy,—at least, if they -didn’t, they ought to have had it,—but anything of the<a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a> kind would -do—self-drying champagne—anything! Suppose that Jack invented -something useful like that, I could write it up in the papers, and get -up advertisements for it, and help the family to get rich.”</p> - -<p>“Is that the sort of literature you cultivate?” asked Bright.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no! Much more flowery—quite like the flowers of the field in some -ways, for it cometh up—to the editor’s office—in the morning, and in -the evening, if not sooner, it is cut down—by the editor—dried up, and -withered, or otherwise disposed of, so that it cannot be said to reach -the general public.”</p> - -<p>“Not very paying, I should think.”</p> - -<p>“Well—not to me. But of course, if there were not so much of it offered -to the magazines and papers, there wouldn’t be so many people employed -by them to read and reject articles. So somebody gets a living out of -it. I console myself with the certainty that my efforts help to keep at -least one man in every office from starvation. I spoke to cousin Robert -about it and he seemed rather pleased by the idea, and said that he -would mention it to his brother, old Mr. Alexander, who’s a -philanthropist—”</p> - -<p>“Call him cousin Alexander,” suggested Ralston. “Why do you make any -distinction?”</p> - -<p>“Because he’s not the rich one,” answered Miner,<a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a> imperturbably. “He’ll -be promoted to be my cousin, if the fortune is left to him.”</p> - -<p>“Then I’m afraid he’ll continue to languish among your non-cousin -acquaintances.”</p> - -<p>“Why shouldn’t he inherit the bulk of the property?” enquired Miner, -speaking more seriously.</p> - -<p>“Because he’s a philanthropist, and would spend it all on idiots and -‘fresh air funds,’ and things of that sort.”</p> - -<p>“There is Alexander Junior,” suggested Miner. “He’s careful enough, I’m -sure. I suppose it will go to him.”</p> - -<p>“I doubt that, too,” said Bright. “Alexander Junior goes to the opposite -extreme. However, Jack knows more about that than I do—and is a nearer -relation, besides.”</p> - -<p>“Ham is right,” answered John Ralston, thoughtfully. “Cousin Sandy is -the most villainous, infernal, steel-trap-fingered, patent-locked old -miser that ever sat down in a cellar chinking money bags.”</p> - -<p>“There’s a certain force about your language,” observed Miner.</p> - -<p>“I believe he’s not rich,” said Bright. “So he has an excuse.”</p> - -<p>“Poor!” exclaimed Ralston, contemptuously. “I’m poor.”</p> - -<p>“I wish I were, then—in your way,” returned<a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a> Miner. “That was Irroy -Brut, I noticed. It looked awfully good. It’s true that you haven’t two -daughters, as your cousin Sandy has.”</p> - -<p>“Nor a millionaire son-in-law—like Ben Slayback,—Slayback of Nevada he -is, in the Congressional Record, because there’s another from somewhere -else.”</p> - -<p>“He wears a green tie,” said Miner, softly. “I saw him two years ago, -before he and Charlotte were married.”</p> - -<p>“I know,” answered Ralston. “Cousin Katharine hates him, I believe. -Uncle Robert will probably leave the whole fortune in trust for -Slayback’s children. There’s a little boy. They say he has red hair, -like his father, and they have christened him Alexander—merely as an -expression of hope. It would be just like uncle Robert.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe it,” said Bright. “But as for Slayback, don’t abuse him -till you know him better. I knew him out West, years ago. He’s a brick.”</p> - -<p>“He is precisely the colour of one,” retorted Ralston.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be spiteful, Jack.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not spiteful. I daresay he’s full of virtue, as all horrid people -are—inside. The outside of him is one of nature’s finest failures, and -his manners are awful always—and worse when he tries to polish them for -the evening. He’s a<a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a> corker, a thing to scare sharks with—it doesn’t -follow that he’s been a train-wrecker or a defaulting cashier, and I -didn’t say it did. Oh, yes—I know—handsome is that puts its hand into -its pocket, and that sort of thing. Give me some soda water with a -proverb in it—that confounded Irroy wasn’t dry enough.”</p> - -<p>Frank Miner looked up into Bright’s eyes and smiled surreptitiously. He -was walking between his two taller companions. Bright glanced at -Ralston’s lean, nervous face, and saw that the lines of ill-temper had -deepened during the last quarter of an hour. It was not probable that a -pint of wine could alone have any perceptible effect on the man’s head, -but it was impossible to know what potations had preceded the draught.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Bright. “Such speeches as that are not spiteful. They’re -foolish. Besides, Slayback’s a friend of mine.”</p> - -<p>Miner looked up again, but in surprise. Ralston turned sharply on -Bright.</p> - -<p>“I say, Ham—” he began.</p> - -<p>“All right, Jack,” Bright interrupted, striding steadily along. “We’re -not going to quarrel. Stand up for your friends, and I’ll stand up for -mine. That’s all.”</p> - -<p>“I haven’t any,” answered Ralston, growing suddenly gloomy again.</p> - -<p>“Oh! Well—so much the better for you, then.”<a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a></p> - -<p>For a few moments no one spoke again. Miner broke the silence. He was a -cheerful little soul, and hated anything like an unpleasant situation.</p> - -<p>“Heard about the cow and the collar-stud, Jack?” he enquired, by way of -coming to the rescue.</p> - -<p>“Chestnut!” growled Ralston.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” answered Miner, who was nevertheless convinced that Ralston -had not heard the joke. “I wasn’t going to tell it. It only struck me -just then.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” asked Bright, who failed to see any connection between a cow, a -stud and Ralston’s bad humour.</p> - -<p>“The trouble with you, Bright, is that you’re so painfully literal,” -returned Miner, who had got himself into a conversational difficulty. -“Now I was thinking of a figurative cow.”</p> - -<p>“What has that to do with it?” enquired Bright, inexorably.</p> - -<p>“It’s very simple, I’m sure. Isn’t it, Jack?”</p> - -<p>“Perfectly,” answered Ralston, absently, as he watched a figure that -attracted his attention fifty yards ahead of him.</p> - -<p>“There!” exclaimed Miner, triumphantly. “Jack saw it at once. Of course, -if you want me to explain anything so perfectly idiotic—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t bother, I’m stupid to-day,” said Bright, completely -mystified.</p> - -<p>“What’s the joke, anyhow?” asked Ralston,<a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a> suddenly realizing that Miner -had spoken to him. “I said I understood, but I didn’t, in the least. I -was thinking about that—about Slayback—and then I saw somebody I knew, -and I didn’t hear what you said.”</p> - -<p>“You didn’t lose much,” answered Miner. “I should be sincerely grateful -if you’d drop the subject, which is a painful one with me. If anything -can touch me to the quick, it’s the horrible certainty that I’ve pulled -the trigger and that the joke hasn’t gone off, not even flashed in the -pan, or fizzled, or sputtered and petered out, or even raised itself to -the level of a decent failure, fit for immediate burial if for nothing -else.”</p> - -<p>“You’re getting a little mixed in your similes, Frank,” observed Bright.</p> - -<p>“The last one reminds me of what Bright and I were talking of before you -joined us, Frank,” said Ralston.</p> - -<p>“Burial?”</p> - -<p>“The next thing before it—undertakers. I’m thinking of becoming one. -Bright says it’s the only thing I’ve not tried, and that as I have the -elements of success in my character, I must necessarily succeed in that. -There’s a large establishment of the kind in Sixth Avenue, not far from -here. I think I’ll call and see a member of the firm.”</p> - -<p>“All right,” assented Miner, with a laugh.<a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a> “Take me in with you as -epitaph-writer. I’ll treat your bodies to a display of the English -language that will make them sit up.”</p> - -<p>“I believe you could!” exclaimed Bright, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>Ralston turned to the left, into Thirty-second Street. His companions, -quite indifferent as to the direction they took, followed his lead.</p> - -<p>“I’m going to do it, Ham, you know,” said Ralston, as they walked along.</p> - -<p>“What?”</p> - -<p>“I’m going to the undertaker’s in Sixth Avenue.”</p> - -<p>“All right—if you think it amusing.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll all go. It’s appropriate to go as a body, if one goes there at -all.”</p> - -<p>“Frank,” said Bright, gravely, “be funny if you can. Be ghastly if you -like. But if you make puns, make them at a man of your own size. It’s -safer.”</p> - -<p>The little man chirped pleasantly in answer, as he trotted along between -the two. He believed, innocently enough, that Bright and Ralston had -been at the point of a quarrel, and that he had saved the situation with -his nonsense.</p> - -<p>At the end of the street, where it makes a corner with Broadway, stands -a big hotel. Ralston glanced at the door on Thirty-second Street, which -is the ladies’ entrance, and stopped in his walk.</p> - -<p>“I want to leave a card on some people at the<a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a> Imperial,” he said. “I’ll -be back in a moment.” And he disappeared within.</p> - -<p>Bright and Miner stood waiting outside.</p> - -<p>“Do you believe that—about leaving a card?” asked Miner, after a pause.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” answered Bright.</p> - -<p>“Because I think he’s got the beginning of a ‘jag’ on him now. He’s gone -in for something short to settle that long drink. Pity, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>Bright did not answer at once.</p> - -<p>“I say, Frank,” he said at last, “don’t talk about Jack’s -drinking—there’s a good fellow. He’ll get over it all right, some day.”</p> - -<p>“People do talk about it a good deal,” answered Miner. “I don’t think -I’m worse than other people, and I’ll try to talk less. But it’s been -pretty bad, lately. The trouble is, you can’t tell just how far gone he -is. He has a strong head—up to a certain point, and then he’s a fiend, -all at once. And he’s always quarrelsome, even when he’s sober, so -that’s no sign.”</p> - -<p>“Poor chap! He inherits it to some extent. His father could drink more -than most men, and generally did.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. I met a man the other day—a fellow in the Navy—who told me they -had no end of stories of the old Admiral. But no one ever saw him the -worse for it.”<a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a></p> - -<p>“That’s true enough. But no nerves will last through two generations of -whiskey.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose not.” Miner paused. “You see,” he continued, presently, “he -could have left his card in half the time he’s been in there. Come in. -We shall find him at the bar.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Bright. “I won’t spy on him. I shouldn’t like it myself.”</p> - -<p>“And he says he has no friends!” exclaimed Miner, not without -admiration.</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s only his way when he’s cross. Not that his friends are of -any use to him. He’ll have to work out his own salvation alone—or his -own damnation, poor devil!”</p> - -<p>Before Miner made any answer, Ralston came out again. His face looked -drawn and weary and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He stood -still a moment on the threshold of the door, looked deliberately to the -left, towards Broadway, then to the right, along the street, and at last -at his friends. Then he slowly lighted a cigarette, brushed a tiny -particle of ash from the sleeve of his rough black coat and came out -upon the pavement, with a quick, decided step.</p> - -<p>“Now then, I’m ready for the undertaker,” he said, with a sour smile. -“Sorry to have kept you waiting so long,” he added, as though by an -afterthought.</p> - -<p>“Not a bit,” answered Miner, cheerfully.<a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a></p> - -<p>Bright said nothing, and his quiet, healthy face expressed nothing. But -as they went towards the crossing of Broadway, he was walking beside -Ralston, instead of letting little Frank Miner keep his place in the -middle.<a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was between three and four o’clock, and Broadway was crowded, as it -generally is at that time in the afternoon. In the normal life of a -great city, the crowd flows and ebbs in the thoroughfares as regularly -as the blood in a living body. From that mysterious, grey hour, when the -first distant rumble is heard in the deserted streets, just before the -outlines of the chimneys become distinct against the clouds or the murky -sky, when the night-worker and the man of pleasure, the day-labourer and -the dawn, all meet for a brief moment at one of the crossings in daily -life’s labyrinth, through all the four and twenty hours in which each -pulsation is completed, until that dull, far-off roll of the earliest -cart echoes again, followed within a few minutes by many others,—round -and round the clock again, with unfailing exactness, you may note the -same rise and fall of the life-stream.</p> - -<p>The point at which Ralston and his companions crossed Broadway is a -particularly busy one. It is near many of the principal theatres; there -are <a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>a number of big hotels in the neighbourhood; there are some -fashionable shops; it is only one short block from the junction of -Broadway and Sixth Avenue, where there is an important station of the -elevated road, and there are the usual carts, vans and horse-cars -chasing each other up and down, and not leaving even enough road for two -carriages to pass one another on either side of the tracks. The streams -of traffic meet noisily, and thump and bump and jostle through the -difficulty, and a man standing there may watch the expression change in -all the faces as they approach the point. The natural look disappears -for a moment; the eyes glance nervously to the right and left; the lips -are set as though for an effort; the very carriage of the body is -different, as though the muscles were tightened for an exertion which -the frame may or may not be called upon to make instantly without -warning. It is an odd sight, though one which few people see, every one -being concerned to some extent for his own safety, and oblivious of his -neighbour’s dangers.</p> - -<p>Ralston and the others stood at the corner waiting for an opportunity to -pass. There was a momentary interruption of the line of vehicles on the -up-town side, which was nearest to them. Ralston stepped forward first -toward the track. Glancing to the left, he saw a big express cart coming -up at full speed, and on the other track,<a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a> from his right as he stood, a -horse-car was coming down, followed at some distance by a large, empty -van. The horse-car was nearest to him, and passed the corner briskly. A -small boy, wheeling an empty perambulator and leading a good-looking -rough terrier by a red string, crossed towards Ralston between the -horse-car and the van, dragging the dog after him, and was about to -cross the other track when he saw that the express cart rattling up town -was close upon him. He paused, and drew back a little to let it pass, -pulling back his perambulator, which, however, caught sideways between -the rails. At the same instant the clanging bell and the clatter of a -fire engine, followed by a hook and ladder cart, and driven at full -speed, produced a sudden commotion, and the man who was driving the -empty van looked backward and hastened his horses, in order to get out -of the way. In the confusion the little boy and his perambulator were in -danger of annihilation.</p> - -<p>Ralston jumped the track, snatched the boy in one arm and lifted the -perambulator bodily with his other hand, throwing them across the second -pair of rails as he sprang. He fell at full length in the carriage way. -He lay quite still for a moment, and the horses of the empty van stuck -out their fore-feet and stopped with a plunge close beside him. The -people paused on the pavement, and one or two came forward to help him. -There is<a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a> no policeman at this crossing as a rule, as there is one a -block higher, at the main corner. Ralston was not hurt, however, though -he had narrowly escaped losing his foot, for the wheel of one of the -vehicles had torn the heel from his shoe. He was on his legs in a few -moments, holding the terrified boy by the collar, and lecturing him -roughly upon the folly of doing risky things with a perambulator. -Meanwhile the horse-cars and wagons which had blocked the crossing -having moved off in opposite directions, Bright and Frank Miner ran -across. Bright was very pale as he passed his arm through Ralston’s and -drew him away. Miner looked at him with silent admiration, having all -his life longed to be the hero of some such accident.</p> - -<p>“I wish you wouldn’t do such things, Jack,” said Bright, in his calm -voice. “Are you hurt?”</p> - -<p>“Not a bit,” answered Ralston, who seemed to have enjoyed the -excitement. “The thing almost took off my foot, though. I can’t walk. -Come over to the Imperial again. I’ll get brushed down, and take a cab. -Come along—I can’t stand this crowd. There’ll be a reporter in a -minute.”</p> - -<p>Without further words the three recrossed the street to the hotel.</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose the most rigid doctor would object to my having -something to drink after that tumble,” observed Ralston, as they passed -through the crowded hall.<a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a></p> - -<p>“Every man is the best judge of what he wants,” answered Bright.</p> - -<p>Few people noticed, or appeared to notice, Ralston’s dilapidated -condition, his smashed hat, his dusty clothes and his heelless shoe. He -found a hall-boy who brushed him, and little Frank Miner did his best to -restore the hat to an appearance of respectability.</p> - -<p>“All right, Frank,” said Ralston. “Don’t bother—I’m going home in a -cab, you know.”</p> - -<p>He led the way to the bar, swallowed half a tumbler of whiskey neat, and -then got into a carriage.</p> - -<p>“See you this evening,” he said briefly, as he nodded to Bright and -Miner, and shut the cab door after him.</p> - -<p>The other two watched the carriage a moment, as it drove away, and then -looked at one another. Miner had a trick of moving his right ear when he -was puzzled. It is rather an unusual peculiarity, and his friends knew -what it meant. As Bright looked at him the ear began to move slowly, -backwards and forwards, with a slight upward motion. Bright smiled.</p> - -<p>“You needn’t wag it so far, Frank,” he said. “He’s going home. It will -be all right now.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so—or I hope so, at least. I wonder if Mrs. Ralston is in.”</p> - -<p>“Why?”</p> - -<p>“The trouble with you intelligent men is that<a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a> you have no sense,” -answered the little man. “He’s had another drink—four fingers it was, -too—and he’s been badly shaken up, and he had the beginning of a ‘jag’ -on before, and he’s going home in a rolling cab, which makes it worse. -If he meets his mother, there’ll be a row. That’s all. Even when I was a -boy it wasn’t good form to be drunk before dinner, and nobody drinks -now—at least, not as they used to. Well—it’s none of my business.”</p> - -<p>“It’s everybody’s business,” said Bright. “But a harder man to handle I -don’t know. He’ll either come to grief or glory, or both together, one -of these days. It’s not the quantity he takes—it’s the confounded -irregularity of him. I’m going to the club—are you coming?”</p> - -<p>“I may as well correct my proofs there as anywhere else. Pocket’s full -of them.” Miner tapped his round little chest with an air of some -importance.</p> - -<p>“Proofs, eh? Something new?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve worn them out, my boy. They’re incapable of returning me with -thanks any more—until next time. I’ve worn them out, heel and -toe,—right out.”</p> - -<p>“Is it a book, Frank?”</p> - -<p>“Not yet. But it’s going to be. This is the first—a series of essays, -you know—this is the wedge, and I’ve got it in, and I’m going to drive<a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a> -it for all I’m worth, and when there are six or seven they’ll make a -book, together with some other things—something in the same -style—which have appeared before.”</p> - -<p>“I’m very glad, old man. I congratulate you. Go in and win.”</p> - -<p>“It’s an awful life, though,” said Frank Miner, growing suddenly grave.</p> - -<p>Bright glanced at the neat, rotund little figure, at the pink cheeks and -bright eyes, and he smiled quietly.</p> - -<p>“It’s not wearing you to the bone yet,” he observed.</p> - -<p>“Oh—that’s no sign! Look at Napoleon. He had rather my figure, I -believe. What’s the good of getting thin about things, anyhow? It’s only -unhappy people who get thin. You work hard enough, Ham, in your humdrum -way—oh, I don’t envy your lot!—and you’re laying it on, Ham, you’re -laying it on steadily, year after year. You’ll be a fat man, Ham—ever -so much fatter than I am, because there’s twice as much of you, to begin -with. Besides, you’ve got a big chest and that makes a man look stout. -But then, you don’t care, do you? You’re perfectly happy, so you get -fat. So would Apollo, if he were a successful banker, and gave up -bothering about goddesses and things. As for me, I about keep my weight. -Given up bread, though—last summer. Bad thing, bread.”<a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a></p> - -<p>So Miner chattered on as he walked by his friend’s side, towards the -club. There was no great talent in him, though he had drifted into -literature, and of industry he had not so much as he made people -believe. But he possessed the treasure of cheerfulness, and dispensed it -freely in his conversation, whereas in his writings he strove at the -production of gruesome and melancholy tales, stories of suffering and -horror, the analysis of pain and the portraiture of death in many forms. -The contradiction between the disposition of literary men and their -works is often a curious study.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston was at home that afternoon, or rather, to be accurate in -the social sense, she was in, and had given orders to the general effect -that only her particular friends were to be admitted. This, again, is a -statement susceptible of misapprehension, as she had not really any -particular friends in the world, but only acquaintances in divers -degrees of intimacy, who called themselves her friends and sometimes -called one another her enemies. But of such matters she took little -heed, and was at no pains to set people right with regard to her private -opinion of them. She did many kind things within society’s limits and -without, but she was wise enough to expect nothing in return, being well -aware that real gratitude is a mysterious cryptogam like the truffle, -and indeed<a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a> closely resembling the latter in its rarity, its spontaneous -growth, its unprepossessing appearance, and in the fact that it is more -often found and enjoyed by the lower animals than by man.</p> - -<p>It may be as well to elucidate here the somewhat intricate points of the -Lauderdales’ genealogy and connections, seeing that both have a direct -bearing upon the life of Katharine Lauderdale, of John Ralston, and of -many others who will appear in the course of this episodic history.</p> - -<p>In old times the primeval Alexander Lauderdale, a younger son of an -honourable Scotch family, brought his wife, with a few goods and no -particular chattels, to New York, and they had two sons, Alexander and -Robert, and died and were buried. Of these two sons the elder, -Alexander, did very well in the world, married a girl of Dutch family, -Anna Van Blaricorn, and had three sons, and he and his wife died and -were buried beside the primeval Alexander.</p> - -<p>Of these three sons the eldest was Alexander Lauderdale, the -philanthropist, of whom mention has been made, who was alive at the time -this story begins, who married a young girl of Puritan lineage and some -fortune. She died when their only son, Alexander Lauderdale Junior, was -twenty-two years of age. The latter married Emma Camperdown, of the -Kentucky Catholic family, and had two daughters, the elder, Charlotte, -married<a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a> at the present time to Benjamin Slayback of Nevada, member of -Congress, the younger, Katharine Lauderdale, being John Ralston’s dark -cousin.</p> - -<p>So much for the first of the three sons. The second was Robert -Lauderdale, the famous millionaire, the uncle Robert spoken of by -Ralston and the others, who never married, and was at the time of this -tale about seventy-five years of age. He originally made a great sum by -a fortunate investment in a piece of land which lies in the heart of the -present city of Chicago, and having begun with real estate he stuck to -it like the wise man he was, and its value doubled and decupled and -centupled, and no one knew how rich he was. He was the second son of the -elder son of the primeval Alexander.</p> - -<p>The third son of that elder son was Ralph Lauderdale, who was killed at -the battle of Chancellorsville in the Civil War. He married a Miss -Charlotte Mainwaring, whose father had been an Englishman settled -somewhere in the South. Katharine, the widow of the late Admiral -Ralston, was the only child of their marriage, and her only child was -John Ralston, second cousin to Katharine Lauderdale and Mrs. Slayback.</p> - -<p>But the primeval Alexander had a second son Robert, who had only one -daughter, Margaret, married to Rufus Thompson. And Rufus Thompson<a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>’s -sister married Livingston Miner of New York, and was the mother of Frank -Miner and of three unmarried daughters. That is the Miner connection.</p> - -<p>And on the Lauderdale side Rufus Thompson had one daughter by his wife, -Margaret Lauderdale; and that daughter married Richard Bright of -Cincinnati, who died, leaving two children, Hamilton Bright and his -sister Hester, the wife of Walter Crowdie, the eminent painter of New -York. This is the relationship of the Brights to the Lauderdales. -Bright, John Ralston and Katharine Lauderdale were all descended from -the same great-great-grandfather—the primeval Alexander. And as there -is nothing duller to the ordinary mind than genealogy, except the -laborious process of tracing it, little more shall be said about it -hereafter, and the ingenious reader may refer to these pages when he is -in doubt.</p> - -<p>It has been shown, however, that all these modern individuals with whom -we have to do come from a common stock, except little Frank Miner, who -could only boast of a connection by marriage. For it was a good stock, -and the families of all the women who had married into it were proud of -it, and some of them were glad to speak of it when they had a chance. -None of the Lauderdales had ever come to any great distinction, it is -true, except Robert, by his fabulous wealth. But none<a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a> of them had ever -done anything dishonourable either, nor even approaching it. There had -not even been a divorce in the family. Some of the men had fought in the -war, and one had been killed, and, through Robert, the name was a power -in the country. It was said that there had never been any wild blood in -the family either, until Ralph married Miss Mainwaring, and that John -Ralston got all his faults from his grandmother. But that may or may not -be true, seeing that no one knows much of the early youth of the -primeval Alexander before he came to this country.</p> - -<p>It is probably easier for a man to describe a man than a woman. The -converse may possibly be true also. Men see men, on the whole, very much -as they are, each man being to each other an assemblage of facts which -can be catalogued and referred to. But most men receive from woman an -indefinite and perhaps undefinable impression, besides, and sometimes -altogether at variance with what is merely visible. It is very hard to -convey any idea of that impression to a third person, even in the actual -presence of the woman described; it is harder still when the only means -are the limited black and white of printed English.</p> - -<p>Katharine Lauderdale, at least, had a fair share of beauty of a certain -typical kind, a general conception of which belongs to everybody, but -her aunt Katharine had not even that. No one ever called<a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a> Katharine -Ralston beautiful, and yet no one had ever classed her among pretty -girls when she had been young. Between the two, between prettiness and -beauty, there is a debatable country of brown-skinned, bright-eyed, -swift-like women of aquiline feature, and sometimes of almost man-like -energy, who succeed in the world, and are often worshipped for three -things—their endurance, their smile and their voice. They are women who -by laying no claim to the immunities of womanhood acquire a direct right -to consideration for their own sakes. They also may often possess that -mysterious gift known as charm, which is incomparably more valuable than -all the classic beauty and perfection of colouring which nature can -accumulate in one individual. Beauty fades; wit wears out; but charm is -not evanescent.</p> - -<p>Katharine Ralston had it, and sometimes wondered what it was, and even -tried to understand herself by determining clearly what it was not. But -for the most part she thought nothing about it, which is probably the -best rule for preserving it, if it needs any sort of preservation.</p> - -<p>Outwardly, her son strongly resembled her. He had from her his dark -complexion, his lean face and his brown eyes, as well as a certain grace -of figure and a free carriage of the head which belong to the pride of -station—a little exaggerated—which both mother and son possessed in a -high<a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a> degree. Katharine Ralston did not talk of her family, but she -believed in it, as something in which it was good to believe from the -bottom of her heart, and she had brought up John to feel that he came -from a stock of gentlemen and gentlewomen who might be bad, but could -not be mean, nor anything but gentle in the vague, heraldic sense of -that good word.</p> - -<p>She was a sensible woman and saw her son’s faults. They were not small, -by any means, nor insignificant by their nature, nor convenient faults -for a young gentleman about town, who had the reputation of having tried -several occupations and of having failed with quite equal brilliancy in -all. But they were not faults that estranged him from her, though she -suffered much for his sake in a certain way. She would rather have had -him a drunkard, a gambler, almost a murderer, than have seen him turn -out a hypocrite. She would far rather have seen him killed before her -than have known that he had ever lied to save himself, or done any of -the mean little sins, for which there may be repentance here and -forgiveness hereafter, but from the pollution of which honour knows no -purification.</p> - -<p>Religion she had none whatever, and frankly owned the fact if questioned -directly. But she made no profession of atheism and gave no grounds for -her unbelief. She merely said that she could not<a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a> believe in the -existence of the soul, an admission which at once settled all other -kindred points, so far as she was concerned. But she regretted her own -position. In her childhood, her ideas had been unsettled by the constant -discussions which took place between her parents. Her father, like all -the Lauderdales, had been a Presbyterian. Her mother had been an -Episcopalian, and, moreover, a woman alternately devout and doubting. -Katharine shared neither the prejudices nor the convictions of either. -Then she had married Admiral Ralston, a man, like many officers of the -Navy, of considerable scientific acquirements, and full to overflowing -of the scientific arguments against religion, which were even more -popular in his day than they are now. What little hold the elder -Katharine had still possessed upon an undefined future state was finally -destroyed by her sailor husband’s rough, sledge-hammer arguments. In the -place of religion she set up a sort of code of honour to which she -rigidly adhered, and in the observance of which she brought up her only -son.</p> - -<p>It is worth remarking that until he finally left college she encouraged -him to be religious, if he would, and regularly took him to church so -long as he was a boy. She even persuaded his father not to talk atheism -before him; and the admiral, who was as conservative as only republicans -can be, was quite willing to let the young fellow choose for<a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a> himself -what he should believe or reject when he should come to years of -discretion. Up to the age of twenty-one, Jack had been a remarkably -sober and thoughtful young fellow. He began to change soon after his -father died.</p> - -<p>Ralston let himself in with his key when he got home and went upstairs, -supposing that his mother was out, as she usually was at that hour. She -heard his footstep, however, as he passed the door of her own -sitting-room, on the first landing, and having no idea that anything was -wrong, she called to him.</p> - -<p>“Is that you, Jack?”</p> - -<p>Ralston stopped and in the dusk of the staircase realized for the first -time that he was not sober. He made an effort when he spoke, answering -through the closed door.</p> - -<p>“It’s all right, mother; I’ll be down in a few minutes.”</p> - -<p>Something unusual in the tone of his voice must have struck Mrs. -Ralston. He had made but two steps forward when she opened the door, -throwing the light full upon him.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter, Jack?” she asked, quietly.</p> - -<p>Then she saw his face, the deep lines, the drawn expression, the shadows -under the eyes and the unnatural dull light in the eyes themselves. And -in the same glance she saw that his hat was battered and that his -clothes were dusty and<a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a> stained. She knew well enough that he drank more -than was good for him, but she had never before seen him in such a -state. The broad daylight, too, and the disorder of his clothes made him -look much more intoxicated than he really was. Katharine Ralston stood -still in silence for a moment, and looked at her son. Her face grew a -little pale just before she spoke again.</p> - -<p>“Are you sober enough to take care of yourself?” she asked rather -harshly, for there was a dryness in her throat.</p> - -<p>John Ralston was no weakling, and was, moreover, thoroughly accustomed -to controlling his nerves, as many men are who drink habitually—until -the nerves themselves give way. He drew himself up and felt that he was -perfectly steady before he answered in measured tones.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry you should see me just now, mother. I had a little accident, -and I took some whiskey afterwards to steady me. It has gone to my head. -I’m very sorry.”</p> - -<p>That was more than enough for his mother. She came swiftly forward, and -gently took him by the arm to lead him into her room. But Ralston’s -sense of honour was not quite satisfied.</p> - -<p>“It’s partly my fault, mother. I had been taking other things before, -but I was all right until the accident happened.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston smiled almost imperceptibly. She<a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a> was glad that he should -be so honest, even when he was so far gone. She led him through the door -into her own room, and made him sit down in a comfortable chair near the -window.</p> - -<p>“Never mind, Jack,” she said, “I’m just like a man about understanding -things. I know you won’t do it again.”</p> - -<p>But Ralston knew his own weakness, and made no rash promises then, -though a great impulse arose in his misty understanding, bidding him -then and there make a desperately solemn vow, and keep it, or do away -with himself if he failed. He only bowed his head, and sat down, as his -mother bid him. He was ashamed, and he was a man to whom shame was -particularly bitter.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston got some cold water in a little bowl, and bathed his -forehead, touching him as tenderly as she would have touched a sick -child. He submitted readily enough, and turned up his brows gratefully -to her hand.</p> - -<p>“Your head is a little bruised,” she said. “Were you hurt anywhere else? -What happened? Can you tell me now, or would you rather wait?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it was nothing much,” answered Ralston, speaking more easily now. -“There was a boy, with a perambulator, getting between the cars and -carts. I got him out of the way, and tumbled down, because there wasn’t -even time to jump. I threw myself after the boy—somehow. The wheel took -off the<a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a> heel of my boot, but I wasn’t hurt. I’m all right now. Thank -you, mother dear. There never was anybody like you to understand.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston was very pale again, but John could not see her face.</p> - -<p>“Don’t risk such things, Jack,” she said, in a low voice. “They hurt one -badly.”</p> - -<p>Ralston said nothing, but took her hand and kissed it gently. She -pressed his silently, and touched his matted hair with her tightly shut -lips. Then he got up.</p> - -<p>“I’ll go to my room, now,” he said. “I’m much better. It will be all -gone in half an hour. I suppose it was the shaking,—but I did swallow a -big dose after my tumble.”</p> - -<p>“Say nothing more about it, my dear,” answered Mrs. Ralston, quietly.</p> - -<p>She turned from him, ostensibly to set the bowl of water upon a table. -But she knew that he could not be perfectly himself again in so short a -time, and if he was still unsteady, she did not wish to see it—for her -own sake.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, mother,” he said, as he left the room.</p> - -<p>She might have watched him, if she had chosen to do so, and she would -have seen nothing unusual now—nothing but his dusty clothes and the -slight limp in his gait, caused by the loss of one low heel. He was -young, and his nerves were good,<a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a> and he had a very strong incentive in -the shame he still felt. Moreover, under ordinary circumstances, even -the quantity he had drunk would not have produced any visible bodily -effect on him, however it might have affected his naturally uncertain -temper. It was quite true that the fall and the excitement of the -accident had shaken him.</p> - -<p>He reached his own room, shut the door, and then sat down to look at -himself in the glass, as men under the influence of drink very often do, -for some mysterious reason. Possibly the drunken man has a vague idea -that he can get control over himself by staring at his own image, and -into the reflection of his own eyes. John Ralston never stayed before -the mirror longer than was absolutely necessary, except when he had -taken too much.</p> - -<p>But to-day he was conscious that, in spite of appearances, he was -rapidly becoming bodily sober. If it had all happened at night, he would -have wound up at a club, and would probably have come home in the small -hours, in order to be sure of not finding his mother downstairs, and he -would have been in a very dubious condition. But the broad light, the -cold water, his profound shame and his natural nerve had now combined to -restore him, outwardly at least, and so far as he was conscious, to his -normal state.</p> - -<p>He bathed, looked at the clock, and saw that it was not yet five, and -then dressed himself as<a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a> though to go out. But, before doing so, he sat -down and smoked a cigarette. He felt nervously active now, refreshed and -able to face anything. Before he had half finished smoking he had made -up his mind to show himself to his mother and then to go for a walk -before dinner.</p> - -<p>He glanced once more at the mirror to assure himself that he was not -mistaken, and was surprised at the quick change in his appearance. His -colour had come back, his eyes were quiet, the deeper lines were gone -from his face—lines which should never have been there at five and -twenty. He turned away, well pleased, and went briskly down the stairs, -though it was already growing dark, and the steps were high. After all, -he thought, it was probably the loss of the heel from his shoe that had -made him walk unsteadily. Such an absurd accident had never happened to -him before. He knocked at the door of his mother’s sitting-room, and she -bade him come in.</p> - -<p>“You see, mother, it was nothing, after all,” he said, going up to her -as she sat before the fire.</p> - -<p>She looked up, saw his face, and then smiled happily.</p> - -<p>“I’m so glad, Jack,” she answered, springing to her feet and kissing -him. “You have no idea how you looked when I saw you there on the -landing. I thought you were really—quite—but quite, quite, you know, -my dear boy.”<a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a></p> - -<p>She shook her head, still smiling, and holding both his hands.</p> - -<p>“I’m going for a bit of a walk before dinner,” he said. “Then we’ll have -a quiet evening together, and I shall go to bed early.”</p> - -<p>“That’s right. The walk will do you good. You’re quite wonderful, Jack!” -She laughed outright—he looked so perfectly sober. “Don’t drink any -more whiskey to-day!” she added, not half in earnest.</p> - -<p>“Never fear!” And he laughed too, without any suspicion of himself.</p> - -<p>He walked rapidly down the street in the warm glow of the evening, -heedless of the direction he took. By fate or by habit, he found himself -a quarter of an hour later opposite to Alexander Lauderdale’s house. He -paused, reflected a moment, then ascended the steps and rang the bell.</p> - -<p>“Is Miss Katharine at home?” he enquired of the girl who opened the -door.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir. She came in a moment ago.”</p> - -<p>John Ralston entered the house without further question.<a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Ralston</span> entered the library, as the room was called, although it did not -contain many books. The house was an old-fashioned one in Clinton Place, -which nowadays is West Eighth Street, between Fifth Avenue and Sixth -Avenue, a region respectable and full of boarding houses. In accordance -with the customs of the times in which it had been built, the ground -floor contained three good-sized rooms, known in all such houses as the -library, the drawing-room or ‘parlour,’ and the dining-room, which was -at the back and had windows upon the yard. The drawing-room, being under -the middle of the house, had no windows at all, and was therefore really -available only in the evening. The library, where Ralston waited, was on -the front.</p> - -<p>There was an air of gravity about the place which he had never liked. It -was not exactly gloomy, for it was on too small a scale, nor vulgarly -respectable, for such objects as were for ornament were in good taste, -as a few engravings from serious pictures by great masters, a good -portrait of the primeval Alexander Lauderdale, a small bronze -reproduction<a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a> of the Faun in the Naples museum, two or three fairly good -water-colours, which were apparently views of Scotch scenery, and a big -blue china vase with nothing in it. With a little better arrangement, -these things might have gone far. But the engravings and pictures were -hung with respect to symmetry rather than with regard to the light. The -stiff furniture was stiffly placed against the wall. The books in the -low shelves opposite to the fireplace were chiefly bound in black, in -various stages of shabbiness, and Ralston knew that they were largely -works on religion, and reports of institutions more or less educational -or philanthropic. There was a writing table near the window, upon which -a few papers and writing materials were arranged with a neatness not -business-like, but systematically neat for its own sake—the note paper -was piled with precision upon the middle of the blotter, upon which lay -also the penwiper, and a perfectly new stick of bright red sealing-wax, -so that everything would have to be moved before any one could possibly -write a letter. The carpet was old, and had evidently been taken to -pieces and the breadths refitted with a view to concealing the -threadbare parts, but with effect disastrous to the continuity of the -large green and black pattern. The house was heated by a furnace and -there was no fire in the grim fireplace. That was for economy, as -Ralston knew.<a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a></p> - -<p>For the Lauderdales were evidently poor, though the old philanthropist -who lived upstairs was the only living brother of the arch-millionaire. -But Alexander Senior spent his life in getting as much as he could from -Robert in order to put it into the education of idiots, and would -cheerfully have fed his son and daughter-in-law and Katharine on bread -and water for the sake of educating one idiot more. The same is a part -of philanthropy when it becomes professional. Alexander Junior had a -magnificent reputation for probity, and was concerned in business, being -connected with the administration of a great Trust Company, which -brought him a fixed salary. Beyond that he assured his family that he -had never made a dollar in his life, and that only his health, which -indeed was of iron, stood between them and starvation, an argument which -he used with force to crush any frivolous tendency developed in his wife -and daughter. He had dark hair just turning to a steely grey, steel-grey -eyes, and a long, clean-shaven, steel-grey upper lip, but his eyebrows -were still black. His teeth were magnificent, but he had so little -vanity that he hardly ever smiled, except as a matter of politeness. He -had looked pleased, however, when Benjamin Slayback of Nevada had led -his daughter Charlotte from the altar. Slayback had loved the girl for -her beauty and had taken her penniless; and uncle Robert had given her a -few<a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a> thousands for her bridal outfit. Alexander Junior had therefore -been at no expense for her marriage, except for the cake and -decorations, but it was long before he ceased to speak of his -expenditure for those items. As for Alexander Senior, he really had no -money except for idiots; he wore his clothes threadbare, had his -overcoats turned, and secretly bought his shoes of a little Italian -shoemaker in South Fifth Avenue. He was said to be over eighty years of -age, but was in reality not much older than his rich brother Robert.</p> - -<p>It would be hard to imagine surroundings more uncongenial to Mrs. -Alexander Junior, as Katharine Lauderdale’s mother was generally called. -An ardent Roman Catholic, she was bound to a family of rigid -Presbyterians; a woman of keen artistic sense, she was wedded to a man -whose only measure of things was their money-value; a nature originally -susceptible to the charm of all outward surroundings, and inclining to a -taste for modest luxury rather than to excessive economy, she had -married one whom she in her heart believed to be miserly. She admitted, -indeed, that she would probably have married her husband again, under -like circumstances. The child of a ruined Southern family, loyal during -the Civil War, she had been brought early to New York, and almost as -soon as she was seen in society, Alexander Lauderdale had fallen in love -with her. He had seemed to<a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a> her, as indeed he was still, a splendid -specimen of manhood; he was not rich, but was industrious and was the -nephew of the great Robert Lauderdale. Even her fastidious people could -not say that he was not, from a social point of view, of the best in New -York. She had loved him in a girlish fashion, and they had been married -at once. It was all very natural, and the union might assuredly have -turned out worse than it did.</p> - -<p>Seeing that according to her husband’s continual assurances they were -growing poorer and poorer, Mrs. Alexander had long ago begun to turn her -natural gifts to account, with a view to making a little money wherewith -to provide herself and her daughters with a few harmless luxuries. She -had tried writing and had failed, but she had been more successful with -painting, and had produced some excellent miniatures. Alexander Junior -had at first protested, fearing the artistic tribe as a whole, and -dreading lest his wife should develop a taste for things Bohemian, such -as palms in the drawing-room, and going to the opera in the gallery -rather than not going at all. He did not think of anything else Bohemian -within the range of possibilities, except, perhaps, dirty fingers, which -disgusted him, and unpunctuality, which drove him mad. But when he saw -that his wife earned money, and ceased to ask him for small sums to be -spent on gloves and perishable hats, he rejoiced<a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a> greatly, and began to -suggest that she should invest her savings, placing them in his hands at -five per cent interest. But poor Mrs. Alexander never was so successful -as to have any savings to invest. Her husband accepted gratefully a -miniature of the two girls which she once painted as a surprise and gave -him at Christmas, and he secretly priced it during the following week at -a dealer’s, and was pleased when the man offered him fifty dollars for -it,—which illustrates Alexander’s thoughtful disposition.</p> - -<p>This was the household in which Katharine Lauderdale had grown up, and -these were the people whose characters, temperaments, and looks had -mingled in her own. So far as the latter point was concerned, she had -nothing to complain of. It was not to be expected that the children of -two such handsome people should be anything but beautiful, and Charlotte -and Katharine had plenty of beauty of different types, fair and dark -respectively. Charlotte was most like her mother in appearance, but more -closely resembled her father in nature. Katharine had inherited her -father’s face and strength of constitution with many of her mother’s -gifts, more or less modified and, perhaps, diminished in value. At the -time when this history begins, she was nineteen years old, and had been -what is called ‘out’ in society for more than a year. She therefore, -according to the customs<a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a> of the country and age, enjoyed the privilege -of receiving alone the young gentlemen of her set who either admired her -or found pleasure in her conversation. Of the former there were many; of -the latter, a few.</p> - -<p>Ralston stood with his back to the empty fireplace, staring at the dark -mahogany door which led to the regions of the staircase. He had only -waited five minutes, but he was in an impulsive frame of mind, and it -had seemed a very long time. At last the door opened. Katharine entered -the room, smiled and nodded to him, and then turned and shut the door -carefully before she came forward.</p> - -<p>She was a very beautiful girl. No one could have denied that, in the -main. Yet there was something puzzling in the face, primarily due, -perhaps, to the mixture of races. The features were harmonious, strong -and, on the whole, noble and classic in outline, the mouth especially -being of a very pure type, and the curved lips of that creamy, salmon -rose-colour occasionally seen in dark persons—neither red, nor pink nor -pale. The very broadly marked dark eyebrows gave the face strength, and -the deep grey eyes, almost black at times, had an oddly fixed and -earnest look. In them there was no softness on ordinary occasions. They -expressed rather a determination to penetrate what they saw, not -altogether unmixed<a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a> with wonder at the discoveries they made. The whole -face was boldly outlined, but by no means thin, and the skin was -perceptibly freckled, which is unusual with dark people, and is the -consequence of a red-haired strain in the inheritance. The primeval -Alexander had been a red-haired man, and Robert the Rich had resembled -him before he had grown grey. Charlotte Slayback had christened the -latter by that name. She had a sharp tongue, and called the primeval one -Alexander the Great, her grandfather Alexander the Idiot, and her father -Alexander the Safe. Katharine had her own opinions about most of the -family, but she did not express them so plainly.</p> - -<p>She was still smiling as she met Ralston in the middle of the room.</p> - -<p>“You look happy, dear,” he said, kissing her forehead softly.</p> - -<p>“I’m not,” she answered. “I’m glad to see you. There’s a difference. Sit -down.”</p> - -<p>“Has there been any trouble?” he asked, seating himself in a little low -chair beside the corner of the sofa she had chosen.</p> - -<p>“Not exactly trouble—no. It’s the old story—only it’s getting so old -that I’m beginning to hate it. You understand.”</p> - -<p>“Of course I do. I wish there were anything to be done—which you would -consent to do.” He added the last words as though by an afterthought.<a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a></p> - -<p>“I’ll consent to almost anything, Jack.”</p> - -<p>The smile had vanished from her face and she spoke in a despairing tone, -fixing her big eyes on his, and bending her heavy eyebrows as though in -bodily pain. He took her hand—firm, well-grown and white—in his and -laid it against his lean cheek.</p> - -<p>“Dear!” he said.</p> - -<p>His voice trembled a little, which was unusual. He felt unaccountably -emotional and was more in love than usual. The tone in which he spoke -the single word touched Katharine, and she leaned forward, laying her -other hand upon his other one.</p> - -<p>“You do love me, Jack,” she said.</p> - -<p>“God knows I do,” he answered, very earnestly, and again his voice -quavered.</p> - -<p>It was very still in the room, and the dusk was creeping toward the -high, narrow windows, filling the corners, and blackening the shadowy -places, and then rising from the floor, almost like a tide, till only -the faces of the two young people seemed to be above it, still palely -visible in the twilight.</p> - -<p>Suddenly Katharine rose to her feet, with a quick-drawn breath which was -not quite a sigh.</p> - -<p>“Pull down the shades, Jack,” she said, as she struck a match and lit -the gas at one of the stiff brackets which flanked the mantelpiece.</p> - -<p><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>Ralston obeyed in silence. When he came back she had resumed her seat -in the corner of the sofa, and he sat down beside her instead of taking -the chair again.</p> - -<p>He did not speak at once, though it seemed to him that his heart had -never been so full before. As he looked at the lovely girl he felt a -thrill of passionate delight that ran through him and almost hurt him, -and left him at last with an odd sensation in the throat and a painful -sinking at the heart. He did not reflect upon its meaning, and he -certainly did not connect it with the reaction following what he had -made his nerves bear during the day. He was sincerely conscious that he -had never been so deeply, truly in love with Katharine before. She -watched him, understanding what he felt, smiling into his eyes, but -silent, too. They had known each other since they had been children, and -had loved one another since Katharine had been sixteen years old,—more -than three whole years, which is a long time for first love to endure, -unless it means to be last as well as the first.</p> - -<p>“You said you would consent to almost anything,” said Ralston, after a -long pause. “It would be very simple for us to be married, in spite of -everybody. Shall we? Shall we, dear?” he asked, repeating the question.</p> - -<p>“I would almost do that—” She turned her face away and stared at the -empty fireplace.</p> - -<p>“Say, quite! After all, what can they all do?<a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a> What is there so dreadful -to face, if we do get married? We must, one of these days. Life’s not -life without you—and death wouldn’t be death with you, darling,” he -added.</p> - -<p>“Are you in earnest, Jack,—or are you making love to me?”</p> - -<p>She asked the question suddenly, catching his hands and holding them -firmly together, and looking at him with eyes that were almost fierce. -The passion rose in his own, with a dark light, and his face grew pale. -Then he laughed nervously.</p> - -<p>“I’m only laughing, of course—you see I am. Why must you take a fellow -in earnest?”</p> - -<p>But there was nothing in his words that jarred upon her. He could not -laugh away the truth from his look, for truth it was at that moment, -whatever its source.</p> - -<p>“I know—I understand,” she said, in a low voice. “We can’t live apart, -you and I.”</p> - -<p>“It’s like tearing out fingers by the joints every time I leave you,” -Ralston answered. “It’s the resurrection of the dead to see you—it’s -the glory of heaven to kiss you.”</p> - -<p>The words came to his lips ready, rough and strong, and when he had -spoken them, hers sealed every one of them upon his own, believing every -one of them, and trusting in the strength of him. Then she pushed him -away and leaned back in her corner, with half-closed eyes.<a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a></p> - -<p>“I don’t know why I ever ask if you’re in earnest, dear,” she said. “I -know you are. It would kill me to think that you’re playing. Women are -always said to be foolish—perhaps it’s in that way—and I’m no better -than the rest of them. But you don’t spoil me in that way. You don’t -often say it as you did just now.”</p> - -<p>“I never loved you as I do now,” said Ralston, simply.</p> - -<p>“I feel it.”</p> - -<p>“But I wish—well, impossibilities.”</p> - -<p>“What? Tell me, Jack. I shall understand.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—nothing. Only I wish I could find some way of proving it to you. -But people always say that sort of thing. We don’t live in the middle -ages.”</p> - -<p>“I believe we do,” answered Katharine, thoughtfully. “I believe people -will say that we did, hundreds of years hence, when they write about us. -Besides—Jack—not that I want any proof, because I believe you—but -there is something you could do, if you would. I know you wouldn’t like -to do it.”</p> - -<p>It flashed across Ralston’s mind that she was about to ask him to make a -great sacrifice for her, to give up wine for her sake, having heard, -perhaps—even probably—of some of his excesses. He was nervous, -overwrought and full of wild impulses that day, but he knew what such a -promise<a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a> would mean in his simple code. He was not in any true sense -degraded, beyond the weakening of his will. In an instant so brief that -Katharine did not notice his hesitation he reviewed his whole life, so -familiar to him in its worse light that it rose instantaneously before -him as a complete picture. He felt positively sure of what she was about -to ask him, and as he looked into her great grey eyes he believed that -he could keep the pledge he was about to give her, that it would save -him from destruction, and that he should thus owe his happiness to her -more wholly than ever.</p> - -<p>“I’ll do it,” he answered, and the fingers of his right hand slowly -closed till his fist was clenched.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, dear one,” answered Katharine, softly. “But you mustn’t -promise until you know what it is.”</p> - -<p>“I know what I’ve said.”</p> - -<p>“But I won’t let you promise. You wouldn’t forgive me—you’d think that -I had caught you—that it was a trap—all sorts of things.”</p> - -<p>Ralston smiled and shook his head. He felt quite sure of her and of -himself. And it would have been better for her and for him, if she had -asked what he expected.</p> - -<p>“Jack,” she said, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, “I want you to -marry me privately—quite in secret—that’s what I mean. Not a<a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a> human -being must know, but you and I and the clergyman.”</p> - -<p>John Ralston looked into her face in thunder-struck astonishment. It is -doubtful whether anything natural or supernatural could have brought -such a look into his eyes. Katharine smiled, for the idea had long been -familiar to her.</p> - -<p>“Confess that you were not prepared for that!” she said. “But you’ve -confessed it already.”</p> - -<p>“Well—hardly for that—no.”</p> - -<p>The look of surprise in his face gradually changed into one of wondering -curiosity, and his brows knit themselves into a sort of puzzled frown, -as though he were trying to solve a difficult problem.</p> - -<p>“You see why I didn’t want you to promise anything rashly,” said -Katharine. “You couldn’t possibly foresee what I was going to ask any -more than you can understand why I ask it. Could you?”</p> - -<p>“No. Of course not. Who could?”</p> - -<p>“I’m not going to ask any one else to, you may be sure. In the first -place, do you think it wrong?”</p> - -<p>“Wrong? That depends—there are so many things—” he hesitated.</p> - -<p>“Say what you think, Jack. I want to know just what you think.”</p> - -<p>“That’s the trouble. I hardly know myself. Of course there’s nothing -absolutely wrong in a secret marriage. No marriage is wrong, exactly, if -the people are free.”<a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a></p> - -<p>“That’s the main thing I wanted to know,” said Katharine, quietly.</p> - -<p>“Yes—but there are other things. Men don’t think it exactly honourable -to persuade a girl to be married secretly, against the wishes of her -people. A great many men would, but don’t. It’s somehow not quite fair -to the girl. Running away is all fair and square, if people are ready to -face the consequences. Perhaps it is that there are consequences to -face—that makes it a sort of pitched battle, and the parents generally -give in at the end, because there’s no other way out of it. But a secret -marriage—well, it doesn’t exactly have consequences, in the ordinary -way. The girl goes on living at home as though she were not married, -deceiving everybody all round—and so must the man. In fact it’s a kind -of lie, and I don’t like it.”</p> - -<p>Ralston paused after this long speech, and was evidently deep in -thought.</p> - -<p>“All you say is true enough—in a sense,” Katharine answered. “But when -it’s the only way to get married at all, the case is different. Don’t -you think so yourself? Wouldn’t you rather be secretly married than go -on like this—as this may go on, for ten, fifteen, twenty years—all our -lives?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I would. But I don’t see why—”</p> - -<p>“I do, and I want to make you see. Listen to my little speech, please. -First, we are both of<a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a> age—I am so far as being married is concerned, -and we have an absolute right to do as we please about it—to be married -in the teeth of the lions, if that’s not a false metaphor—or -something—you know.”</p> - -<p>“In the jaws of hell, for that matter,” said Ralston, fervently.</p> - -<p>“Thank you for saying it. I’m only a girl and mustn’t use strong -language. Very well, we have a perfect right to do as we please. That’s -a great point. Then we have only to choose, and it becomes a matter of -judgment.”</p> - -<p>“You talk like print,” laughed Ralston.</p> - -<p>“So much the better. We have made up our minds that we can’t live -without each other, so we must be married somehow. You don’t think it’s -not—what shall I say?—not quite like a girl for me to talk in this -way, do you? We have talked of it so often, and we decided so long ago!”</p> - -<p>“What nonsense! Be as plain as possible.”</p> - -<p>“Because if you do—then I shall have to write it all to you, and I -can’t write well.”</p> - -<p>Ralston smiled.</p> - -<p>“Go on,” he said. “I’m waiting for the reasons.”</p> - -<p>“They could simply starve us, Jack. We’ve neither of us a dollar in the -world.”</p> - -<p>“Not a cent,” said Ralston, very emphatically. “If we had, we shouldn’t -be where we are.”<a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a></p> - -<p>“And your mother can’t give you any money, and my father won’t give me -any.”</p> - -<p>“And I’m a failure,” Ralston observed, with sudden grimness and hatred -of himself.</p> - -<p>“Hush! You’ll be a success some day. That’s not the question. The point -is, if we tried to get married openly, there would be horrible scenes -first, and then war, and starvation afterwards. It’s not a pretty -prospect, but it’s true.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose it is.”</p> - -<p>“It’s so deadly true that it puts an open marriage out of the question -altogether. If there were nothing else to be done, it would be -different. I’d rather starve than give you up. But there is a way out of -it. We can be married secretly. In that way we shall avoid the scenes -and the war.”</p> - -<p>“And then wait for something to happen? We should be just where we are -now. To all intents and purposes you would be Spinster Lauderdale and I -should be Bachelor Ralston. I don’t see that it would be the slightest -improvement on the present situation—honestly, I don’t. I’m not -romantic, as people are in books. I don’t think it would be sweeter than -life to call you wife, and when we’re married I shall call you Katharine -just the same. I don’t distrust you. You know I don’t. I’m not really -afraid that you’ll go and marry Ham Bright, or Frank Miner, nor even the -most desirable young man in New York, who<a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a> has probably proposed to you -already. I’m not vain, but I know you love me. I should be a brute if I -doubted it—”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I think you would, dear,” said Katharine, with great directness.</p> - -<p>“So that since I’m to wait for you till ‘something happens’—never mind -to whom, and long life to all of them!—I’d rather wait as we are than -go through it with a pack of lies to carry.”</p> - -<p>“I like you, Jack—besides loving you. It’s quite another feeling, you -know. You’re such a man!”</p> - -<p>“I wish I were half what you think I am.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll think what I please. It’s none of your dear business. But you -haven’t heard half I have to say yet. I’ll suppose that we’re -married—secretly. Very well. That same day, or the next day, and as -soon as possible, I shall go to uncle Robert and tell him the whole -truth.”</p> - -<p>“To uncle Robert!” exclaimed Ralston, who had not yet come to the end of -the surprises in store for him. “And ask him for some money, I suppose? -That won’t do, Katharine. Indeed it won’t. I should be letting you go -begging for me. That’s the plain English of it. No, no! That can’t be -done.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll find it hard to prevent me from begging for you, or working for -you either, if you ever need it,” said Katharine. There was a certain -grand simplicity about the plain statement.<a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a></p> - -<p>“You’re too good for me,” said Ralston, in a low voice, and for the -third time there was a quiver in his tone. Moreover, he felt an -unaccustomed moisture in his eyes which gave him pleasure, though he was -ashamed of it.</p> - -<p>“No, I’m not—not a bit too good for you. But I like to hear—I don’t -know why it is, but your voice touches me to-day. It seems changed.”</p> - -<p>Ralston was truthful and honourable. If he had himself understood the -causes of his increased emotion, he would have hanged himself rather -than have let Katharine say what she did, without telling her what had -happened. He drank, and he knew it, and of late he had been drinking -hard, but it was the first time that he had ever spoken to Katharine -Lauderdale when he had been drinking, and he was deceived by his own -apparent soberness beyond the possibility of believing that he was on -the verge of being slightly hysterical. Let them who doubt the -possibility of such a case question those who have watched a thousand -cases.</p> - -<p>There was a little pause after Katharine’s last words. Then she went -on,—explaining her project.</p> - -<p>“Uncle Robert always says that nobody understands him as I do. I shall -try and make him understand me, for a change. I shall tell him just what -has happened, and I shall tell him that he must find work for you to do, -since you’re perfectly<a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a> capable of working if you only have a fair -chance. You never had one. I don’t call it a chance to put an active man -like you into a gloomy law office to copy fusty documents. And I don’t -call it giving you a chance to glue you to a desk in Beman Brothers’ -bank. You’re not made for that sort of work. Of course you were -disgusted and refused to go on. I should have done just the same.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you would—I’m quite sure!” answered Ralston, with conviction.</p> - -<p>“Naturally. Not but that I’m just as capable of working as you are, -though. To go back to uncle Robert. It’s just impossible, with all his -different interests, all over the country, and with his influence—and -you know what that is—that he should not have something for you to do. -Besides, he’ll understand us. He’s a great big man, on a big scale, a -head and shoulders mentally bigger than all the rest of the family.”</p> - -<p>“That’s true,” assented Ralston.</p> - -<p>“And he knows that you don’t want to take money without giving an -equivalent for it.”</p> - -<p>“He’s known that all along. I don’t see why he should put himself out -any more now—”</p> - -<p>“Because I’ll make him,” said Katharine, firmly. “I can do that for you, -and if you torture your code of honour into fits you can’t make it tell -you that a wife should not do that sort of thing for her husband. Can -you?”<a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a></p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” answered Ralston, smiling. “I’ve tried it myself often -enough with the old gentleman. He says I’ve had two chances and have -thrown them up, and that, after all, my mother and I have quite enough -to live on comfortably, so he supposes that I don’t care for work. I -told him that enough was not nearly so good as a feast. He laughed and -said he knew that, but that people couldn’t stand feasting unless they -worked hard. The last time I saw him, he offered to make Beman try me -again. But I couldn’t stand that.”</p> - -<p>“Of course not.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t stand anything where I produce no effect, and am not to earn my -living for ever so long. I wasn’t to have any salary at Beman’s for a -year, you know, because I knew nothing about the work. And it was the -same at the lawyer’s office—only much longer to wait. I could work at -anything I understood, of course. But I suppose I do know precious -little that’s of any use. It can’t be helped, now.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it can. But you see my plan. Uncle Robert will be so taken off his -feet that he’ll find you something. Then the whole thing will be -settled. It will probably be something in the West. Then we’ll declare -ourselves. There’ll be one stupendous crash, and we shall disappear from -the scene, leaving the family to like it or not, as they please. In the -end they will like<a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a> it. There would be no lies to act—at least, not -after two or three days. It wouldn’t take longer than that to arrange -things.”</p> - -<p>“It all depends on uncle Robert, it seems to me,” said Ralston, -doubtfully. “A runaway match would come to about the same thing in the -end. I’ll do that, if you like.”</p> - -<p>“I won’t. It must be done in my way, or not at all. If we ran away we -should have to come back to see uncle Robert, and we should find him -furious. He’d tell us to go back to our homes, separately, till we had -enough to live on—or to go and live with your mother. I won’t do that -either. She’s not able to support us both.”</p> - -<p>“No—frankly, she’s not.”</p> - -<p>“And uncle Robert would be angry, wouldn’t he? He has a fearful temper, -you know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—he probably would be raging.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t like it, Katharine dear—I don’t like it.”</p> - -<p>“Then you can never marry me at all, Jack. At least, I’m afraid not.”</p> - -<p>“Never?” Ralston’s expression changed suddenly.</p> - -<p>“There’s another reason, Jack dear. I didn’t want to speak of it—now.”<a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Ralston</span> said nothing at first. Then he looked at Katharine as though -expecting that she should speak again and explain her meaning, in spite -of her having said that she had not meant to do so.</p> - -<p>“What is this other reason?” he asked, after a long pause.</p> - -<p>“It would take so long to tell you all about it,” she answered, -thoughtfully. “And even if I did, I am not sure that you would -understand. It belongs—well—to quite another set of ideas.”</p> - -<p>“It must be something rather serious if it means marriage now, or -marriage never.”</p> - -<p>“It is serious. And the worst of it is that you will laugh at it—and I -am sure you will say that I am not honest to myself. And yet I am. You -see it is connected with things about which you and I don’t think -alike.”</p> - -<p>“Religion?” suggested Ralston, in a tone of enquiry.</p> - -<p>Katharine bowed her head slowly, sighed just audibly and looked away -from him as she leaned back. Nothing could have expressed more clearly<a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a> -her conviction that the subject was one upon which they could never -agree.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see why you should sigh about it,” said Ralston, in a tone -which expressed relief rather than perplexity. “I often wonder why -people generally look so sad when they talk about religion. Almost -everybody does.”</p> - -<p>“How ridiculous!” exclaimed Katharine, with a little laugh. “Besides, I -wasn’t sighing, exactly—I was only wishing it were all arranged.”</p> - -<p>“Your religion?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t talk like that. I’m in earnest. Don’t laugh at me, Jack -dear—please!”</p> - -<p>“I’m not laughing. Can’t you tell me how religion bears on the matter in -hand? That’s all I need to know. I don’t laugh at religion—at yours or -any one else’s. I believe I have a little inclination to it myself.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know. But—well—I don’t think you have enough to save a -fly—not the smallest little fly, Jack. Never mind—you’re just as nice, -dear. I don’t like men who preach.”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad of it. But what has all this to do with our getting married?”</p> - -<p>“Listen. It’s perfectly clear to me, and you can understand if you will. -I have almost made up my mind to become a Catholic—”</p> - -<p>“You?” Ralston stared at her in surprise. “You—a Roman Catholic?”<a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a></p> - -<p>“Yes—Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic. Is that clear, Jack?”</p> - -<p>“Perfectly. I’m sorry.”</p> - -<p>“Now don’t be a Puritan, Jack—”</p> - -<p>“I’m not a Puritan. I haven’t a drop of Puritan blood. You have, -Katharine, for your grandmother was one of the real old sort. I’ve heard -my father say so.”</p> - -<p>“You’re just as much a Lauderdale as I am,” retorted Katharine. “And if -Scotch Presbyterians are not Puritans, what is? But that isn’t what I -mean. It’s the tendency to wish that people were nothing at all rather -than Catholics.”</p> - -<p>“It’s not that. I’m not so prejudiced. I was thinking of the row—that’s -all. You don’t mean to keep that a secret, too? It wouldn’t be like -you.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed,” answered Katharine, proudly.</p> - -<p>“Well—you’ve not told me what the connection is between this and our -marriage. You don’t suppose that it will really make any difference to -me, do you? You can’t. And you’re quite mistaken about my Puritanism. I -would much rather that my wife should be a Roman Catholic than nothing -at all. I’m broad enough for that, anyhow. Of course it’s a serious -matter, because people sometimes do that kind of thing and then find out -that they have made a mistake—when it’s too late. And there’s something -ridiculous and<a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a> undignified about giving it up again when it’s once -done. Religion seems to be a good deal like politics. You may change -once—people won’t admire you—I mean people on your old side—but they -will tolerate you. But if you change twice—”</p> - -<p>“I’m not going to change twice. I’ve not quite, quite made up my mind to -change once, yet. But if I do, it will make things—I mean, our -marriage—almost impossible.”</p> - -<p>“Why?”</p> - -<p>“The Catholics do everything they can to prevent mixed marriages, -Jack,—especially in our country. You would have to make all sorts of -promises which you wouldn’t like, and which I shouldn’t want you to -make—”</p> - -<p>Ralston laughed, suddenly comprehending her point of view.</p> - -<p>“I see!” he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>“Of course you see. It’s as plain as day. I want to make sure of -you—dear,”—she laid her hand softly on his,—“and I also want to be -sure of being perfectly free to change my mind about my religion, if I -wish to. It’s a stroke of diplomacy.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know much about diplomatic proceedings,” laughed Ralston, “but -this strikes me as—well—very intelligent, to say the least of it.”</p> - -<p>Katharine’s face became very grave, and she withdrew her hand.<a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a></p> - -<p>“You mean that it does not seem to you perfectly honest,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t say that,” he answered, his expression changing with hers. “Of -course the idea is that if you are married to me before you become a -Catholic, your church can have nothing to say to me when you do.”</p> - -<p>“Of course—yes. You couldn’t be called upon to make any promises. But -if I should decide, after all, not to take the step, there would be no -harm done. On the contrary, I shall have the advantage of being able to -put pressure on uncle Robert, as I explained to you before.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t say I thought it wasn’t honest,” said Ralston. “It’s rather -deep, and I’m always afraid that deep things may not be quite straight. -I should like to think about it, if you don’t mind.”</p> - -<p>“I want you to decide. I’ve thought about it.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—but—”</p> - -<p>“Well? Suppose that, after thinking it over for ever so long, you should -come to the conclusion that I should not be acting perfectly honestly to -my conscience—that’s the worst you could discover, isn’t it? Even -then—and I believe it’s an impossible case—it’s my conscience and not -yours. If you were trying to persuade me to a secret marriage because -you were afraid of the consequences, it would be different—”</p> - -<p>“Rather!” exclaimed Ralston, vehemently.<a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a></p> - -<p>“But you’re not. You see, the main point is on my account, and it’s I -who am doing all the persuading, for that reason. It may be un—un—what -shall I call it—not like a girl at all. But I don’t care. Why shouldn’t -I tell you that I love you? We’ve both said it often enough, and we both -mean it, and I mean to be married to you. The religious question is a -matter of conviction. You have no convictions, so you can’t -understand—”</p> - -<p>“I have one or two—little ones.”</p> - -<p>“Not enough to understand what I feel—that if religion is anything, -then it’s everything except our love. No—that wasn’t an afterthought. -It’s not coming between you and me. Nothing can. But it’s everything -else in life, or else it’s nothing at all and not worth speaking of. And -if it is—if it really is—why then, for me, as I look at it, it means -the Catholic Church. If I talk as though I were not quite sure, it’s -because I want to be quite on the safe side. And if I want you to do -this thing—it’s because I want to be absolutely sure that hereafter no -human being shall come between us. I know all about the difficulties in -these mixed marriages. I’ve made lots of enquiries. There’s no question -of faith, or belief, or anything of the sort in their objections. It’s -simply a matter of church politics, and I daresay that they are quite -right about it, from their point of<a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a> view, and that if one is once with -them one must be with them altogether, in policy as well as in religion. -But I’m not as far as that yet. Perhaps I never shall be, after all. I -want to make sure of you—oh, Jack, don’t you understand? I can’t talk -well, but I know just what I mean. Tell me you understand, and that -you’ll do what I ask!”</p> - -<p>“It’s very hard!” said Ralston, bending his head and looking at the -carpet. “I wish I knew what to do.”</p> - -<p>Woman-like, she saw that she was beginning to get the advantage.</p> - -<p>“Go over it all, dear. In the first place, it’s entirely for my sake, -and not in the least for yours. So you can’t say there’s anything -selfish in it, if you do it for me, can you? You don’t want to do it, -you don’t like it, and if you do it you’ll be making a sacrifice to -please me.”</p> - -<p>“In marrying you!” Ralston laughed a little and then became very grave -again.</p> - -<p>“Yes, in marrying me. It’s a mere formality, and nothing else. We’re not -going to run away afterwards, nor meet in the dark in Gramercy Park nor -do anything in the least different from what we’ve always done, until -I’ve got what I want from uncle Robert. Then we’ll acknowledge the whole -thing, and I’ll take all the blame on myself, if there is any<a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>—”</p> - -<p>“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” interrupted Ralston.</p> - -<p>“Unless you tell a story that’s not true, you won’t be able to find -anything to blame yourself with,” answered Katharine. “So it will be all -over, and it will save no end of bother—and expense. Which is -something, as neither of us, nor our people, have any money to speak of, -and a wedding costs ever so much. I needn’t even have a trousseau—just -a few things, of course—and poor papa will be glad of that. You needn’t -laugh. You’ll be doing him a service, as well as me. And you see how I -can put it to uncle Robert, don’t you? ‘Uncle Robert, we’re -married—that’s all. What are you going to do about it?’ Nothing could -be plainer than that, could it?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing!”</p> - -<p>“Now he will simply have to do something. Perhaps he’ll be angry at -first, but that won’t last long. He’ll get over it and laugh at my -audacity. But that isn’t the main point. It’s perfectly conceivable that -you might work and slave at something you hate for years and years, -until we could get married in the regular way. The principal question is -the other—my freedom afterwards to do exactly as I please about my -religion without any possibility of any one interfering with our -marriage.”</p> - -<p>“Katharine! Do you really mean to say that if<a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a> you were a Catholic, and -if the priests said that we shouldn’t be married, you would submit?”</p> - -<p>“If I couldn’t, I couldn’t,” Katharine answered. “If I were a Catholic, -and a good Catholic,—I wouldn’t be a bad one,—no marriage but a -Catholic one would be a marriage at all for me. And if they refused it, -what could I do? Go back? That would be lying to myself. To marry you in -some half regular way—”</p> - -<p>“Hush, child! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I do—perfectly. And you wouldn’t like that. So you see what my -position is. It’s absolutely necessary to my future happiness that we -should be quietly married some morning—to-morrow, if you like, but -certainly in a day or two—and that nobody should know anything about -it, until I’ve told uncle Robert.”</p> - -<p>“After all,” said Ralston, hesitating, “it will be very much the same -thing as though we were to run away, provided we face everybody at -once.”</p> - -<p>“Very much better, because there’ll be no scandal—and no immediate -starvation, which is something worth considering.”</p> - -<p>“It won’t really be a secret marriage, except for the mere ceremony, -then. That looks different, somehow.”</p> - -<p>“Of course. You don’t suppose that I thought of taking so much trouble -and doing such a queer<a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a> thing just for the sake of knowing all to myself -that I was married, do you? Besides, secrets are always idiotic things. -Somebody always lets them out before one is ready. And it’s not as -though there were any good reason in the world why we should not be -married, except the money question. We’re of age—and suited to each -other—and all that.”</p> - -<p>“Naturally!” And Ralston laughed again.</p> - -<p>“Well, then—it seems to me that it’s all perfectly clear. It amounts to -telling everybody the day after, instead of the day before the wedding. -Do you see?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose I ought to go on protesting, but you do make it very clear -that there’s nothing underhand about it, except the mere ceremony. And -as you say, we have a perfect right to be married if we please.”</p> - -<p>“And we do please—don’t we?”</p> - -<p>“With all our hearts,” Ralston answered, in a dreamy tone.</p> - -<p>“Then when shall it be, Jack?” Katharine leaned towards him and touched -his hand with her fingers as though to rouse him from the reverie into -which he seemed to be falling.</p> - -<p>The touch thrilled him, and he looked up suddenly and met her glance. He -looked at her steadily for a moment, and once more he felt that odd, -pleasurable, unmanly moisture in his<a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_079_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_079_sml.jpg" width="241" height="395" alt="“She rose suddenly and pretended to busy herself with the -single light.”—Vol. I., p. 79." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">“She rose suddenly and pretended to busy herself with the -single light.”—Vol. I., <a href="#page_079">p. 79</a>.</span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">eyes, with a sweeping wave of emotion that rose from his heart with a -rush as though it would burst his throat. He yielded to it altogether -this time, and catching her in his arms drew her passionately to him, -kissing her again and again, as though he had never kissed her before. -He did not understand it himself, and Katharine was not used to it. But -she loved him, too, with all her heart, as it seemed to her. She had -proved it to him and to herself more completely within the last half -hour, and she let her own arms go round him. Then a deep, dark blush -which she could feel, rose slowly from her throat to her cheeks, and she -instinctively disentangled herself from him and drew gently back.</p> - -<p>“Remember that it’s for my sake—not for yours, dear,” she said.</p> - -<p>Her grey eyes were as deep as the dusk itself. Vaguely she guessed her -power as she gave him one more long look, and then rose suddenly and -pretended to busy herself with the single light, turning it up a little -and then down. Ralston watched the springing curves that outlined her -figure as she reached upward. He was in many ways a strangely refined -man, in spite of all his sins, and of his besetting sin in particular, -and refinement in others appealed to him strongly when it was healthy -and natural. He detested the diaphanous type of semi-consumptive with -the angel face,<a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a> man or woman, and declared that a skeleton deserved no -credit for looking refined, since it could not possibly look anything -else. But he delighted in delicacy of touch and grace of movement when -it went with such health and strength as Katharine had.</p> - -<p>“You are the most divinely beautiful thing on earth,” he said, quietly.</p> - -<p>Katharine laughed, but still turned her face away from him.</p> - -<p>“Then marry me,” she said, laughing. “What a speech!” she cried an -instant later. “Just fancy if any one could hear me, not knowing what -we’ve been talking about!”</p> - -<p>“You were just in time, then,” said Ralston. “There’s some one coming.”</p> - -<p>Katharine turned quickly, listened a moment, and distinguished a -footfall on the stairs outside the door. She nodded, and came to his -side at once.</p> - -<p>“You will, Jack,” she said under her breath. “Say that you will—quick!”</p> - -<p>Ralston hesitated one moment. He tried to think, but her eyes were upon -him and he seemed to be under a spell. They were close together, and -there was not much light in the room. He felt that the shadow of -something unknown was around them both—that somewhere in the room a -sweet flower was growing, not like other flowers, not common nor scented -with spring—a plant full of<a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a> softly twisted tendrils and pale petals -and in-turned stamens—a flower of moon-leaf and fire-bloom and -dusk-thorn—drooping above their two heads like a blossom-laden bough -bending heavily over two exquisite statues—two statues that did not -speak, whose faces did not change as the night stole silently upon -them—but they were side by side, very near, and the darkness was sweet.</p> - -<p>It was only an instant. Then their lips met.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he whispered, and drew back as the door opened.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lauderdale entered the room.</p> - -<p>“Oh, are you there, Jack?” she asked, but without any surprise, as -though she were accustomed to find him with Katharine.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” answered Ralston, quietly. “I’ve been here ever so long. How do -you do, cousin Emma?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m so tired!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale. “I’ve been working all -day long. I positively can’t see.”</p> - -<p>“You ought not to work so hard,” said Ralston. “You’ll wear your eyes -out.”</p> - -<p>“No, I’m strong, and so are my eyes. I only wanted to say that I was -tired. It’s such a relief!”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lauderdale had been a very beautiful woman, and was, indeed, only -just beginning to lose her beauty. She was much taller than either of -her daughters, but of a different type of figure from Katharine, and -less evenly grown, if such an<a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a> expression may be permitted. The hand was -typical of the difference. Mrs. Lauderdale’s was extremely long and -thin, but well made in the details, though out of proportion in the way -of length and narrowness as a whole. Katharine’s hand was firm and full, -without being what is called a thick hand. There was a more perfect -balance between flesh and bone in the straight, strong fingers. Mrs. -Lauderdale had been one of those magnificent fair beauties occasionally -seen in Kentucky,—a perfect head with perfect but small features, -superb golden hair, straight, clear eyes, a small red mouth,—great -dignity of carriage, too, with the something which has been christened -‘dash’ when she moved quickly, or did anything with those long hands of -hers,—a marvellous constitution, and the dazzling complexion of snow -and carnations that goes with it, very different from the softer ‘milk -and roses’ of the Latin poet’s mistress. Mrs. Lauderdale had always been -described as dazzling, and people who saw her for the first time used -the word even now to convey the impression she made. Her age, which was -known only to some members of the family, and which is not of the -slightest importance to this history, showed itself chiefly in a -diminution of this dazzling quality. The white was less white, the -carnation was becoming a common pink, the gold of her hair was no longer -gold all through, but distinctly brown in many places,<a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a> though it would -certainly never turn grey until extreme old age. Her movements, too, -were less free, though stately still,—the brutal word ‘rheumatism’ had -been whispered by the family doctor,—and to go back to her face, there -were undeniably certain tiny lines, and many of them, which were not the -lines of beauty.</p> - -<p>It was a brave, good face, on the whole, gifted, sometimes sympathetic, -and oddly cold when the woman’s temper was most impulsive. For there is -an expression of coldness which weakness puts on in self-defence. A -certain narrowness of view, diametrically opposed to a corresponding -narrowness in her husband’s mind, did not show itself in her features. -There is a defiant, supremely satisfied look which shows that sort of -limitation. Possibly such narrowness was not natural with Mrs. -Lauderdale, but the result of having been systematically opposed on -certain particular grounds throughout more than a quarter of a century -of married life. However that may be, it was by this time a part of her -nature, though not outwardly expressed in any apparent way.</p> - -<p>She had not been very happy with Alexander Junior, and she admitted the -fact. She knew also that she had been a good wife to him in every fair -sense of the word. For although she had enjoyed compensations, she had -taken advantage of them in a strictly conscientious way. Undeniable<a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a> -beauty, of the kind which every one recognizes instantly without the -slightest hesitation, is so rare a gift that it does indeed compensate -its possessor for many misfortunes, especially when she enjoys amusement -for its own sake, innocently and without losing her head or becoming -spoiled and affected by constant admiration. Katharine Lauderdale had -not that degree of beauty, and there were numerous persons who did not -even care for what they called ‘her style.’ Her sister Charlotte had -something of her mother’s brilliancy, indeed, but there was a hardness -about her face and nature which was apparent at first sight. Mrs. -Alexander had always remained the beauty of the family, and indeed the -beauty of the society to which she belonged, even after her daughters -had been grown up. She had outshone them, even in a world like that of -New York, which does not readily compare mothers and daughters in any -way, and asks them out separately as though they did not belong to each -other.</p> - -<p>She had not been very happy, and apart from any purely imaginary bliss, -procurable only by some miraculous changes in Alexander Junior’s heart -and head, she believed that the only real thing lacking was money. She -had always been poor. She had never known what seemed to her the supreme -delight of sitting in her own carriage. She had never tasted the -pleasure of having five<a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a> hundred dollars to spend on her fancies, -exactly as she pleased. The question of dress had always been more or -less of a struggle. She had not exactly extravagant tastes, but she -should have liked to feel once in her life that she was at liberty to -throw aside a pair of perfectly new gloves, merely because when she put -them on the first time one of the seams was a little crooked, or the -lower part was too loose for her narrow hand. She had always felt that -when she had bought a thing she must wear it out, as a matter of -conscience, even if it did not suit her. And there was a real little -pain in the thought, of which she was ashamed. Small things, but womanly -and human. Then, too, there was the constant chafing of her pardonable -pride when ninety-nine of her acquaintances all did the same thing, and -she was the hundredth who could not afford it—and the subscriptions and -the charity concerts and the theatre parties. It was mainly in order to -supply herself with a little money for such objects as these that she -had worked so hard at her painting for years—that she might not be -obliged to apply to her husband for such sums on every occasion. She had -succeeded to some extent, too, and her initials had a certain -reputation, even with the dealers. Many people knew that those same -initials were hers, and a few friends were altogether in her confidence. -Possibly if she<a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a> had been less beautiful, she would have been spoken of -at afternoon teas as ‘poor Mrs. Lauderdale,’ and people would have been -found—for society has its kindly side—who would have -half-surreptitiously paid large sums for bits of her work, even much -more than her miniatures could ever be worth. But she did not excite -pity. She looked rich, as some people do to their cost. People -sympathized with her in the matter of Alexander Junior’s character, for -he was not popular. But no one thought of pitying her because she was -poor. On the contrary, many persons envied her. It must be ‘such fun,’ -they said, to be able to paint and really sell one’s paintings. A -dashing woman with a lot of talent, who can make a few hundreds in half -an hour when she chooses, said others. What did she spend the money on? -On whatever she pleased—probably in charity, she was so good-hearted. -But those people did not see her as Jack Ralston saw her, worn out with -a long day’s work, her eyes aching, her naturally good temper almost on -edge; and they did not know that Katharine Lauderdale’s simple ball -gowns were paid for by the work of her mother’s hands. It was just as -well that they did not know it. Society has such queer fits -sometimes—somebody might have given Katharine a dress. But Ralston was -in the secret and knew.</p> - -<p>“One may be as strong as cast-steel,” he said.<a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a> “Even that wears out. -Ask the people who make engines. You’ll accomplish a great deal more if -you go easy and give yourself rest from time to time.”</p> - -<p>“Like you, Jack,” observed Mrs. Lauderdale, not unkindly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m a failure. I admitted the fact long ago. I’m only fit for a bad -example,—a sort of moral scarecrow.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. I wonder why?” Mrs. Lauderdale was tired and was thinking aloud. -“I didn’t mean to say that, Jack,” she added, frankly, realizing what -she had said, from the recollection of the sound of her own voice, as -people sometimes do who are exhausted or naturally absent-minded.</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t exactly complimentary, mother,” said Katharine, coldly. -“Besides, is it fair to say that a man is a failure at Jack’s age? -Patrick Henry was a failure at twenty-three. He was bankrupt.”</p> - -<p>“Patrick Henry!” exclaimed Ralston. “What do you know about Patrick -Henry?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ve been reading history. It was he who said, ‘Give me liberty, or -give me death.’ ”</p> - -<p>“Was it? I didn’t know. But I’m glad to hear of somebody who got smashed -first and celebrated afterwards. It’s generally the other way, like -Napoleon and Julius Cæsar.”</p> - -<p>“Cardinal Wolsey, Alexander the Great, and John Gilpin. It’s easy to -multiply examples, as the books say.”<a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a></p> - -<p>“You’re much too clever for me this evening. I must be going home. My -mother and I are going to dine all alone and abuse our neighbours all -the evening.”</p> - -<p>“How delightful!” exclaimed Katharine, thinking of the grim family table -at which she was to sit as usual—there had been some fine fighting in -Charlotte’s unmarried days, but Katharine’s opposition was generally of -the silent kind.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” answered Ralston. “There’s nobody like my mother. She’s the best -company in the world. Good night, cousin Emma. Good night, Katharine.”</p> - -<p>But Katharine followed him into the entry, letting the library door -almost close behind her.</p> - -<p>“It will be quite time enough, if you come and tell me on the evening -before it is to be,” she whispered hurriedly. “There’s no party -to-morrow night, but on Wednesday I’m going to the Thirlwalls’ dance.”</p> - -<p>“Will any morning do?” asked Ralston, also in a whisper.</p> - -<p>“Yes, any morning. Now go—quick. That’s enough, dear—there, if you -must. Go—good night—dear!”</p> - -<p>The process of leave-taking was rather spasmodic, so far as Katharine -was concerned. Ralston felt that same strange emotion once more as he -found himself out upon the pavement of Clinton Place. His head swam a -little, and he stopped to<a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a> light a cigarette before he turned towards -Fifth Avenue.</p> - -<p>Katharine went back into the library, and found her mother sitting as -the two had left her, and apparently unconscious that her daughter had -gone out of the room.</p> - -<p>“He’s quite right, mother dear. You are trying to do too much,” said -Katharine, coming behind the low chair and smoothing her mother’s -beautiful hair, kissing it softly and speaking into the heavy waves of -it.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lauderdale put up one thin hand, and patted the girl’s cheek -without turning to look at her, but said nothing for a moment.</p> - -<p>“It’s quite true,” Katharine said. “You mustn’t do it any more.”</p> - -<p>“How smooth your cheek is, child!” said Mrs. Lauderdale, thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>“So is yours, mother dear.”</p> - -<p>“No—it’s not. It’s full of little lines. Touch it—you can feel -them—just there. Besides—you can see them.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t feel anything—and I don’t see anything,” answered Katharine.</p> - -<p>But she knew what her mother meant, and it made her a little sad—even -her. She had been accustomed all her life to believe that her mother was -the most beautiful woman in the world, and she knew that the time had -just come when she<a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a> must grow used to not believing it any longer. Mrs. -Lauderdale had never said anything of the sort before. She had been -supreme in her way, and had taken it for granted that she was, never -referring to her own looks under any circumstances.</p> - -<p>In the long silence that followed, Katharine quietly went and closed the -shutters of the windows, for Ralston had only pulled down the shades. -She drew the dark curtains across for the evening, lit another gaslight, -and remained standing by the fireplace.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, darling,” said Mrs. Lauderdale.</p> - -<p>“I do wish papa would let us have lamps, or shades, or something,” said -Katharine, looking disconsolately at the ground-glass globes of the -gaslights.</p> - -<p>“He doesn’t like them—he says he can’t see.”</p> - -<p>There was a short pause.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother dear! what in the world does papa like, I wonder?” Katharine -turned with an impatient movement as she spoke, and her broad eyebrows -almost met between her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Hush, child!” But the words were uttered wearily and mechanically—Mrs. -Lauderdale had pronounced them so often under precisely the same -circumstances during the last quarter of a century.</p> - -<p>Katharine sighed, a little out of impatience and to some extent in pity -for her mother. But she<a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a> stood looking across the room at the closed -door through which Ralston and she had gone out together five minutes -earlier, and she could still feel his last kiss on her cheek. He had -never seemed so loving as on that day, and she had succeeded in -persuading him, against his instinctive judgment, to promise her what -she asked,—the maddest, most foolish thing a girl’s imagination could -long for, no matter with what half-reasonable excuse. But she had his -promise, which, as she well knew, he would keep—and she loved him with -all her heart. The expression of mingled sadness and impatience vanished -like a breath from a polished mirror. She was unconscious that she -looked radiantly happy, as her mother gazed up into her face.</p> - -<p>“What a beautiful creature you are!” said Mrs. Lauderdale, in a tone -unlike her natural voice.<a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katharine</span> had no anxiety about the future, and it seemed to her that she -had managed matters in the wisest and most satisfactory manner possible. -She had provided, as she thought, against the possibility of any -subsequent interference with her marriage in case she should see fit to -take the step of which she had spoken. The combination seemed perfect, -and even a sensible person, taking into consideration all the -circumstances, might have found something to say in favour of a marriage -which should not be generally discussed. Ralston and Katharine, though -not rich, were decidedly prominent young people in their own society, -and their goings and comings interested the gossips and furnished food -for conversation. There were many reasons for this. Neither of them was -exactly like the average young person in the world. But the great name -of Lauderdale, which was such a real power in the financial world, -contributed most largely to the result. Every one who bore it, or who -was as closely connected with it as the Ralstons, was more or less -before the public. Most of the society paragraph writers in<a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a> the -newspapers spoke of the family, collectively and individually, as often -as they could find anything to say about it, and as a general rule the -tone of their remarks was subdued and laudatory, and betrayed something -very like awe. The presence of the Lauderdales and the Ralstons was -taken for granted in all accounts of big parties, first nights at the -opera and Daly’s, and of other similar occasions. From time to time a -newspaper man in a fit of statistics calculated how many dollars of -income accrued to Robert Lauderdale at every minute, and proceeded to -show how much each member of the family would have if it were all -equally divided. As Robert the Rich had made his money in real estate, -and his name never appeared in connection with operations in Wall -Street, he was therefore not periodically assailed by the wrathful -chorus of the sold and ruined, abusing him and his people to the -youngest of the living generation, an ordeal with which the great -speculators are familiar. But from time to time the daily papers -published wood-cuts supposed to be portraits of him and his connections, -and the obituary notice of him—which was, of course, kept ready in -every newspaper office—would have given even the old gentleman himself -some satisfaction. The only member of the family who suffered at all for -being connected with him was Benjamin Slayback, the member of Congress.<a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a> -If he ever dared to hint at any measure implying expenditure on the part -of the country, he was promptly informed by some Honourable Member on -the other side, that it was all very well for him to be reckless, with -the whole Lauderdale fortune at his back, but that ordinary mortals had -to content themselves with ordinary possibilities. The member from -California called him the Eastern Crœsus, and the member from -Massachusetts called him the Western Millionaire, and the member from -Missouri quoted Scripture at him, while the Social-Democrat member from -Somewhere—there was one at that time, and he was a little curiosity in -his way—called him a Capitalist, than which epithet the -social-democratic dictionary contains none more biting and more -offensive in the opinion of its compilers. Altogether, at such times the -Honourable Slayback of Nevada had a very bad quarter of an hour because -he had married Charlotte Lauderdale,—penniless but a Lauderdale, very -inadequately fitted out for a bride, though she was the grand-niece of -Robert the Rich. Slayback of Nevada, however, had a certain rough -dignity of his own, and never mentioned those facts. He had plenty of -money himself and did not covet any that belonged to his wife’s -relations.</p> - -<p>“I’m not as rich as your uncle Robert,” he said to her on the day after -their marriage, “and I don’t count on being. But you can have all you<a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a> -want. There’s enough to go round, now. Maybe you wouldn’t like to be -bothering me all the while for little things? Yes, that’s natural; so -I’ll just put something up to your credit at Riggs’s and you can have a -cheque-book. When you’ve got through it, tell Riggs to let me know. You -might be shy of telling me.”</p> - -<p>And Benjamin Slayback smiled in a kindly fashion not at all familiar to -his men friends, and on the following day Charlotte received a notice -from the bank to the effect that ten thousand dollars stood to her -credit. Never having had any money of her own, the sum seemed a fortune -to her, and she showed herself properly grateful, and forgave Benjamin a -multitude of small sins, even such as having once worn a white satin tie -in the evening, and at the opera, of all places.</p> - -<p>Katharine was perfectly well aware that the smallest actions of her -family were subjects for public discussion, and she knew how people -would talk if it were ever discovered that she had been secretly married -to John Ralston. On the other hand, the rest of the Lauderdales were in -the same position, and would be quite willing, when they were acquainted -with the facts, to say that the marriage had been a private one, leaving -it to be supposed that they had known all about it from the first. She -had no anxiety for the future,<a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a> therefore, and believed that she was -acting with her eyes open to all conceivable contingencies and -possibilities. Matters were not, indeed, finally settled, for even after -she was married she would still have the interview with her uncle to -face; but she felt sure of the result. It was so easy for him to do -exactly what he pleased, as it seemed to her, to make or unmake men’s -fortunes at his will, as she could tie and untie a bit of string.</p> - -<p>And her confidence in Ralston was boundless. Considering his capacities, -as they appeared to her, his failure to do anything for himself in the -two positions which had been offered to him was not to be considered a -failure at all. He was a man of action, and he was an exceptionally -well-educated man. How could he ever be expected to do an ordinary -clerk’s work? It was absurd to suppose that he could change his whole -character at a moment’s notice, and it was an insult to expect that he -should change it at all. It was a splendid nature, she thought, -generous, energetic, brave, averse to mean details, of course, as such -natures must be, impatient of control, independent and dominating. There -was much to admire in Ralston, she believed, even if she had not loved -him. And perhaps she was right, from her point of view. Of his chief -fault she really knew nothing. The little she had heard of his being -wild, as it is called, rather attracted than repelled her.<a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a> She despised -men whom she looked upon as ‘duffers’ and ‘muffs.’ Even her father, -whose peculiarities were hard to bear, was manly in his way. He had been -good at sports in his youth, he was a good rider, and could be trusted -with horses that did not belong to him, which was fortunate, as he had -never possessed any of his own; he was a good shot, as she had often -heard, and he periodically disappeared upon solitary salmon-fishing -expeditions on the borders of Canada. For he was a strong man and a -tough man, and needed much bodily exercise. The only real ‘muff’ there -had ever been in the family Katharine considered to be her grandfather, -the philanthropist, and he was so old that it did not matter much. But -the tales he told of his studious youth disgusted her, for some occult -reason. All the other male relations were manly fellows, even to little -Frank Miner, who was as full of fight as a cock-sparrow, in spite of his -diminutive stature. Benjamin Slayback, too, was eminently manly, in an -awkward, constrained fashion. Hamilton Bright was an athlete. And John -Ralston could do all the things which the others could do, and did most -things a trifle better, with a certain finished ‘style’ which other men -envied. He was eminently the kind of man whose acquaintances at the club -will back for money in every contest requiring skill and strength.<a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a></p> - -<p>It was no wonder that Katharine admired him. But she told herself that -her admiration had nothing to do with her love. There was much more in -him than the world knew of, and she was quite sure of it. Her ideals -were high, and Ralston fulfilled most of them. She always fancied that -there was something knightly about him, and it appealed to her more than -any other characteristic.</p> - -<p>She felt that he could be intimate without ever becoming familiar. There -is more in that idea than appears at first sight, and the distinction is -not one of words. Up to a certain point she was quite right in making -it, for he was naturally courtly, as well as ordinarily courteous, and -yet without exaggeration. He did certain things which few other men did, -and which she liked. He walked on her left side, for instance, whenever -it was possible, if they chanced to be together in the street. She had -never spoken of it to him, but she had read, in some old book on court -manners, that it was right a hundred years ago, and she was pleased. -They had been children together, and yet almost since she could remember -he had always opened the door for her when she left a room. And not for -her only, but for every woman. If she and her mother were together when -they met him, he always spoke to her mother first. If they got into a -carriage he expected to sit on the<a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a> left side, even if he had to leave -the pavement and go to the other door to get in. He never spoke of her -simply as ‘Katharine’ if he had to mention her name in her presence to -any one not a member of the family. He said ‘my cousin Katharine,’ or -‘Miss Lauderdale,’ according to circumstances.</p> - -<p>They were little things, all of them, but by no means absurd in her -estimation, and he would continue to do them all his life. She supposed -that his mother had taught him the usages of courtesy when he had been a -boy, but they were a part of himself now. How many men, thought -Katharine, who believed themselves ‘perfect gentlemen,’ and who were -undeniably gentlemen in every essential, were wholly lacking in these -small matters! How many would have called such things old-fashioned -nonsense, who had never so much as noticed that Ralston did them all, -because he did them unobtrusively, and because, in reality, most of them -are founded on perfectly logical principles, and originally had nothing -but the convenience of society for their object. Katharine had thought -it out. For instance, most men, being right-handed, have the more -skilful hand and the stronger arm on the lady’s side, with which to -render her any assistance she may need, if they find themselves on her -left. There was never any affectation of fashion about really good -manners, Katharine believed, and everything appertaining thereto had a<a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a> -solid foundation in usefulness. During Slayback’s courtship of her -sister she had found numberless opportunities of contrasting what she -called the social efficiency of the man who knew exactly what to do with -the inefficiency of him who did not; and, on a more limited scale, she -found such opportunities daily when she saw Ralston together with other -men.</p> - -<p>He had a very high standard of honour, too. Many men had that, and all -whom she knew were supposed to have it, but there were few whom she felt -that she could never possibly suspect of some little meanness. That was -another step to the pedestal on which she had set up her ideal.</p> - -<p>But perhaps one of the chief points which appealed to her sympathy was -Ralston’s breadth of view, or absence of narrowness. He had spoken the -strict truth that evening when he had said that he never laughed at any -one’s religion, and, next to love, religion was at that time uppermost -in Katharine Lauderdale’s mind. At her present stage of development -everything she did, saw, read and heard bore upon one or the other, or -both, which was not surprising considering the atmosphere in which she -had grown up.</p> - -<p>Alexander Junior had never made but one sacrifice for his wife, and that -had been of a negative description. He had forgiven her for being a -Roman Catholic, and had agreed never to mention<a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a> the subject; and he had -kept his word, as indeed he always did on the very rare occasions when -he could be induced to give it. It is needless to say that he had made a -virtue of his conduct in this respect, for he systematically made the -most of everything in himself which could be construed into a virtue at -all. But at all events he had never broken his promise. In the days when -he had married Emma Camperdown there had been little or no difficulty -about marriages between Catholics and members of other churches, and it -had been understood that his children were to be brought up -Presbyterians, though nothing had been openly said about it. His bride -had been young, beautiful and enthusiastic, and she had believed in her -heart that before very long she could effect her husband’s conversion, -little dreaming of the rigid nature with which she should have to deal. -It would have been as easy to make a Roman Catholic of Oliver Cromwell, -as Mrs. Lauderdale soon discovered to her sorrow. He did not even -consider that she had any right to talk of religion to her children.</p> - -<p>Charlotte Lauderdale grew up in perfect indifference. Her mind developed -young, but not far. In her childhood she was a favourite of old Mrs. -Lauderdale,—formerly a Miss Mainwaring, of English extraction, and the -mother of Mrs. Ralston,—and the old lady had taught her that<a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a> -Presbyterians were no better than atheists, and that Roman Catholics -were idolaters, so that the only salvation lay in the Episcopal Church. -The lesson had entered deep into the girl’s heart, and she had grown up -laughing at all three; but on coming to years of discretion she went to -an Episcopal church because most of her friends did. She enjoyed the -weekly fray with her father, whom she hated for his own sake in the -first place, and secondly because he was poor, and she once went so far -as to make him declare, in his iron voice, that he vastly preferred -Catholics to Episcopalians,—a declaration which she ever afterwards -cast violently in his teeth when she had succeeded in drawing him into a -discussion upon articles of faith. Her mother never had the slightest -influence over her. The girl was quick-witted and believed herself -clever, was amusing and thought she was witty, was headstrong, -capricious and violent in her dislikes and was consequently convinced -that she had a very strong will. She married Slayback for three -reasons,—to escape from her family, because he was rich, and because -she believed that she could do anything she chose with him. She was not -mistaken in his wealth, and she removed herself altogether from the -sphere of the Lauderdales, but Benjamin Slayback was not at all the kind -of person she had taken him for.</p> - -<p>Katharine was altogether different from her<a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a> sister. She was more -habitually silent, and her taste was never for family war. She thought -more and read less than Charlotte, who devoured literature promiscuously -and trusted to luck to remember something of what she read. Indeed, -Katharine thought a great deal, and often reasoned correctly from -inaccurate knowledge. In a healthy way she was inclined to be -melancholic, and was given to following out serious ideas, and even to -something like religious contemplation. Everything connected with belief -in transcendental matters interested her exceedingly. She delighted in -having discussions which turned upon the supernatural, and upon such -things as seem to promise a link between the hither and the further side -of death’s boundary,—between the cis-mortal and the trans-mortal, if -the coining of such words be allowable. In this she resembled -nine-tenths of the American women of her age and surroundings. The mind -of the idle portion of American society to-day reminds one of a polypus -whose countless feelers are perpetually waving and writhing in the -fruitless attempt to catch the very smallest fragment of something from -the other side, wherewith to satisfy the mortal hunger that torments it.</p> - -<p>There is something more than painful, something like an act of the -world’s soul-tragedy, in this all-pervading desire to know the worst, or -the best,—to know anything which shall prove that there is<a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a> something -to know. There is a breathless interest in every detail of an -‘experience’ as it is related, a raising of hopes, a thrilling of the -long-ready receptivity as the point is approached; and then, when the -climax is reached and past, there is the sudden, almost agonizing -relapse into blank hopelessness. The story has been told, but nothing is -proved. We know where the door is, but before it is a screen round which -we must pass to reach it. The screen is death, as we see it. To pass it -and be within sight of the threshold is to die, as we understand death, -and there lies the boundary of possible experience, for, so far as we -know, there is no other door.</p> - -<p>The question is undoubtedly the greatest which humanity can ask, for the -answer must be immortality or annihilation. It seems that a certain -proportion of mankind, driven to distraction by the battle of beliefs, -has actually lost the faculty of believing anything at all, and the -place where the faculty was aches, to speak familiarly.</p> - -<p>That, at least, was how it struck Katharine Lauderdale, and it was from -this point of view that she seriously contemplated becoming a Catholic. -If she did so, she intended to accept the Church as a whole and refuse, -forever afterwards, to reopen the discussion. She never could accept it -as her mother did, for she had not been brought up in it, but there were -days when she felt that<a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a> by a single act of will she could bind herself -to believe in all the essentials, and close her eyes to the existence of -the non-essentials, never to open them again. Then, she thought, she -should never have any more doubts.</p> - -<p>But on other days she wished that there might be another way. She got -odd numbers of the proceedings of a society devoted to psychological -researches, and read with extreme avidity the accurately reported -evidence of persons who had seen or heard unusual sights or sounds, and -studied the figures illustrating the experiments in -thought-transference. Then the conviction came upon her that there must -be another door besides the door of death, and that, if she were only -patient she might be led to it or come upon it unawares. She knew far -too little of even what little there is to be known, to get any further -than this vague and not unpleasant dream, and she was conscious of her -ignorance, asking questions of every one she met who took the slightest -interest in psychical enquiries. Of course, her attempts to gain -knowledge were fruitless. If any one who is willing to be a member of -civilized society knew anything definite about what we call the future -state, the whole of civilized society would know it also in less than a -month. Every one can be quite sure of that, and no one need therefore -waste time in questioning his neighbour in the hope of learning anything -certain.<a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a></p> - -<p>There were even times when her father’s rigid and merciless view of the -soul pleased her, and was in sympathy with her slightly melancholic -temperament. The unbending, manly quality of the Presbyterian belief -attracted her by its strength—the courage a man must have to go through -life facing an almost inevitable hell for himself and the positive -certainty of irrecoverable damnation for most of those dearest to him. -If her father was in earnest, as he appeared to be, he could not have -the slightest hope that her mother could be saved. At that idea -Katharine laughed, being supposed to be a Presbyterian herself. -Nevertheless, she sometimes liked his hard sayings and doings, simply -because they were hard. Hamilton Bright had often told her that she had -a lawyer’s mind, because she could not help seeing things from opposite -sides at the same time, whereupon she always answered that though she -despised prejudices, she liked people who had them, because such persons -were generally stronger than the average. Ralston, who had not many, and -had none at all about religious matters, was the man with whom she felt -herself in the closest sympathy, a fact which went far to prove to -Bright that he was not mistaken in his judgment of her.</p> - -<p>On the whole, in spite of the declaration she had made to Ralston, -Katharine Lauderdale’s state was sceptical, in the sense that her mind -was in a condition<a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a> of suspended judgment between no less than five -points of view, the Presbyterian, the Catholic, the deistic, the -psychologic, and the materialistic. It was her misfortune that her -nature had led her to think of such matters at all, rather than to -accept some existing form of belief and to be as happy as she could be -with it from the first, as her mother had done: and though her -intelligence was good, it was as totally inadequate to grapple with such -subjects as it was well adapted to the ordinary requirements of worldly -life. But she was not to be blamed for being in a state of mind to which -her rather unusual surroundings had contributed much, and her thoughtful -temperament not a little. If anything, she was to be pitied, though the -mighty compensation of a genuine love had grown up year by year to -neutralize the elements of unhappiness which were undoubtedly present.</p> - -<p>It is worth noticing that at this time, which opened the crucial period -of her life, she doubted her own religious convictions and her own -stability of purpose, but she did not for a moment doubt the sincerity -of her love for John Ralston, nor of his for her, as she conclusively -proved when she determined to risk her whole life in such a piece of -folly as a secret marriage.</p> - -<p>When she came down to dinner on that memorable evening, she found her -father and mother sitting on opposite sides of the fireplace. Alexander<a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a> -Junior was correctly arrayed in evening dress, and his clothes fitted -perfectly upon his magnificent figure. The keen eye of a suspicious -dandy could have detected that they were very old clothes, and Mr. -Lauderdale would not have felt at all dismayed at the discovery of the -fact. He prided himself upon wearing a coat ten years, and could tell -the precise age of every garment in his possession. He tied his ties to -perfection also, and this, too, was an economy, for such was his skill -that he could wear a white tie twice, bringing the knot into exactly the -same place a second time. Mont Blanc presented not a more spotless, -impenetrable, and unchanging front than Alexander Junior’s shirt. He had -processes of rejuvenating his shoes known to him alone, and in the old -days of evening gloves, his were systematically cleaned and rematched, -and the odd ones laid aside to replace possible torn ones in the future, -constituting a veritable survival of the fittest. Five and twenty years -of married life had not taught him that a woman could not possibly do -the same with her possessions, and he occasionally enquired why his wife -did not wear certain gowns which had been young with her daughters. He -never put on the previously mentioned white tie, however, unless some -one was coming to dinner. When the family was alone, he wore a black -one. As he was not hospitable, and did not encourage hospitality in his -wife, though he praised it extravagantly<a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a> in other people, and never -refused a dinner party, the black tie was the rule at home. Black ties -last a long time.</p> - -<p>Katharine noticed the white one this evening, and was surprised, as her -mother had not spoken to her of any guest.</p> - -<p>“Who is coming to dinner?” she asked, looking at her father, almost as -soon as she had shut the door.</p> - -<p>Mr. Lauderdale’s steel-grey upper lip was immediately raised in a sort -of smile which showed his large white teeth—he had defied the dentist -from his youth up, and his smile was hard and cold as an electric light.</p> - -<p>“Ah, my dear child,” he answered in a clear, metallic voice, “I am glad -you notice things. Little things are always worth noticing. Walter -Crowdie is coming to dinner to-day. In fact, he is rather late—”</p> - -<p>“With Hester?” asked Katharine, quickly. Hester Crowdie was Hamilton -Bright’s sister, and Katharine liked her.</p> - -<p>“No, my dear, without Hester. We could hardly ask two people to our -every-day dinner.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—it’s only Mr. Crowdie, then,” said Katharine in a tone of -disappointment, sitting down beside her mother.</p> - -<p>“I hope you’ll be nice to him, Katharine,” said Mr. Lauderdale. “There -are many reasons—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes! I’ll be nice to him,” answered the<a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a> young girl, with a short, -quick frown that disappeared again instantly.</p> - -<p>“I don’t like your expression, my child,” said Alexander Junior, -severely, “and I don’t like to be interrupted. Mr. Crowdie is very kind. -He wishes to paint your portrait, and he proposes to give us the study -he must make first, which will be just as good as the picture itself, I -have no doubt. Crowdie is getting a great reputation, and a picture by -him is valuable. One can’t afford to be rude to a man who makes such a -proposal.”</p> - -<p>“No,” observed Mrs. Lauderdale as though speaking to herself. “I should -really like to have it. He is a great artist.”</p> - -<p>“I haven’t the least intention of being rude to him,” answered -Katharine. “What does he mean to do with my portrait—with the picture -itself when he has painted it—sell it?”</p> - -<p>“He would have a perfect right to sell it, of course—with no name. He -means to exhibit it in Paris, I believe, and then I think he intends to -give it to his wife. You always say she is a great friend of yours.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—that’s all right, if it’s for Hester,” said Katharine. “Of course -she’s a friend of mine. Hush! I hear the bell.”</p> - -<p>“When did Mr. Crowdie talk to you about this?” asked Mrs. Lauderdale, -addressing her husband.</p> - -<p>“This morning—hush! Here he is.”<a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a></p> - -<p>Alexander Junior had an almost abnormal respect for the proprieties, and -always preferred to stop talking about a person five minutes before he -or she appeared. It was a part of his excessively reticent nature.</p> - -<p>The door opened and Walter Crowdie appeared, a pale young man with -heavy, red lips and a bad figure. His eyes alone redeemed his face from -being positively repulsive, for they were of a very beautiful blue -colour and shaded by extremely long brown lashes. A quantity of pale -hair, too long to be neat, but not so long as worn by many modern -musicians, concealed the shape of his head and grew low on his forehead. -The shape of the face, as the hair allowed it to be seen, resembled that -of a pear, wide and flaccid about the jaws and narrowing upwards towards -the temples. Crowdie’s hands were small, cushioned with fat, and of a -dead white—the fingers being very pointed and the nails long and -polished. His shoulders sloped like a woman’s, and were narrow, and he -was heavy about the waist and slightly in-kneed. He was too fashionable -to use perfumes, but one instinctively expected him to smell of musk.</p> - -<p>Both women experienced an unpleasant sensation when he entered the room. -What Mr. Lauderdale felt it is impossible to guess, but as Katharine saw -the two shake hands she was proud of her father and of the whole manly -race from which she was descended.<a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a></p> - -<p>Last of all the party came Alexander Senior, taking the utmost advantage -of age’s privilege to be late. Even he, within sight of his life’s end, -contrasted favourably with Walter Crowdie. He stooped, he was badly -dressed, his white tie was crooked, and there were most evident spots on -his coat; his eyes were watery, and there were wrinkles running in all -directions through the eyebrows, the wrinkles that come last of all; he -shambled a little as he walked, and he certainly smelt of tobacco smoke. -He had not been the strongest of the three old brothers, though he was -the eldest, and his faculties, if not impaired, were not what they had -been. But the skull was large and bony, the knotted and wrinkled old -hands were manly hands, and always had been, and the benevolent old grey -eyes had never had the womanish look in them which belonged to -Crowdie’s.</p> - -<p>But the young man was quite unconscious of the unfavourable impression -he always produced upon Mrs. Lauderdale and her daughter, and his -languishing eyelids moved softly and swept his pale cheeks with their -long lashes as he looked from one to the other and shook hands.</p> - -<p>Alexander Junior, whose sense of punctuality had almost taken offence, -rang the bell as his father entered, and a serving girl, who lived in -terror of her life, drew back the folding doors a moment later.<a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> conversation at dinner did not begin brilliantly. Mrs. Lauderdale -was tired, and Katharine was preoccupied; as was natural, old Mr. -Lauderdale was not easily moved to talk except upon his favourite hobby, -and Alexander Junior was solemnly and ferociously hungry, as many strong -men are at regular hours. As for Crowdie, he always felt a little out of -his element amongst his wife’s relations, of whom he stood somewhat in -awe, and he was more observant than communicative at first. Katharine -avoided looking at him, which she could easily do, as she sat between -him and her father. As usual, it was her mother who made the first -effort to talk.</p> - -<p>“How is Hester?” she asked, looking across at Crowdie.</p> - -<p>“Oh, very well, thanks,” he answered, absently. “Oh, yes,—she’s very -well, thank you,” he added, repeating the answer with a little change -and more animation. “She had a cold last week, but she’s got over it.”</p> - -<p>“It was dreadful weather,” said Katharine, helping<a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a> her mother to stir -the silence. “All grandpapa’s idiots had the grippe.”</p> - -<p>“All Mr. Lauderdale’s what?” asked Crowdie. “I didn’t quite catch—”</p> - -<p>“The idiots—the asylum, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—I remember,” said the young man, and his broad red lips -smiled.</p> - -<p>Alexander Senior, whose hand shook a little, had eaten his soup with -considerable success. He glanced from Katharine to the young artist, and -there was a twinkle of amusement in the kindly old eyes.</p> - -<p>“Katharine always laughs at the idiots, and talks as though they were my -personal property.” His voice was deep and almost musical still—it had -been a very gentle voice in his youth.</p> - -<p>“Not a very valuable property,” observed Alexander Junior, fixing his -eye severely on the serving girl, who forthwith sprang at Mrs. -Lauderdale’s empty plate as though her life depended on taking it away -in time.</p> - -<p>The Lauderdales had never kept a man-servant. The girl was a handsome -Canadian, very smart in black and white.</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t it be rather an idea to insure all their lives, and make the -insurance pay the expenses of the asylum?” enquired Crowdie, gravely -looking at Alexander Junior.<a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a></p> - -<p>“Not very practical,” answered the latter, with something like a smile.</p> - -<p>“Why not?” asked his father, with sudden interest. “That strikes me as a -very brilliant idea for making charities self-supporting. I suppose,” he -continued, turning to his son, “that the companies could make no -objections to insuring the lives of idiots. The rate ought to be very -reasonable when one considers the care they get, and the medical -attendance, and the immunity from risk of accident.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know about that. When an asylum takes fire, the idiots haven’t -the sense to get out,” observed Alexander Junior, grimly.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense! Nonsense, Alexander!” The old man shook his head. “Idiots are -just as—well, not quite as sensible as other people,—that would be an -exaggeration—but they’re not all so stupid, by any means.”</p> - -<p>“No—so I’ve heard,” said Crowdie, gravely.</p> - -<p>“So stupid as what, Mr. Crowdie?” asked Katharine, turning on him rather -abruptly.</p> - -<p>“As others, Miss Lauderdale—as me, for instance,” he answered, without -hesitation. “Probably we both meant—Mr. Lauderdale and I—that all -idiots are not so stupid as the worst cases, which are the ones most -people think of when idiots are mentioned.”</p> - -<p>“Exactly. You put it very well.” The old philanthropist looked pleased -at the interruption.<a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a> “And I repeat that I think Mr. Crowdie’s idea of -insuring them is very good. Every time one dies,—they do die, poor -things,—you get a sum of money. Excellent, very excellent!”</p> - -<p>His ideas of business transactions had always been hazy in the extreme, -and his son proceeded to set him right.</p> - -<p>“It couldn’t possibly be of any advantage unless you had capital to -invest and insured your own idiots,” said Alexander Junior. “And that -would just amount to making a savings bank on your own account, and -saving so much a year out of your expenses for each idiot. You could -invest the savings, and the interest would be all you could possibly -make. It’s not as though the idiots’ families paid the dues and made -over the policies to you. There would be money in that, I admit. You -might try it. There might be a streak of idiocy in the other members of -the patient’s family which would make them agree to it.”</p> - -<p>The old man’s gentle eyes suddenly lighted up with ill temper.</p> - -<p>“You’re laughing at me, Alexander,” he said, in a louder voice. “You’re -laughing at me!”</p> - -<p>“No, sir; I’m in earnest,” answered the son, in his cool, metallic -tones.</p> - -<p>“Don’t the big companies insure their own ships?” asked the -philanthropist. “Of course they do, and they make money by it.”<a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a></p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon. They make nothing but the interest of what they set -aside for each ship. They simply cover their losses.”</p> - -<p>“Well, and if an idiot dies, then the asylum gets the money.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir. But an idiot has no intrinsic value.”</p> - -<p>“Why, then the asylum gets a sum of money for what was worth nothing, -and it must be very profitable—much more so than insuring ships.”</p> - -<p>“But it’s the asylum’s own money to begin with—”</p> - -<p>“And as for your saying that an idiot has no intrinsic value, -Alexander,” pursued the old man, going off on another tack, “I won’t -have you say such things. I won’t listen to them. An idiot is a human -being, sir, and has an immortal soul, I’d have you to know, as well as -you or I. And you have the assurance to say that he has no intrinsic -value! An immortal soul, made for eternal happiness or eternal -suffering, and no intrinsic value! Upon my word, Alexander, you forget -yourself! I should not have expected such an inhuman speech from you.”</p> - -<p>“Is the ‘vital spark of heavenly flame’ a marketable commodity?” asked -Crowdie, speaking to Katharine in a low voice.</p> - -<p>“Idiots have souls, Mr. Crowdie,” said the philanthropist, looking -straight across at him, and<a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a> taking it for granted that he had said -something in opposition.</p> - -<p>“I’ve no doubt they have, Mr. Lauderdale,” answered the painter. “I -never thought of questioning the fact.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! I thought you did. I understood that you were laughing at the -idea.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. It was the use of the word ‘intrinsic’ as applied to the -value of the soul which struck me as odd.”</p> - -<p>“Ah—that is quite another matter, my dear sir,” replied the old -gentleman, who was quickly appeased. “My son first used the word in this -discussion. I’m not responsible for it. The younger generation is not so -careful in its language as we were taught to be. But the important -point, after all, is that idiots have souls.”</p> - -<p>“The soul is the only thing anybody really can be said to have as his -own,” said Crowdie, thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>Katharine glanced at him. He did not look like the kind of man to make -such a speech with sincerity. She wondered vaguely what his soul would -be like, if she could see it, and it seemed to her that it would be -something strange—white, with red lips, singing an evil song, which she -could not understand, in a velvet voice, and that it would smell of -musk. The side of her that was towards him instinctively shrank a little -from him.<a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a></p> - -<p>“I am glad to hear you say that, Mr. Crowdie,” said the philanthropist -with approbation. “It closes the discussion very fittingly. I hope we -shall hear no more of idiots not having souls. Poor things! It is almost -the only thing they have that makes them like the rest of us.”</p> - -<p>“People are all so different,” replied the artist. “I find that more and -more true every day. And it takes a soul to understand a soul. Otherwise -photography would take the place of portrait painting.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t quite see that,” said Alexander Junior, who had employed the -last few minutes in satisfying his first pangs of hunger, having been -interrupted by the passage of arms with his father. “What becomes of -colour in photography?”</p> - -<p>“What becomes of colour in a charcoal or pen and ink drawing?” asked -Crowdie. “Yet either, if at all good, is preferable to the best -photograph.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not sure of that. I like a good photograph. It is much more -accurate than any drawing can be.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—but it has no soul,” objected Crowdie.</p> - -<p>“How can an inanimate object have a soul, sir?” asked the -philanthropist, suddenly. “That is as bad as saying that idiots—”</p> - -<p>“I mean that a photograph has nothing which suggests the soul of the -original,” said Crowdie, interrupting and speaking in a high, clear -tone.<a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a> He had a beautiful tenor voice, and sang well; and he possessed -the power of making himself heard easily against many other voices.</p> - -<p>“It is the exact representation of the person,” argued Alexander Junior, -whose ideas upon art were limited.</p> - -<p>“Excuse me. Even that is not scientifically true. There can only be one -point in the whole photograph which is precisely in focus. But that is -not what I mean. Every face has something besides the lines and the -colour. For want of a better word, we call it the expression—it is the -individuality—the soul—the real person—the something which the hand -can suggest, but which nothing mechanical can ever reproduce. The artist -who can give it has talent, even if he does not know how to draw. The -best draughtsman and painter in the world is only a mechanic if he -cannot give it. Mrs. Lauderdale paints—and paints well—she knows what -I mean.”</p> - -<p>“Of course,” said Mrs. Lauderdale. “The fact that there is something -which we can only suggest but never show would alone prove the existence -of the soul to any one who paints.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t understand those things,” said Alexander Junior.</p> - -<p>“Grandpapa,” said Katharine, suddenly, “if any one asserted that there -was no such a thing as the soul, what should you answer?”<a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a></p> - -<p>“I should tell him that he was a blasphemer,” answered the old -gentleman, promptly and with energy.</p> - -<p>“But that wouldn’t be an argument,” retorted the young girl.</p> - -<p>“He would discover the force of it hereafter,” said her father. The -electric smile followed the words.</p> - -<p>Crowdie looked at Katharine and smiled also, but she did not see.</p> - -<p>“But isn’t a man entitled to an argument?” she asked. “I mean—if any -one really couldn’t believe that he had a soul—there are such people—”</p> - -<p>“Lots of them,” observed Crowdie.</p> - -<p>“It’s their own fault, then, and they deserve no mercy—and they will -find none,” said Alexander Junior.</p> - -<p>“Then believing is a matter of will, like doing right,” argued the young -girl. “And a man has only to say, ‘I believe,’ and he will believe, -because he wills it.”</p> - -<p>But neither of the Lauderdales had any intention of being drawn out on -that point. They were good Presbyterians, and were Scotch by direct -descent; and they knew well enough what direction the discussion must -take if it were prolonged. The old gentleman put a stop to it.</p> - -<p>“The questions of the nature of belief and free<a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a> will are pretty deep -ones, my dear,” he said, kindly, “and they are not of the sort to be -discussed idly at dinner.”</p> - -<p>Strange to say, that was the species of answer which pleased Katharine -best. She liked the uncompromising force of genuinely prejudiced people -who only allowed argument to proceed when they were sure of a logical -result in their own favour. Alexander Junior nodded approvingly, and -took some more beef. He abhorred bread, vegetables, and sweet things, -and cared only for what produced the greatest amount of energy in the -shortest time. It was astonishing that such iron strength should have -accomplished nothing in nearly fifty years of life.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Crowdie, “they are rather important things. But I don’t -think that there are so many people who deny the existence of the soul -as people who want to satisfy their curiosity about it, by getting a -glimpse at it. Hester and I dine out a good deal—people are very kind, -and always ask us to dinners because they know I can’t go out to late -parties on account of my work—so we are always dining out; and we were -saying only to-day that at nine-tenths of the dinners we go to the -conversation sooner or later turns on the soul, or psychical research, -or Buddhism, or ghosts, or something of the sort. It’s odd, isn’t it, -that there should be so much talk about those things<a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a> just now? I think -it shows a kind of general curiosity. Everybody wants to get hold of a -soul and study its habits, as though it were an ornithorynchus or some -queer animal—it is strange, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, suddenly joining in the -conversation. “If you once cut loose from your own form of belief -there’s no particular reason why you should be satisfied with that of -any one else. If a man leaves his house without an object there’s -nothing to make him go in one direction rather than in another.”</p> - -<p>“So far as that is concerned, I agree with you,” said Alexander Junior.</p> - -<p>“There is truth to direct him,” observed the philanthropist.</p> - -<p>“And there is beauty,” said Crowdie, turning his head towards Mrs. -Lauderdale and his eyes towards Katharine.</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course!” exclaimed the latter. “If you are going to jumble the -soul, and art, and everything, all together, there are lots of things to -lead one. Where does beauty lead you, Mr. Crowdie?”</p> - -<p>“To imagine a vain thing,” answered the painter with a soft laugh. “It -also leads me to try and copy it, with what I imagine it means, and I -don’t always succeed.”</p> - -<p>“I hope you’ll succeed if you paint my daughter’s portrait,” remarked -Alexander Junior.<a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a></p> - -<p>“No,” Crowdie replied thoughtfully, and looking at Katharine quite -directly now. “I shan’t succeed, but if Miss Lauderdale will let me try, -I’ll promise to do my very best. Will you, Miss Lauderdale? Your father -said he thought you would have no objection.”</p> - -<p>“I said you would, Katharine, and I said nothing about objections,” said -her father, who loved accurate statements.</p> - -<p>Katharine did not like to be ordered to do anything and the short, quick -frown bent her brows for a second.</p> - -<p>“I am much flattered,” she said coldly.</p> - -<p>“You will not be, when I have finished, I fear,” said Crowdie, with -quick tact. “Please, Miss Lauderdale, I don’t want you to sit to me as a -matter of duty, because your father is good enough to ask you. That -isn’t it, at all. Please understand. It’s for Hester, you know. She’s -such a friend of yours, and you’re such a friend of hers, and I want to -surprise her with a Christmas present, and there’s nothing she’d like so -much as a picture of you. I don’t say anything about the pleasure it -will be to me to paint you—it’s just for her. Will you?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I will,” answered Katharine, her brow clearing and her tone -changing.</p> - -<p>She had not looked at him while he was speaking, and she was struck, as -she had often been, by the<a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a> exquisite beauty of his voice when he spoke -familiarly and softly. It was like his eyes, smooth, rich and almost -woman-like.</p> - -<p>“And when will you come?” he asked. “To-morrow? Next day? Would eleven -o’clock suit you?”</p> - -<p>“To-morrow, if you like,” answered the young girl. “Eleven will do -perfectly.”</p> - -<p>“Will you come too, Mrs. Lauderdale?” Crowdie asked, without changing -his manner.</p> - -<p>“Yes—that is—not to-morrow. I’ll come one of these days and see how -you are getting on. It’s a long time since I’ve seen you at work, and I -should enjoy it ever so much. But I should rather come when it’s well -begun. I shall learn more.”</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid you won’t learn much from me, Mrs. Lauderdale. It’s very -different work from miniature—and I have no rule. It seems to me that -the longer I paint the more hopeless all rules are. Ten years ago, when -I was working in Paris, I used to believe in canons of art, and fixed -principles, and methods, and all that sort of thing. But I can’t any -more. I do it anyhow, just as it seems to come—with anything—with a -stump, a brush, a rag, hands, fingers, anything. I should not be -surprised to find myself drawing with my elbow and painting with the -back of my head! No, really—I sometimes think the back of my head<a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a> -would be a very good brush to do fur with. Any way—only to get at the -real thing.”</p> - -<p>“I once saw a painter who had no arms,” said the old gentleman. “It was -in Paris, and he held the brushes with his toes. There is an idiot in -the asylum now, who likes nothing better than to pull his shoes off and -tie knots in a rope with his feet all day long.”</p> - -<p>“He is probably one of us,” suggested Crowdie. “We artists are all -half-witted. Give him a brush and see whether he has any talent for -painting with his toes.”</p> - -<p>“That’s an idea,” answered the philanthropist, thoughtfully. -“Transference of manual skill from hands to feet,” he continued in a -low, dreamy voice, thinking aloud. “Abnormal connections of nerves with -next adjoining brain centres—yes—there might be something in -it—yes—yes—”</p> - -<p>The old gentleman had theories of his own about nerves and brain -centres. He had never even studied anatomy, but he speculated in the -wildest manner upon the probability of impossible cases of nerve -derangement and imperfect development, and had long believed himself an -authority on the subject.</p> - -<p>The dinner was quite as short as most modern meals. Old Mr. Lauderdale -and Crowdie smoked, and Alexander Junior, who despised such weaknesses, -stayed in the dining-room with them.<a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a> Neither Mrs. Lauderdale nor -Katharine would have objected to smoking in the library, but Alexander’s -inflexible conservatism abhorred such a practice.</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell why it is,” said Katharine, when she was alone with her -mother, “but that man is positively repulsive to me. It must be -something besides his ugliness, and even that ought to be redeemed by -his eyes and that beautiful voice of his. But it’s not. There’s -something about him—” She stopped, in the sheer impossibility of -expressing her meaning.</p> - -<p>Her mother said nothing in answer, but looked at her with calm and quiet -eyes, rather thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>“Is it very foolish of me, mother? Don’t you notice something, too, when -he’s near you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. He’s like a poisonous flower.”</p> - -<p>“That’s exactly what I wanted to say. That and—the title of Tennyson’s -poem, what is it? Oh—‘A Vision of Sin’—don’t you know?”</p> - -<p>“Poor Crowdie!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale, laughing a little, but still -looking at Katharine.</p> - -<p>“I wonder what induced Hester to marry him.”</p> - -<p>“He fascinated her. Besides, she’s very fond of music, and so is he, and -he sang to her and she played for him. It seems to have succeeded very -well. I believe they are perfectly happy.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, perfectly. At least, Hester always says so. But did you ever -notice—sometimes, without<a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a> any special reason, she looks at him so -anxiously? Just as though she expected something to happen to him, or -that he should do something queer. It may be my imagination.”</p> - -<p>“I never noticed it. She’s tremendously in love with him. That may -account for it.”</p> - -<p>“Well—if she’s happy—” Katharine did not finish the sentence. “He does -stare dreadfully, though,” she resumed a moment later. “But I suppose -all artists do that. They are always looking at one’s features. You -don’t, though.”</p> - -<p>“I? I’m always looking at people’s faces and trying to see how I could -paint them best. But I don’t stare. People don’t like it, and it isn’t -necessary. Crowdie is vain. He has beautiful eyes and he wants every one -to notice them.”</p> - -<p>“If that’s it, at all events he has the sense to be vain of his best -point,” said Katharine. “He’s not an artist for nothing. And he’s -certainly very clever in all sorts of ways.”</p> - -<p>“He didn’t say anything particularly clever at dinner, I thought. By the -bye, was the dinner good? Your father didn’t tell me Crowdie was -coming.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; it did very well,” answered Katharine, in a reassuring tone. -“At least, I didn’t notice what we had. He always takes away my -appetite. I shall go and steal something when he’s gone. Let’s sit up -late, mother—just you and I—after<a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a> papa has gone to bed, and we’ll -light a little wee fire, and have a tiny bit of supper, and make -ourselves comfortable, and abuse Mr. Crowdie just as much as we like. -Won’t that be nice? Do!”</p> - -<p>“Well—we’ll see how late he stays. It’s only a quarter past nine yet. -Have you got a book, child? I am going to read that article about wet -paintings on pottery—I’ve had it there ever so long, and the men won’t -come back for half an hour at least.”</p> - -<p>Katharine found something to read, after handing her mother the review -from the table.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps reading a little will take away the bad taste of Crowdie,” said -Mrs. Lauderdale, with a laugh, as she settled herself in the corner of -the sofa.</p> - -<p>“I wish something would,” answered Katharine, seating herself in a deep -chair, and opening her book.</p> - -<p>But she found it hard to fix her attention, and the book was a dull one, -or seemed so, as the best books do when the mind is drawn and stretched -in one direction. Her thoughts went back to the twilight hour, when -Ralston had been there, and to the decided step she was about to take. -The only wonder was that she had been able to talk with a tolerable -continuity of ideas during dinner, considering what her position was. -Assuredly it was a daring thing which she meant to do, and she<a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a> -experienced the sensation familiar even to brave men—the small, utterly -unreasoning temptation to draw back just before the real danger begins. -Most people who have been called upon to do something very dangerous, -with fair warning and in perfectly cold blood, know that little feeling -and are willing to acknowledge it. It is not fear. It is the inevitable -last word spoken by the instinct of self-preservation.</p> - -<p>There are men who have never felt it at all, rare instances of perfectly -phlegmatic physical recklessness. They are not the ones who deserve the -most credit for doing perilous deeds. And there are other men, even -fewer, perhaps, who have felt it, but have ceased to feel it, in whom -all love of life is so totally and hopelessly dead that even the bodily, -human impulse to avoid death can never be felt again. Such men are very -dangerous in fight. ‘Beware of him who seeks death,’ says an ancient -Eastern proverb. So many things which seem impossible are easy if the -value of life itself be taken out of the balance. But with the great -majority of the human race that value is tolerably well defined. The -poor Chinaman who sells himself, for the benefit of his family, to be -sliced to death in the stead of the rich criminal, knows within an ounce -or two of silver what his existence is worth. The bargain has been made -so often by others that<a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a> there is almost a tariff. It is not a pleasant -subject, but, since the case really happens, it would be a curious thing -to hear theologians discuss the morality of such suicide on the part of -the unfortunate wretch. Would they say that he was forfeiting the hope -of a future reward by giving himself to be destroyed for money, of his -own free will? Or would they account it to him for righteousness that he -should lay down his life to save his wife and children from starving to -death? For a real case, as it is, it certainly presents difficulties -which approach the fantastic.</p> - -<p>It was very quiet in the room, as it had been once or twice when there -had been a silence between Katharine and Ralston a few hours earlier. -The furniture was all just as it had been—hardly a chair had been -turned. The scene came back vividly to the young girl’s imagination, and -the sound of Ralston’s voice, just trembling with emotion, rang again in -her ears. That had been the sweetest of all the many sweet hours she had -spent with him since they had been children. Her book fell upon her -knees and her head sank back against the cushion. With lids half -drooping, she gazed at a point she did not see. The softest possible -light, the exquisite, trembling radiance of spotless maidenhood’s -divinest dream, hovered about the lovely face and the girlish lips just -parted to meet in the memory of a kiss.<a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a></p> - -<p>Suddenly, from the next room, as the three men came towards the closed -door of the library, Crowdie’s laugh broke the stillness, high, -melodious, rich. Some men have a habit of laughing at anything which is -said just as they leave the dining-room.</p> - -<p>Katharine started as though she had been stung. She was unconscious that -her mother had ceased reading, and had been looking at her for several -minutes, wondering why she had never fully appreciated the girl’s beauty -before.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter, dear?” she asked, as she saw the start and the quick -expression of resentment and repulsion.</p> - -<p>“It’s that man’s voice—it’s so beautiful and yet—ugh!” She shivered as -the door opened and the three men came in.</p> - -<p>“You’ve not been long,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, looking up at Crowdie. “I -hope they gave you a cigar in there.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, thanks—and a very good one, too,” added the artist, who had -not succeeded in smoking half of the execrable Connecticut -six-for-a-quarter cigar which the philanthropist had offered him.</p> - -<p>It seemed natural enough to him that a man who devoted himself to idiots -should have no taste, and he would have opened his eyes if he had been -told that the Connecticut tobacco was<a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a> one of the economies imposed by -Alexander Junior upon his long-suffering father. The old gentleman, -however, was really not very particular, and his sufferings were not to -be compared with those of Balzac’s saintly charity-maniac, when he gave -up his Havanas for the sake of his poor people.</p> - -<p>Crowdie looked at Katharine, as he answered her mother, and continued to -do so, though he sat down beside the latter. Katharine had risen from -her seat, and was standing by the mantelpiece, and Mrs. Lauderdale was -sitting at the end of the sofa on the other side of the fireplace, under -the strong, unshaded light of the gas. She made an effort to talk to her -guest, for the sake of sparing the girl, though she felt uncomfortably -tired, and was looking almost ill.</p> - -<p>“Did you talk any more about the soul, after we left?” she asked, -looking at Crowdie.</p> - -<p>“No,” he answered, still gazing at Katharine, and speaking rather -absently. “We talked—let me see—I think—” He hesitated.</p> - -<p>“It couldn’t have been very interesting, if you don’t remember what it -was about,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, pleasantly. “We must try and amuse you -better than they did, or you won’t come near us again.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, as far as that goes, I’ll come just as often as you ask me,” -answered Crowdie, suddenly looking at his shoes.<a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a></p> - -<p>But he made no attempt to continue the conversation. Mrs. Lauderdale -felt a little womanly annoyance. The constant and life-long habit of -being considered by men to be the most important person in the room, -whenever she chose to be considered at all, had become a part of her -nature. She made up her mind that Crowdie should not only listen and -talk, but should look at her.</p> - -<p>“What are you doing now? Another portrait?” she asked. “I know you are -always busy.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—the wife of a man who has a silver mine somewhere. She’s -fairly good-looking, for a wonder.”</p> - -<p>His eyes wandered about the room, and, from time to time, went back to -Katharine. Old Mr. Lauderdale was going to sleep in an arm-chair, and -Alexander Junior was reading the evening paper.</p> - -<p>“Does your work always interest you as it did at first?” asked Mrs. -Lauderdale, growing more and more determined to fix his attention, and -speaking softly. “I mean—are you happy in it and with it?”</p> - -<p>His languid glance met hers for an instant, with an odd look of lazy -enquiry. He was keen and quick of intuition, and more than sufficiently -vain. There is a certain tone of voice in which a woman may ask a man if -he is happy which indicates a willingness to play at flirtation. Now, it -had never<a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a> entered the head of Walter Crowdie that Mrs. Lauderdale could -possibly care to flirt with him. Yet the tone was official, so to say, -and he had some right to be surprised, the more so as he had never heard -any man—not even the famous club-liar, Stopford Thirlwall—even suggest -that she had ever really flirted with any one, or do anything worse than -dance to the very end of every dancing party, and generally amuse -herself in an innocent way to an extent that would have ruined the -constitutions of most women not born in Kentucky. Even as he turned to -look at her, however, he realized the absurdity of the impression he had -received, and his eyes went mechanically back to Katharine’s profile. -The smile that moved his heavy, red mouth was for himself, as he -answered Mrs. Lauderdale’s question.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” he said, quite naturally. “I love it. I’m perfectly happy.” -And again he relapsed into silence.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lauderdale was annoyed. She turned her head, under the glaring -light, towards the carved pillar at the right of the fireplace. An -absurd little looking-glass hung by a silken cord from the mantelpiece -to the level of her eyes—one of those small Persian mirrors set in a -case of embroidery, such as are used for favours at cotillions.</p> - -<p>She saw very suddenly the reflection of her own face. The glass was -perhaps a trifle green, which<a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a> made it worse, but she stared in a sort -of dumb horror, realizing in a single moment that she had grown old, -that the lines had deepened until every one could see them, that the -eyes looked faded, the hair dull, the lips almost shrivelled, the once -dazzling skin flaccid and sallow—that the queenly beauty was gone, a -perishable thing already perished, a memory now and worse than a memory, -a cruelly bitter regret left in the place of a possession half divine -that was lost for ever and ever, dead beyond resurrection, gone beyond -recall.</p> - -<p>That was the most terrible moment in Mrs. Lauderdale’s life. Fate need -not have made it so appallingly sudden—she had prepared for it so long, -so conscientiously, trying always to wean herself from a vanity the -sternest would forgive. And it had seemed to be coming so slowly, by -degrees of each degree, and she had thought it would be so long in -coming quite. And now it was come, in the flash of a second. But the -bitterness was not past.</p> - -<p>Instinctively in the silence she looked up before her and saw her -daughter’s lovely face. Her head reeled, her sight swam. A great, fierce -envy caught at her heart with iron fingers and wrung it, till she could -have screamed,—envy of her who was dearest to her of all living -things—of Katharine.<a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">John Ralston</span> had given his word to Katharine and he intended to keep it. -Whenever he was assailed by doubts he recalled by an act of will the -state of mind to which the young girl had brought him on Monday evening, -and how he had then been convinced that there was no harm in the secret -marriage. He analyzed his position, too, in a rough and ready way, with -the intention of proving that the clandestine ceremony could not be of -any advantage to himself, that it was therefore not from any selfish -motive that he had undertaken to have it performed, and that, -consequently, since the action itself was to be an unselfish one, there -could be nothing even faintly dishonourable in it. For he did not really -believe that old Robert Lauderdale would do anything for him. On the -contrary, he thought it most likely that the old man would be very angry -and would bid the young people abide by the consequences of their -doings. He would blame Ralston bitterly. He would not believe that he -had been disinterested. He would say that he had married Katharine, and -had persuaded her to the marriage in the hope of<a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a> forcing his uncle to -help him, out of consideration for the girl. And he would refuse to do -anything whatsoever. He might even go so far as to strike the names of -both from his will, if he had left them a legacy, which was probable. -But, to do Ralston justice, so long as he was sure of his own motives he -had never cared a straw for the opinions others might form of them, and -he was the last man in the world to assume a character for the sake of -playing on the feelings of a rich relation. If Robert Lauderdale should -send for him, and be angry, and reproach him with what he had done, John -was quite capable of answering that he had acted from motives which -concerned himself only, that he was answerable to no one but Katharine -herself and that uncle Robert might make the best of it at his leisure. -The young man possessed that sort of courage in abundance, as every one -knew, and being aware of it himself, he suspected, not without grounds -of probability, that the millionaire was aware of it also, and would -simply leave him alone to his own devices, refusing Katharine’s request, -and never mentioning the question again. That the old man would be -discreet, was certain. With a few rare exceptions, men who have made -great fortunes unaided have more discretion than other people, and can -keep secrets remarkably well.</p> - -<p>The difficulty which presented itself to Ralston<a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a> at once was a material -one. He did not in the least know how such an affair as a secret -marriage should be managed. None of his close acquaintances had ever -done anything so unusual, and although he knew of two cases which had -occurred in New York society, the one in recent years and the other long -ago, he had no means of finding out at short notice how the actual -formalities necessary had been fulfilled in either case. He knew, -however, that a marriage performed by a respectable clergyman of any -denomination was legal, and that a certificate signed by him was -perfectly valid. He had heard of marriages before a Justice of the -Peace, and even of declarations made before respectable witnesses and -vouched for, which had been legal marriages beyond dispute, but he did -not like the look of anything in which there was no religious ceremony, -respectfully indifferent though he was to all religion. The code of -honour, which was his only faith, is connected, and not even very -distantly, with Christianity. There are honourable men of all religions -under the sun, including that of Confucius, but we do not associate the -expression ‘the code of honour’ with non-Christians—which is singular -enough, considering the view the said code takes of some moral -questions.</p> - -<p>There must be a marriage service, therefore, thought Ralston, and it -must be performed in New York. There was no possibility of taking -Katharine<a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a> into a neighbouring State, and he had no wish to do so for -many reasons. He was not without foresight, and he intended to be able -to prove at any future time that the formality, the whole formality, and -nothing but the formality of the ceremony had been fulfilled. It was not -easy. He racked his recollections in vain, and he read all the -newspapers published that morning with an interest he had certainly -never felt in them before, in the hope of finding some account of a case -similar to his own. He thought of going to a number of clergymen, of the -social type, with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, and of laying the -facts before each in turn, until one of them consented to marry him. But -though many of them were excellent men, he had not enough confidence in -their discretion. He laughed to himself when he thought that the only -men he knew who seemed to possess the necessary qualities for such a -delicate affair were Robert the Rich himself and Hamilton Bright, whom -Ralston secretly suspected of being somewhat in love with Katharine on -his own account. It was odd, he thought, that of all the family Bright -alone should resemble old Robert, physically and mentally, but the -resemblance was undeniable, though the relationship only consisted in -the fact that Bright was descended from old Robert Lauderdale’s -grandfather, the primeval Alexander often mentioned in these pages.<a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a></p> - -<p>Ralston turned the case over and over in his mind. He thought of going -to some dissenting minister quite unknown to him, and trying what -eloquence could do. He had heard that some of them were men of heart to -whom one could appeal in trouble. But he knew very well that every one -of them would tell him to do the thing openly, or not at all, and the -mere idea revived his own scruples. He wondered whether there were not -churches where the marrying was done by batches of four and five couples -on a certain Sunday in the month, as babies are baptized in some parts -of the world, and whether he and Katharine could not slip in, as it were -by mistake, and be married by a man who did not even know their names. -But he laughed at the idea a moment later, and went on studying the -problem.</p> - -<p>Another of his ideas was to consult a detective, from a private office. -Such men would, in all likelihood, know a good deal about runaway -couples. And this seemed one of the wisest plans which had suggested -itself, though it broke down for two reasons. He hated the thought of -getting at his result by the help of a man belonging to what he -considered a mean and underhand profession; and he reflected that such -men were always on the lookout for private scandals, and that he should -be putting himself in their power. At last he decided to consult a -lawyer. Lawyers<a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a> and doctors, as a rule, were discreet, he thought, -because their success depended on their discretion. He could easily find -a man whom he had never seen, honest and able to keep a secret, who -would give him the information he wanted in a professional way and take -a fee for the trouble. This seemed to him honourable and wise. He wished -everything to be legal, and the best way to make it so was to follow a -lawyer’s directions. There was not even a doubt but that the said -lawyer, if requested, would make a memorandum of the case, and take -charge of the document which was to prove that Katharine Lauderdale had -become the lawful wife of John Ralston. There were lists and directories -in which he could find the names of hundreds of such men. He was in his -native city, and between the names and the places of business he thought -he could form a tolerably accurate opinion of the reputation and -standing of some, if not of all, of the individuals.</p> - -<p>In the course of a couple of hours he had found what he wanted—a lawyer -whose name was known to him as that of a man of good reputation and a -gentleman, one whom he had never seen and who had probably never seen -him, old enough, as he knew, to have a wide experience, yet not so old -as to be justified in assuming airs of vast moral superiority in order -to declare primly that he would never help a young man to commit an act -of folly.<a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a> For folly it was, as Ralston knew very well in his heart.</p> - -<p>He lost no time, and within half an hour was interviewing the authority -he had selected, for, by a bit of good luck, he was fortunate enough to -meet the lawyer at the door of his office, just returning from luncheon. -Otherwise he might have had some difficulty in gaining immediate -admittance. He found him to be a grave, keen personage of uncertain age, -who laid his glasses beside him on his desk whenever he spoke, and put -them on again as soon as he had done. He wiped them carefully when -Ralston had explained what he wanted, and then paused a moment before -replying. Ralston was by no means prepared for what he said.</p> - -<p>“I presume you are a novelist.”</p> - -<p>The lawyer looked at him, smiled pleasantly, looked away and turned his -glasses over again.</p> - -<p>The young man was inclined to laugh. No one had ever before taken him -for a man of letters. He hesitated, however, before he answered, -wondering whether he had not better accept the statement in the hope of -getting accurate information, rather than risk a refusal if he said he -was in earnest. The lawyer took his hesitation for assent.</p> - -<p>“Because, in that case, it would not be at all difficult to manage,” he -continued, without waiting any longer for a reply. “Lots of things can<a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a> -happen in books, you see, and you can wind up the story and publish it -before the people in the book who are to be kept in the dark have found -out the secret. In real life, it is a little different, because, though -it’s very easy to be married, it’s the duty of the person who marries -you to send a certificate or statement of the marriage to the office -where the record of statistics is kept.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” ejaculated Ralston, and his face fell. “I didn’t know that.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. That’s necessary, on pain of a fine. And yet the marriage may -remain a secret a long while—for a lifetime under favourable -circumstances. So that if you are writing a story you can let the young -couple take the chances, and you can give them in their favour.”</p> - -<p>“Well—how, exactly?” asked John. “That sort of thing isn’t usual, I -fancy.”</p> - -<p>“Not usual—no.” The lawyer smiled. “But there are more secret marriages -than most people dream of. If your hero and heroine must be married in -New York, it is easy enough to do it. Nobody will marry them without -afterwards making out the certificate, which is recorded. If anybody -suspects that they are married, it is the easiest thing in the world to -find out that the marriage has been registered. But if nobody looks for -it, the thing will never be heard of. It’s a thousand to one against -anybody’s finding it out by accident.”<a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a></p> - -<p>“But if it were done in that way it would be absolutely legal and could -never be contested?”</p> - -<p>“Of course—perfectly legal. But it’s not so in all States, mind you.”</p> - -<p>“I wanted to know about New York,” said Ralston. “It couldn’t possibly -take place anywhere else.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—well—in that case, you know all there is to be known.”</p> - -<p>“I’m very grateful,” said John, rising. “I’ve taken up a great deal of -your valuable time, sir. May I—”</p> - -<p>In considerable doubt as to what he should do, he thrust his hand into -his breast-pocket and looked at the lawyer.</p> - -<p>“My dear sir!” exclaimed the latter, rising also. “How can you think of -such a thing? I’m very glad indeed to have been of service to—a young -novelist.”</p> - -<p>“You’re exceedingly kind, and I thank you very much,” said Ralston, -shaking the outstretched hand, and making for the door as soon as -possible.</p> - -<p>He had not even given his name, which had been rather rude on his part, -as he was well aware. At all events, the lawyer would not be able to -trace him, which was a point to his advantage.</p> - -<p>Oddly enough he felt a sense of satisfaction when he thought over what -he had learned. He could tell Katharine that a really secret marriage<a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a> -was wholly impossible, and perhaps when she knew that she was running a -risk of discovery she would draw back. He should be glad of that. -Realizing the fact, he was conscious for the first time that he was -seeking a way out of the marriage and not a way into it, and a conflict -arose in his mind. On the one hand he had given Katharine his word that -he would do what she asked, and his word was sacred, unless she would -release him from the promise. On the other side stood that intimate -conviction of his own that, in spite of all her arguments, it was not a -perfectly honourable thing to do, on its own merits. He could not help -feeling glad that a material difficulty stood in the way of his doing -what she required of him.</p> - -<p>In any case he must see her as soon as possible. He ascertained without -difficulty that they need not show evidence that they had resided in New -York during any particular period, nor were there any other formalities -to be fulfilled. He went home to luncheon with his mother—it was on the -day after he had given his promise to Katharine, for he had lost no -time—and he went out again before three o’clock, hoping to find the -young girl alone.</p> - -<p>To his annoyance he found her with her mother in the library. Mrs. -Lauderdale was generally at work at that hour, if she was at home, but -to-day she, who was always well, had a headache and was nervous and -altogether different from herself.<a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a> Katharine saw that she was almost -ill, and insisted upon staying at home with her, to read to her, or to -talk, as she preferred, though Mrs. Lauderdale begged her repeatedly to -go away and make visits, or otherwise amuse herself as she could. But -the young girl was obstinate; she saw that her mother was suffering and -she had no intention of leaving her that afternoon. Alexander Junior was -of course at his office, and the philanthropist was in his own quarters -upstairs, probably dozing before the fire or writing reports about -idiots.</p> - -<p>It was clear to Ralston in five minutes that Mrs. Lauderdale was not -only indisposed, but that she was altogether out of temper, a state of -mind very unusual with her. She found fault with little things that -Katharine did in a way John had never noticed before, and as for -himself, she evidently wished he had not come. There was a petulance -about her which was quite new. She was not even sitting in her usual -place, but had taken the deep arm-chair on the other side of the -fireplace, and turned her back to the light.</p> - -<p>“You seem to be as busy as usual, Jack,” she observed, after exchanging -a few words.</p> - -<p>“I’m wishing I were, at all events,” he answered. “You must take the -wish for the deed.”</p> - -<p>“They say that there’s always plenty of work for any one who wants it,” -answered Mrs. Lauderdale, coldly.<a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a></p> - -<p>“If you’ll tell me where to find it—”</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you go to the West, as young Bright did, and try to do -something without help? Other men do.”</p> - -<p>“Bright took money with him,” answered Ralston.</p> - -<p>“Did he? Not much, then, I fancy. I know he lived a hard life and drove -cattle—”</p> - -<p>“And bought land in wild places which he found in the course of his -cattle driving. The driving was a means of getting about—not -unpleasant, either—and he had some money to invest. I could do the -same, if I had any.”</p> - -<p>“You know it’s quite useless, mother,” said Katharine, interposing -before Mrs. Lauderdale could make another retort. “You all abuse him for -doing nothing, and yet I hear you all say that every profession is -overcrowded, and that nobody can do anything without capital. If uncle -Robert chose, he could make Jack’s fortune by a turn of his hand.”</p> - -<p>“Of course—he could give him a fortune outright and not feel it—unless -he cared what became of it.”</p> - -<p>There was something so harsh about the way in which she spoke the last -words that Ralston and Katharine looked at each other. Ralston did not -lose his temper, however, but tried to turn the subject with a laugh.<a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a></p> - -<p>“My dear cousin Emma,” he said, “I’m the most hopeless case living. -Please talk about somebody who is successful. There are lots of them. -You’ve mentioned Bright already. Let us praise him. That will make you -feel better.”</p> - -<p>To this Mrs. Lauderdale said nothing. After waiting a moment Ralston -turned to Katharine.</p> - -<p>“Are you going out this afternoon?” he asked, by way of hinting that he -wanted to see her alone.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, answering for her. “She says she means to -stay at home and take care of me. It’s ever so good of her, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” answered Ralston, absently.</p> - -<p>It struck Katharine that, considering that her mother had been trying -for half an hour to persuade her to go out, it would have been natural -to propose that she should go for a short walk with John, and that the -answer had come rather suddenly.</p> - -<p>“But you can’t stay at home all day,” said Ralston, all at once. “You’ll -be having a headache yourself. Won’t you let Katharine come with me for -half an hour, cousin Emma? We’ll walk twice round Washington Square and -come right back. She looks pale.”</p> - -<p>“Does she?” Mrs. Lauderdale glanced at the girl’s face. “I don’t think -so,” she continued. “Besides—”</p> - -<p>“What is it?” asked Ralston, as she hesitated<a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a> and stopped. “Isn’t it -proper? We’ve often done it.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lauderdale rose from her chair and stood up, tall and slim, with -her back to the mantelpiece. The light fell upon her face now, and -Ralston saw how tired and worn she looked. Immediately she turned her -back to the window again, and looked at him sideways, resting her elbow -on the shelf.</p> - -<p>“What is the use of you two going on in this way?” she asked suddenly.</p> - -<p>There was an awkward silence, and again Katharine and Ralston looked at -one another. They were momentarily surprised out of speech, for Mrs. -Lauderdale had always taken their side, if not very actively, at least -in a kindly way. She had said that Katharine should marry the man she -loved, rich or poor, and that if she chose to wait for a poor man, like -Ralston, to be able to support her, that was her own affair. The violent -opposition had come from Katharine’s father when, a year previously, the -two had boldly told him that they loved each other and wished to be -married. Alexander Junior did not often lose his temper, but he had lost -it completely on that occasion, and had gone so far as to say that -Ralston should never enter the house again, a verdict which he had been -soon forced to modify. But he had said that he considered John an idle -good-for-nothing, who<a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a> would never be able to support himself, let alone -a wife and children; that his, Alexander’s, daughter should never marry -a professional dandy, who was content to let his widowed mother pay his -extravagant tailor’s bills, and who played poker at the clubs as a -source of income; that it was not enough of a recommendation to be half -a Lauderdale and to skim the cream from New York society in the form of -daily invitations—and to have the reputation of being a good polo -player with other people’s horses, a good yachtsman with other people’s -yachts, and of having a strong head for other people’s wines. Those were -not the noble qualities Alexander Junior looked for in a son-in-law. Not -at all, sir. He preferred Benjamin Slayback of Nevada. The Lauderdales -were quite able to make society accept Benjamin Slayback of Nevada, -because Benjamin Slayback of Nevada was quite able to stand upon his own -feet anywhere, having worked for all he had, like a man, and having -pushed himself into the forefront of political life by sheer energy and -ability, and having as good a right and as good a chance in every way as -any man in the country. No, he was certainly not a Lauderdale. If -Lauderdales were to go on marrying Lauderdales and no one else, there -would soon be an end of society. He advised John Ralston to go to Nevada -and marry Benjamin Slayback’s sister, if she would look at him, which -was more<a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a> than doubtful, considering that he was the most atrociously -idle young ne’er-do-weel—here Alexander’s Scotch upper lip snapped like -a steel trap—that ever wasted the most precious years of life between -the society of infatuated women by day, sir, and the temptations of the -card-table and the bottle by night—the favourite of fine ladies, the -boon companion of roisterers and the sport of a London tailor.</p> - -<p>Which was a tremendous speech when delivered at close quarters in -Alexander Junior’s metallic voice, and in his most irately emphatic -manner, while the grey veins swelled at his grey temples, and one iron -hand was clenched ready to strike the palm of the other when the end of -the peroration was reached. He allowed himself, as a relation, even more -latitude in his language than he would have arrogated to himself as -Katharine’s father. He met John Ralston not only as the angry stage -father meets the ineligible and determined young suitor, but as one -Lauderdale meeting another—the one knowing himself to be -irreproachable, upbraiding the other as the disgrace of the family, the -hardened young sinner, and the sport of his tailor. That last expression -had almost brought a smile to Ralston’s angry face.</p> - -<p>He had behaved admirably, however, under such very trying circumstances, -and afterwards secretly took great credit to himself for not having -attacked<a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a> him whom he wished for a father-in-law with the furniture of -the latter’s own library, the chairs being the only convenient weapons -in the room. Alexander the Safe, as his own daughter called him, could -probably have killed John Ralston with one back-hander, but John would -have liked to try him in fight, nevertheless. Instead of doing anything -of the kind, however, John drew back two steps, and said as much as he -could trust himself to say without foaming at the mouth and seeing -things in scarlet. He said that he did not agree with his cousin -Alexander upon all the points the latter had mentioned, that he did not -care to prolong a violent scene, and he wished him good morning. -Thereupon he had left the house, which was quite the wisest thing he -could do, for when Alexander was alone he found to his extreme annoyance -that he had a distinct sensation of having been made almost ridiculous. -But he soon recovered from that, for whatever the secret mainspring of -his singular character might be, it was certainly not idle vanity.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lauderdale had consoled Katharine, and Ralston too, for that -matter, as well as she could, and with sincere sympathy. Ralston -continued to come to the house very much as he pleased, and Mr. -Lauderdale silently tolerated his presence on the rare occasions of -their meeting. He had certainly said more than enough to explain his -point<a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a> of view, and he considered the matter as settled. It was really -not possible to keep a man who was his cousin altogether away, and he -suffered also from a delusion common to many fathers, which led him to -think that no one would ever dare to act against his once clearly -expressed wishes.</p> - -<p>Between Katharine and her mother and Ralston there remained a sort of -tacit understanding. There was no formal engagement, of course, which -would have had to be concealed from Mr. Lauderdale, but Mrs. Lauderdale -meant that the two young people should be married if they continued to -love one another, and she generally left them as much together as they -pleased when Ralston came.</p> - -<p>It was, therefore, not strange that they should both be surprised by the -nature of her sudden question as she stood by the fireplace looking -sideways at Ralston, with her back to the light.</p> - -<p>“What is the use?” asked Katharine, repeating the words in astonishment -and emphasizing the last one.</p> - -<p>“Yes. What is the use? It is leading to nothing. You never can be -married, and you know it by this time. You had much better separate at -once. It will be easier for you now, perhaps, than by and by. You are -both so young!”</p> - -<p>“Excuse me, cousin Emma,” said Ralston, “but I think you must be -dreaming.”</p> - -<p>He spoke very quietly, but the light was beginning<a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a> to gleam in his -eyes. His mother was said to have a very bad temper, and John was like -her in many respects. But Mrs. Lauderdale continued to speak quite -calmly.</p> - -<p>“I have been thinking about you two a great deal lately,” she said. “I -have made a mistake, and I may as well say so at once, now that I have -discovered it. You wouldn’t like me to go on letting you think that I -approved of your engagement, when I don’t—would you? That wouldn’t be -fair or honest.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly not,” answered Ralston, in a low voice, and he could feel all -his muscles tightening as though for a physical effort. “Have you said -this sort of thing to Katharine before, or is this the first time?”</p> - -<p>“No, she hasn’t said a word,” replied Katharine herself.</p> - -<p>The girl was standing by the easy chair, her hand resting on the back of -it, her face pale, her great grey eyes staring wide open at her mother’s -profile.</p> - -<p>“No, I have not,” said Mrs. Lauderdale. “I thought it best to wait until -I could speak to you together. It’s useless to give pain twice over.”</p> - -<p>“It is indeed,” said Ralston, gravely. “Please go on.”</p> - -<p>“Why—there’s nothing more to be said, Jack,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale. -“That’s all. The<a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a> trouble is that you’ll never do anything, and you have -no fortune, nor any prospect of any—until your mother—”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t speak of my mother in that connection,” interrupted -Ralston, his lips growing white.</p> - -<p>“Well—and as for us, we’re as poor as can be. You see how we live. -Besides, you know. Old Mr. Lauderdale gets uncle Robert to subscribe -thousands and thousands for the idiots, but he never suggests that they -are far better off than we are. However, those are our miseries and not -yours. Yours is that you are perfectly useless—”</p> - -<p>“Mother!” cried Katharine, losing control of herself and moving a step -forward.</p> - -<p>“It’s all right, dear,” said Ralston. “Go on, cousin Emma. I’m perfectly -useless—”</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean to offend you, Jack, and we’re not strangers,” continued -Mrs. Lauderdale, “and I won’t dwell on the facts. You know them as well -as I do, and are probably quite as sorry that they really are facts. I -will only ask one question. What chance is there that in the next four -or five years you can have a house of your own, and an income of your -own—just enough for two people to live on and no more—and—well—a -home for Katharine? What chance is there?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll do something before that time,” answered Ralston, with a -determined look.<a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a></p> - -<p>But Mrs. Lauderdale shook her head.</p> - -<p>“So you said last year, Jack. I repeat—I don’t want to be unkind. How -long is Katharine to wait?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll wait all my life, mother,” said the young girl, suddenly speaking -out in ringing tones. “I’ll wait till I die, if I must, and Jack knows -it. And I believe in him, if you don’t—against you all, you and papa -and uncle Robert and every one. Jack has never had a chance that -deserves to be called a chance at all. He must succeed—he shall -succeed—I know he’ll succeed. And I’ll wait till he does. I will—I -will—if it’s forever, and I shan’t be tired of waiting—it will always -be easy, for him. Oh, mother, mother—to think that you should have -turned against us! That’s the hard thing!”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, dear,” said Ralston, touching her hand lovingly.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lauderdale had turned her face quite away from him now and was -looking at the clock, softly drumming with her fingers upon the -mantelpiece.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry, Katharine,” she said. “But I think it, and I’ve said it—and -I can’t unsay it. It’s far too true.”</p> - -<p>There was a dead silence for several seconds. Then Katharine suddenly -pushed Ralston gently toward the door.</p> - -<p>“Go, Jack dear,” she said in a low voice.<a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a> “She has a dreadful -headache—she’s not herself. Your being here irritates her—please go -away—it will be all right in a day or two—”</p> - -<p>They had reached the door, for Ralston saw that she was right.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Mrs. Lauderdale from the fireplace, “I shan’t change my -mind.”</p> - -<p>It was all so sudden and strange that Ralston found himself outside the -library without having taken leave of her in any way. Katharine came out -with him.</p> - -<p>“There’s a difficulty,” he whispered quickly as he found his coat and -stick. “After it’s done there has to be a certificate saying that—”</p> - -<p>“Katharine! Come here!” cried Mrs. Lauderdale from within, and they -heard her footstep as she left the fireplace.</p> - -<p>“Come to-morrow morning at eleven,” whispered Katharine.</p> - -<p>She barely touched his hand with hers and fled back into the library. He -let himself out and walked slowly along Clinton Place in the direction -of Fifth Avenue.<a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katharine</span> went back to the library mechanically, because Mrs. Lauderdale -called her and because she heard the latter’s step upon the floor, but -not exactly in mere blind submission and obedience. She was, indeed, so -much surprised by what had taken place that she was not altogether her -usual self, and she was conscious that events moved more quickly just -then than her own power of decision. She was observant and perceptive, -but her reason had always worked slowly. Ralston, at least, was out of -the way, and she was glad that she had made him go. It had been -unbearable to hear her mother attacking him as she had done.</p> - -<p>She believed that Mrs. Lauderdale was about to be seriously ill. No -other theory could account for her extraordinary behaviour. It was -therefore wisest to take away what irritated her and to be as patient as -possible. There was no excuse for her sudden change of opinion, and as -soon as she was quite well she would be sorry for what she had said. -Katharine was not more patient than most people, but she did her best.</p> - -<p>“Is anything the matter, mother? You called<a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a> so loud.” She spoke almost -before she had shut the door behind her.</p> - -<p>“No. Did I? I wanted him to go away, that was all. Why should he stand -there talking to you in whispers?”</p> - -<p>Katharine did not answer at once, but her broad eyebrows drew slowly -together and her eyelids contracted. She sat down and clasped her hands -together upon her knee.</p> - -<p>“Because he had something to say to me which he did not wish you to -hear, mother,” she answered at last.</p> - -<p>“Ah—I thought so.” Mrs. Lauderdale relapsed into silence, and from time -to time her mouth twitched nervously.</p> - -<p>She glanced at her daughter once or twice. The young girl’s straight -features could look almost stolid at times. Her patience had given way -once, but she got hold of it again and tried to set it on her face like -a mask. She was thinking now and wondering whether this strange mood -were a mere caprice of her mother’s, though Mrs. Lauderdale had never -been capricious before, or whether something had happened to change her -opinion of Ralston suddenly but permanently. In the one case it would be -best to bear it as quietly as possible, in the other to declare war at -once. But that seemed impossible, when she tried to realize it. She was -deeply, sincerely devoted to her mother.<a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a> Hitherto they had each -understood the other’s thoughts and feelings almost without words, and -in all the many little domestic difficulties they had been firm allies. -It was not possible that they were to quarrel now. The gap in life would -be too deep and broad. Katharine suddenly rose and came and sat beside -her mother and drew the fair, tired face to her own, very tenderly.</p> - -<p>“Mother dear,” she said, “look at me! What is the matter? Have I done -anything to hurt you—to displease you? We’ve always loved each other, -you and I—and we can’t really quarrel, can we? What is it, dearest? -Tell me everything—I can’t understand it at all—I know—you’re tired -and ill, and Jack irritated you. Men will, sometimes, even the very -nicest men, you know. It was only that, wasn’t it? Yes—I knew it -was—poor, dear, darling, sweet, tired little mother, just let your dear -head rest—so, against me—yes, dear, I know—it was nothing—”</p> - -<p>It was as though they had changed places, the mother and the daughter. -The older woman’s lip quivered, as her cheek rested on Katharine’s -breast. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, two tears gathered just within the -shadowed lids, and grew and overflowed and trembled and fell—two -crystal drops. She saw them fall upon the rough grey stuff of her -daughter’s frock, and as she lay there upon the girl’s bosom with -downcast eyes, she watched her<a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a> own tears, in momentary apathy, and -noticed how they ran, then crawled along, then stopped, caught as it -seemed in the stiff little hairs of the coarse material—and she noticed -that there were a few black hairs mixed with the grey, which she had not -known before.</p> - -<p>Then quite suddenly, just as they were shrinking and darkening the wool -with two small spots, a great irresistible sob seemed to come from -outside and run through her from head to foot, and shook her and hurt -her and gripped her throat. A moment more and the flood of tears broke. -Those storms of life’s autumn are chill and sharp. They are not like the -showers of spring, quick, light and soft, that make blossoms fragrant -and woods sweet-scented.</p> - -<p>Katharine did not understand, and her face was gentle and full of pain -as she pressed her mother to her bosom.</p> - -<p>“Don’t cry, mother—don’t cry!” she repeated again and again.</p> - -<p>“Ah, Katharine—child—if you knew!” The few words came with difficulty, -as each sob rose and would not be forced back.</p> - -<p>“No, darling—don’t! There, there!” And the young girl tried to soothe -her.</p> - -<p>Suddenly it all ceased. With an impatient movement, as though she -despised herself, Mrs. Lauderdale drew back, steadied herself with one -hand<a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a> upon the end of the sofa, turned her head away and rose to her -feet.</p> - -<p>“Go out, child—leave me to myself!” she said indistinctly, and going -quickly towards the door. “Don’t come after me—don’t—no, don’t,” she -repeated, not looking back, as she went out.</p> - -<p>Left to herself, and understanding that it was better not to follow, -Katharine stood still a moment in the middle of the room, then went to -the window and looked out, seeing nothing. She did not know what it all -meant, but she felt that some great change which she could not -comprehend had come over her mother, and that they could never be again -as they had been. A mere headache, the mere fatigue from overwork, could -not have produced such results. Nor was Mrs. Lauderdale really ill, as -the girl’s womanly instinct had told her within the last five minutes. -The trouble, whatever it might be, was mental, and the tears had given -it a momentary relief. But it was not over.</p> - -<p>Katharine went out, at last, and was glad to breathe the keen air of the -wintry afternoon; glad, too, to be alone with herself. She even wished -that she were not obliged to go into Fifth Avenue, where she might meet -an acquaintance, or at all events to cross it, as she decided to do when -she reached the first corner. Going straight on, the next street was -University Place, and the lower<a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a> part of that was quiet, and Waverley -Place and the neighbourhood of the old University building itself. She -could wander about there for half an hour without going so far as -Broadway, nor southwards to the precincts of the French and Italian -business colonies. So she walked slowly on, and then turned, and turned -again, round and round, backwards and forwards, meeting no one she knew, -thinking all the time and idly noticing things that had never struck her -before, as, for instance, that there is a row of stables leading -westward out of University Place which is called Washington Mews, and -that at almost every corner where there is a liquor-shop there seems to -be an Italian fruit-stand—the function of the ‘dago’ being to give -warning of the approach of the police, in certain cases, a fact which -Katharine could not be expected to know.</p> - -<p>Just beyond the aforesaid Mews, at the corner of Washington Square, she -came suddenly upon little Frank Miner, his overcoat buttoned up to his -chin and a roll of papers sticking out of his pocket. His fresh face was -pink with the cold, his small dark mustache glistened, and his restless -eyes were bright. The two almost ran against one another and both -stopped. He raised his hat with a quick smile and put out his hand.</p> - -<p>“How d’ye do, Miss Lauderdale?” he asked.</p> - -<p>In spite of the family connection he had never got so far as to call her -Katharine, or even cousin<a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a> Katharine. The young girl shook hands with -him and smiled.</p> - -<p>“Are you out for a walk?” he asked, before she had been able to speak. -“And if so, may I come too?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—do.”</p> - -<p>She had been alone long enough to find it impossible to reach any -conclusion, and of all people except Ralston, Miner was the one she felt -most able to tolerate just then. His perfectly simple belief in himself -and his healthy good humour made him good company for a depressed -person.</p> - -<p>“You seemed to be in such a hurry,” said Katharine, as he began to walk -slowly by her side.</p> - -<p>“Of course, as I was coming to meet you,” he answered promptly.</p> - -<p>“But you didn’t know—”</p> - -<p>“Providence knew,” he said, interrupting her. “It was foreordained when -the world was chaos and New York was inhabited by protoplasm—and all -that—that you and I should meet just here, at this very minute. Aren’t -you a fatalist? I am. It’s far the best belief.”</p> - -<p>“Is it? Why? I should think it rather depressing.”</p> - -<p>“Why—no. You believe that you’re the sport of destiny. Now a sport -implies amusement of some kind. See?”</p> - -<p>“Is the football amused when it’s kicked?” asked Katharine, with a short -laugh.<a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a></p> - -<p>“Now please don’t introduce football, Miss Lauderdale,” said Miner, -without hesitation. “I don’t understand anything about it, and I know -that I should, because it’s a mania just now. All the men get it when -the winter comes on, and they sit up half the night at the club, drawing -diagrams and talking Hebrew, and getting excited—I’ve seen them -positively sitting up on their hind-legs in rows, and waving their paws -and tearing their hair—just arguing about the points of a game half of -them never played at all.”</p> - -<p>“What a picture!” laughed Katharine.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it? But it’s just true. I’m going to write a book about it and -call it ‘The Kicker Kicked’—you know, like Sartor Resartus—all full of -philosophy and things. Can you say ‘Kicker Kicked’ twenty times very -fast, Miss Lauderdale? I believe it’s impossible. I just left my three -sisters—they’re slowly but firmly turning into aunts, you know—I left -them all trying to say it as hard as they could, and the whole place -clicked as though a thousand policemen’s rattles were all going at -once—hard! And they were all showing their teeth and going mad over -it.”</p> - -<p>“I should think so—and that’s another picture.”</p> - -<p>“By the bye, speaking of pictures, have you seen the Loan Collection? -It’s full of portraits of children with such extraordinary -expressions—they all look as though they had given up trying to -educate<a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a> their parents in despair. I wonder why everybody paints -children? Nobody can. I believe it would take a child—who knew how to -paint, of course,—to paint a child, and give just that something which -real children have—just what makes them children.”</p> - -<p>She was silent for a moment, following the unexpected train of thoughts. -There were delicate sides to his nature that pleased Katharine as well -as his nonsense.</p> - -<p>“That’s a pretty idea,” she said, after thinking of it a few seconds.</p> - -<p>“Everybody tries and fails,” answered Miner. “Why doesn’t somebody paint -you?” he asked suddenly, looking at her.</p> - -<p>“Somebody means to,” she replied. “I was to have gone to sit to Mr. -Crowdie this morning, but he sent me word to come to-morrow instead. I -suppose he had forgotten another engagement.”</p> - -<p>“Crowdie is ill,” said Miner. “Bright told me so this morning—some -queer attack that nobody could understand.”</p> - -<p>“Something serious?” asked Katharine, quickly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no—I suppose not. Let’s go and see. He lives close by—at least, -not far, you know, over in Lafayette Place. It won’t take five minutes -to go across. Would you like to go?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” answered the young girl. “I could ask if he will be able to begin -the picture to-morrow.”<a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a></p> - -<p>They turned to the right at the next crossing and reached Broadway a few -moments later. There was the usual crowd of traffic in the great -thoroughfare, and they had to wait a moment at the crossing before -attempting it. Miner thought of what he had seen on the previous -afternoon.</p> - -<p>“Did you hear of Jack Ralston’s accident yesterday?” he asked.</p> - -<p>Katharine started violently and turned pale. She had not realized how -the long hours and the final scene with her mother had unstrung her -nerves. But Miner was watching the cars and carts for an opening, and -did not see her.</p> - -<p>“Yesterday?” she repeated, a moment later. “No—he came to see us and -stayed almost till dinner time. What was it? When did it happen? Was he -hurt?”</p> - -<p>“Oh—you saw him afterwards, then?” Miner looked up into her face—she -was taller than he—with a curious expression—recollecting Ralston’s -condition when he had last seen him.</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t serious, then? It had happened before he came to our house?”</p> - -<p>“Why—yes,” answered the little man, with a puzzled expression. “Was he -all right when you saw him?”</p> - -<p>“Perfectly. He never said anything about any accident. He looked just as -he always does.”</p> - -<p>“That fellow has copper springs and patent<a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a> joints inside him!” Miner -laughed. “He was a good deal shaken, that’s all, and went home in a cab. -I should have gone to bed, myself.”</p> - -<p>“But what was it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh—what he’d call nothing, I suppose! The cars at the corner of -Thirty-second and Broadway—we were waiting, just as we are now—two -cars were coming in opposite ways, and a boy with a bundle and a dog and -a perambulator, and a few other things, got between the tracks—of -course the cars would have taken off his head or his heels or his -bundle, or something, and the dog would have been ready for his halo in -three seconds. Jack jumped and picked up everything together and threw -them before him and fell on his head. Wonder he wasn’t killed or -crippled—or both—no, I mean—here’s a chance, Miss Lauderdale—come -along before that van stops the way!”</p> - -<p>There was not time to say anything as Katharine hastened across the -broad street by his side, and by the time they had reached the pavement -the blood had come back to her face. Her fears for Ralston’s safety had -been short-lived, thanks to Miner’s quick way of telling the story, and -in their place came the glow of pride a woman feels when the man she -loves is praised by men for a brave action. Miner glanced at her as he -landed her safely from the crossing and wondered whether<a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a> Crowdie’s -portrait would do her justice. He doubted it, just then.</p> - -<p>“It was just like him,” she said quietly.</p> - -<p>“And I suppose it was like him to say nothing about it, but just to go -home and restore his shattered exterior and put on another pair of boots -and go and see you. You said he looked as though nothing had happened to -him?”</p> - -<p>“Quite. We had a long talk together. I should certainly not have guessed -that anything had gone wrong.”</p> - -<p>“Ralston’s an unusual sort of fellow, anyhow,” said Miner, -enigmatically. “But then—so am I, so is Crowdie—do you like Crowdie? -Rude question, isn’t it? Well, I won’t ask it, then. Besides, if he’s to -paint your picture you must have a pleasant expression—a smile that -goes all round your head and is tied with a black ribbon behind—you -know?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes!” Katharine laughed again, as she generally did at the little -man’s absurd sayings.</p> - -<p>“But Crowdie knows,” he continued. “He’s clever—oh, to any extent—big -things and little things. All his lions roar and all his mosquitoes -buzz, just like real things. The only thing he can’t do is to paint -children, and nobody can do that. By the bye, I’m repeating myself. It -doesn’t take long to get all round a little man like me. There are lots -of things about Crowdie, though. He sings<a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a> like an angel. I never heard -such a voice. It’s more like a contralto—like Scalchi’s as it was, -though she’s good still,—than like a tenor. Oh, he’s full of talent. I -wish he weren’t so queer!”</p> - -<p>“Queer? How do you mean?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, I’m sure. There’s something different from other people. -Is he a friend of yours? I mean, a great friend?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no—not at all. I’m very fond of Mrs. Crowdie. She’s a cousin, you -know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. Well—I don’t know that I can make you understand what I mean, -though. Besides, he’s a very good sort of fellow. Never heard of -anything that wasn’t all right about him—at least—nothing particular. -I don’t know. He’s like some kind of strange, pale, tropical fruit -that’s gone bad at the core and might be poisonous. Horrid thing to say -of a man, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know just what you mean!” answered Katharine, with a little -movement of disgust.</p> - -<p>Miner suddenly became thoughtful again, and they reached the Crowdies’ -house,—a pretty little one, with white stone steps, unlike the ordinary -houses of New York. Lafayette Place is an unfashionable nook, rather -quiet and apparently remote from civilization. It has, however, three -dignities, as the astrologers used to say. The Bishop of New York has -his official residence on one side of it, and on the other is the famous -Astor<a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a> Library. A little further down there was at that time a small -club frequented by the great publishers and by some of their most -expensive authors. No amateur ever twice crossed the threshold alive.</p> - -<p>Miner rang the bell, and the door was opened by an extremely smart old -man-servant in livery. The Crowdies were very prosperous people. -Katharine asked if Hester were at home. The man answered that Mrs. -Crowdie was not receiving, but that he believed she would wish to see -Miss Katharine. He had been with the Ralstons in the Admiral’s lifetime -and had known Katharine since she had been a baby. Crowdie was very -proud of him on account of his thick white hair.</p> - -<p>“I’ll go in,” said the young girl. “Good-bye, Mr. Miner—thank you so -much for coming with me.”</p> - -<p>Miner trotted down the white stone steps and Katharine went into the -house, and waited some minutes in the pretty little sitting-room with -the bow-window, on the right of the entrance. She was just thinking that -possibly Hester did not wish to see her, after all, when the door opened -and Mrs. Crowdie entered. She was a pale, rather delicate-looking woman, -in whose transparent features it was hard to trace any resemblance to -her athletic brother, Hamilton Bright. But she was not an insignificant -person by any means. She had the Lauderdale grey eyes like so many of -the family,<a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a> but with more softness in them, and the eyebrows were -finely pencilled. An extraordinary quantity of silky brown hair was -coiled and knotted as closely as possible to her head, and parted low on -the forehead in heavy waves, without any of the ringlets which have been -fashionable for years. There were almost unnaturally deep shadows under -the eyes, and the mouth was too small for the face and strongly curved, -the angles of the lips being very cleanly cut all along their length, -and very sharply distinct in colour from the ivory complexion. -Altogether, it was a passionate face—or perhaps one should say -impassioned. Imaginative people might have said that there was something -fatal about it. Mrs. Crowdie was even paler than usual to-day, and it -was evident that she had undergone some severe strain upon her strength.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m so glad to see you, dear!” she said, kissing the young girl on -both cheeks and leading her to a small sofa just big enough to -accommodate two persons, side by side.</p> - -<p>“You look tired and troubled, Hester darling,” said Katharine. “I met -little Frank Miner and he told me that Mr. Crowdie had been taken ill. I -hope it’s nothing serious?”</p> - -<p>“No—yes—how can I tell you? He’s in his studio now, as though nothing -had happened—not that he’s working, for of course he’s tired—oh, it -has been so dreadful—I wish I could cry, but I<a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a> can’t, you know. I -never could. That’s why it hurts so. But I’m so glad you’ve come. I had -just written a note to you and was going to send it, when Fletcher came -up and said you were here. It was one of my intuitions—I’m always doing -those things.”</p> - -<p>It was so evidently a relief to her to talk that Katharine let her run -on till she paused, before asking a question.</p> - -<p>“What was the matter with him? Tell me, dear.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Crowdie did not answer at once, but sat holding the young girl’s -hand and staring at the fire.</p> - -<p>“Katharine,” she said at last, “I’m in great trouble. I want a -friend—not to help me, for no one can—I must bear it alone—but I must -speak, or it will drive me mad.”</p> - -<p>“You can tell me everything if you will, Hester,” said Katharine, -gravely. “It will be quite safe with me. But don’t tell me, if you are -ever going to regret it.”</p> - -<p>“No—I was thinking—”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Crowdie hesitated and there was a short silence. She covered her -eyes for an instant with one small hand—her hands were small and -pointed, but not so thin as might have been expected from her face—and -then she looked at her companion. The strong, well-balanced features -apparently inspired<a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a> her with confidence. She nodded slowly, as though -reaching a conclusion within herself, and then spoke.</p> - -<p>“I will tell you, Katharine. I’d much rather tell you than any one else, -and I know myself—I should be sure to tell somebody in the end. You’re -like a man in some things, though you are only a girl. If I had a man -friend, I think I should go to him—but I haven’t. Walter has always -been everything to me. Somehow I never get intimate with men, as some -women do.”</p> - -<p>“Surely—there’s your brother, Hester. Why don’t you go to him? I -should, in your place.”</p> - -<p>“No, dear. You don’t know—Hamilton never approved of my marriage. -Didn’t you know? He’s such a good fellow that he wouldn’t tell any one -else so. But he—well—he never liked Walter, from the first, though I -must say Walter was very nice to him. And about the arrangements—you -know I had a settlement—Ham insisted upon it—so that my little fortune -is in the hands of trustees—your father is one of them. As though -Walter would ever have touched it! He makes me spend it all on myself. -No, dear—I couldn’t tell my brother—so I shall tell you.”</p> - -<p>She stopped speaking and leaned forward, burying her face in her hands -for a moment, as though to collect her thoughts. Then she sat up again, -and looked at the fire while she spoke.<a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a></p> - -<p>“It was last night,” she said. “He dined with you, and I stayed at home -all by myself, not being asked, you see, because it was at a moment’s -notice—it was quite natural, of course. Walter came home early, and we -sat in the studio a long time, as we often do in the evening. There’s -such a beautiful light, and the big fireplace, and cushions—and all. I -thought he smoked a great deal, and you know he doesn’t usually smoke -much, on account of his voice, and he really doesn’t care for it as some -men do. I wish he did—I like the smell of it, and then a man ought to -have some little harmless vice. Walter never drinks wine, nor -coffee—nothing but Apollinaris. He’s not at all like most men. He never -uses any scent, but he likes to burn all sorts of queer perfumes in the -studio in a little Japanese censer. I like cigars much better, and I -always tell him so,—and he laughs. How foolish I am!” she interrupted -herself. “But it’s such a relief to talk—you don’t know!”</p> - -<p>“Go on, dear—I’m listening,” said Katharine, humouring her, and -speaking very gently.</p> - -<p>“Yes—but I must tell you now.”</p> - -<p>Katharine saw how she straightened herself to make the effort, and -sitting close beside her, so that they touched one another, she felt -that Hester was pressing back against the sofa, while she braced her -feet against a footstool.<a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a></p> - -<p>“It was very sudden,” she said in a low voice. “We were talking—I was -saying something—all at once his face changed so—oh, it makes me -shudder to think of it. It seemed—I don’t know—like—almost like a -devil’s face! And his eyes seemed to turn in—he was all purple—and his -lips were all wet—it was like foam—oh, it was dreadful—too awful!”</p> - -<p>Katharine was startled and shocked. She could say nothing, but pressed -the small hand in anxious sympathy. Hester smiled faintly, and then -almost laughed, but instantly recovered herself again. She was not at -all a hysterical woman, and, as she said, she could never cry.</p> - -<p>“That’s only the beginning,” she continued. “I won’t tell you how he -looked. He fell over on the divan and rolled about and caught at the -cushions and at me—at everything. He didn’t know me at all, and he -never spoke an articulate word—not one. But he groaned, and seemed to -gnash his teeth—I believe it went on for hours, while I tried to help -him, to hold him, to keep him from hurting himself. And then—after a -long, long time—all at once, his face changed again, little by little, -and—will you believe it, dear? He was asleep!”</p> - -<p>“How strange!” exclaimed Katharine.</p> - -<p>“Yes—wasn’t it? But it seemed so merciful, and I was so glad. And I sat -by him all night<a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a> and watched him. Then early, early this morning—it -was just grey through the big skylight of the studio—he waked and -looked at me, and seemed so surprised to find himself there. I told him -he had fallen asleep—which was true, you know—and he seemed a little -dazed, and went to bed very quietly. But to-day, when he got up—it was -I who sent you word not to come, because he had told me about the -sitting—I told him everything, and insisted upon sending for Doctor -Routh. He seemed terribly distressed, but wouldn’t let me send, and he -walked up and down the room, looking at me as though his heart would -break. But he said nothing, except that he begged and begged me not to -send for the doctor.”</p> - -<p>“And he’s quite himself now, you say?”</p> - -<p>“Wait—the worst is coming. At last he sat down beside me, and said—oh, -so tenderly—that he had something to say to which I must listen, though -he was afraid that it would pain me very much—that he had thought it -would never be necessary to tell me, because he had imagined that he was -quite cured when he had married me. Of course, I told him that—well, -never mind what I said. You know how I love him.”</p> - -<p>Katharine knew, and it was incomprehensible to her, but she pressed the -little hand once more.</p> - -<p>“He told me that nearly ten years ago he had been ill with inflammatory -rheumatism—that<a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>’s the name of it, and it seems that it’s -excruciatingly painful. It was in Paris, and the doctors gave him -morphia. He could not give it up afterwards.”</p> - -<p>“And he takes morphia still?” asked Katharine, anxiously enough, for she -knew what it meant.</p> - -<p>“No—that’s it. He gave it up after five years—five whole years—to -marry me. It was hard, he said, but he felt that it was possible, and he -loved me, and he determined not to marry me while he was a slave to the -poison. He gave it up for my sake. Wasn’t that heroic?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Katharine, gravely, and wondering whether she had misjudged -Crowdie. “It was really heroic. They say it is the hardest thing any one -can do.”</p> - -<p>“He did it. I love him ten times more for it—but—this is the result of -giving it up, dear. He will always be subject to these awful attacks. He -says that a dose of morphia would stop one of them instantly, and -perhaps prevent their coming back for a long time. But he won’t take it. -He says he would rather cut off his hand than take it, and he made me -promise not to give it to him when he is unconscious, if I ever see him -in that state again. He’s so brave about it,” she said, with a little -choking sigh. “I’ve told you my story, dear.”</p> - -<p>Her face relaxed a little, and she opened and shut her hands slowly as -though they had been stiffened.<a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a></p> - -<p>Katharine sat with her half an hour longer that afternoon, sympathizing -at first and then trying to divert her attention from the subject which -filled all her heart and mind. Then she rose to go.</p> - -<p>As they went out together from the little sitting-room, the sound of -Crowdie’s voice came down to them from the studio in the upper story. -The door must have been open. Katharine and Hester stood still and -listened, for he was singing, alone and to himself, high up above them, -a little song of Tosti’s with French words.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Si vous saviez que je vous aime.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>It was indeed a marvellous voice, and as Katharine listened to the soft, -silver notes, and felt the infinite pathos of each phrase, she wondered -whether, with all his success as a painter, Crowdie had not mistaken his -career. She listened, spell-bound, to the end.</p> - -<p>“It’s divine!” she exclaimed. “There’s no other word for it.”</p> - -<p>Hester Crowdie was paler than ever, and her soft grey eyes were all on -fire. And yet she had heard him hundreds of times. Almost before -Katharine had shut the glass door behind her, she heard the sound of -light, quick footsteps as Hester ran upstairs to her husband.</p> - -<p>“It’s all very strange,” thought Katharine.<a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a> “And I never heard of -morphia having those effects afterwards. But then—how should I know?”</p> - -<p>And meditating on the many emotions she had seen in others during the -last twenty-four hours, she hurried homewards.<a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Lauderdale</span> had met with temptations in the course of her life, but -they had not often appealed to her as they would have appealed to many -women, for she was not easily tempted. A number of forms of goodness -which are very hard to most people had been so easy to her that she had -been good without effort, as, on the whole, she was good by nature. She -had been brought up in an absolutely fixed religious belief, and had -never felt any inclination to deviate from it, nor to speculate about -the details of it, for her intellect was rather indolent, and in most -positions in life her common-sense, which was strong, had taken the -place of the complicated mental processes familiar to imaginative people -like Katharine. Such imagination as Mrs. Lauderdale had was occupied -with artistic matters.</p> - -<p>Her vanity had always been satisfied quite naturally, without effort on -her part, by her own great and uncontested beauty. She knew, and had -always known, that she was commonly compared with the greatest beauties -of the world, by men and women who had seen them and were able to<a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a> -judge. Social ambition never touched her either, and she never -remembered to have met with a single one of those small society rebuffs -which embitter the lives of some women. Nobody had ever questioned her -right, nor her husband’s right, nor that of any of the family, to be -considered equal with the first. In early days she had suffered a -little, indeed, from not being rich enough to exercise that gift of -almost boundless hospitality which is rather the rule than the exception -among Americans, and which is said, with some justice, to be an especial -characteristic of Kentuckians. Such troubles as she had met with had -chiefly arisen from the smallness of her husband’s income, from -peculiarities of her husband’s character, and from her elder daughter’s -headstrong disposition. And with all these her common-sense had helped -her continually.</p> - -<p>She loved amusement and she had it in abundance, in society, during a -great part of the year. Her talent had helped her to procure luxuries, -and she had been generous in giving a large share of them to her -daughters. She had soon learned to understand that society wanted her -for herself, and not for what she could offer it in her own home, and -she had been flattered by the discovery. As for Alexander, he had many -good qualities which she appreciated when she compared him with the -husbands of other women. Generosity with money<a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a> was not his strong -point, but he had many others. He loved her tenaciously, not tenderly, -nor passionately, nor in any way that was at all romantic—if that word -means anything—and certainly not blindly, but tenaciously; and his -admiration for her beauty, though rarely expressed, found expression on -such occasions in short, strong phrases which left no manner of doubt as -to his sincere conviction. She had not been happy with him, as boys and -girls mean to be happy—for the rigidity of very great strength, when -not combined with a corresponding intellect, is excessively wearisome in -the companionship of daily married life. There is a coldness, a lack of -expression and of sympathy, a Pharaoh-like, stony quality about it which -do not encourage affection, nor satisfy an expansive nature. And though -not imaginative, Mrs. Lauderdale was expansive. She had a few moments of -despairing regret at first. She felt that she might just as well have -married a magnificent, clean-built, iron-bodied, steel-jointed -locomotive, as the man she had chosen, and that she could produce about -as much impression on his character as she could have made upon such an -engine. But she found out in time that, within certain limits, he was -quite willing to do what she asked of him, and that beyond them he ran -his daily course with a systematic and unvarying regularity, which was -always safe, if it was never<a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a> amusing. She got such amusement as she -liked from other sources, and she often consoled herself for the dulness -of the family dinner, when she dined at home, with the certainty that, -during several hours before she went to bed, the most desirable men at a -great ball would contest the honour of dancing with her. And that was -all she wanted of them. She liked some of them. She took an interest in -their doings, and she listened sympathetically to the story of their -troubles. But it was not in her nature to flirt, nor to lose her head -when she was flattered, and if she sometimes doubted whether she really -loved her husband at all, she was quite certain that she could never -love any one else. Perhaps she deserved no credit for her faithfulness, -for it was quite natural to her.</p> - -<p>On the whole, therefore, her temptations had been few, in reality, and -she had scarcely noticed them. She had reached the most painful moment -of her life with very little experience of what she could resist—the -moment when she realized that the supremacy of her beauty was at an end. -Of course, she had exaggerated very much the change which had taken -place, for at the crucial instant when she had caught sight of her face -in the mirror she had been unusually tired, considerably bored and not a -little annoyed—and the mirror had a decidedly green tinge in the glass, -as she assured herself by examining it and comparing it with a<a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a> good one -on the following morning. But the impression once received was never to -be effaced; she might look her very best in the eyes of others—to her -own, the lines of age being once discovered were never to be lost again, -the dazzling freshness was never to come back to her skin, nor the gold -to her hair, nor the bloom to her lips. And Crowdie, who was an artist, -and almost a great portrait painter, could not take his eyes from -Katharine, at whom no one would have looked twice when her mother had -been at the height of her beauty. At least, so Mrs. Lauderdale thought.</p> - -<p>And now, until Katharine was married and went away from home, the elder -woman was to be daily, almost hourly, compared with her daughter by all -who saw them together; for the first time in her life she was to be -second in that one respect in which she had everywhere been first ever -since she could remember, and she was to be second in her own house. -When she realized it, she was horrified, and for a time her whole nature -seemed changed. She clung desperately to that beauty of hers, which was, -had she known it, the thing she loved best on earth, and which had -reduced in her eyes the value of everything else. She clung to it, and -yet, from that fatal moment, she knew that it was hopeless to cling to -it, hopeless to try and recall it, hopeless to hope for a miracle which, -even in the annals of miracles, had never been performed<a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>—the recall of -youth. The only possible mitigation suggested itself as a spontaneous -instinct—to avoid that cruel comparison with Katharine. In the first -hours it overcame her altogether. She could not look at the girl. She -could hardly bring herself to speak kindly to her; though she knew that -she would willingly lay down her life for the child she loved best, she -could not lay down her beauty.</p> - -<p>She was terrified at herself when she began to understand that something -had overcome her which she felt powerless to resist. For she was a very -religious woman, and the idea of envying her own daughter, and of almost -hating her out of envy, was monstrous. When Ralston had come, she had -not had the slightest intention of speaking as she had spoken. Suddenly -the words had come to her lips of themselves, as it were. If things went -on as they were going, Katharine would wait for Ralston during years to -come—the girl had her father’s nature in that—and Katharine would be -at home, and the cruel, hopeless comparison must go on, a perpetual and -a keen torture from which there was to be no escape. It was simply -impossible, intolerable, more than human endurance could bear. Ralston -must be sent away, Katharine must be married as quickly as possible, and -peace would come. There was no other way. It would be easy enough to -marry the girl, with her<a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a> position, and the hope of some of Robert -Lauderdale’s money, and with her beauty—that terrible beauty of hers -that was turning her mother’s to ugliness beside it. The first words had -spoken themselves, the others had followed of necessity, and then, at -the end, had come the overwhelming consciousness of what they had meant, -and the breaking down of the overstrained nerves, and the sobs and the -tears, gushing out as a spring where instant remorse had rent and cleft -her very soul.</p> - -<p>It was no wonder that Katharine did not understand what was taking -place. Fortunately, being much occupied with her own very complicated -existence, she did not attempt any further analysis of the situation, -did not accidentally guess what was really the matter, and wisely -concluded that it would be best to leave her mother to herself for a -time.</p> - -<p>On the morning after the events last chronicled, Mrs. Lauderdale -returned to her work, and at a quarter before eleven Katharine was ready -to go out and was watching for Ralston at the library window. As soon as -she saw him in the distance she let herself out of the house and went to -meet him. He glanced at her rather anxiously as they exchanged -greetings, and she thought that he looked tired and careworn. There were -shadows under his eyes, and his dark skin looked rather bloodless.<a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a></p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you tell me that you had an accident the day before -yesterday?” she asked at once.</p> - -<p>“Who told you I had?” he enquired.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Miner. I went out alone yesterday, after you had gone, and I met -him at the corner of Washington Square. He told me all about it. How can -you do such things, Jack? How can you risk your life in that way? And -then, not to tell me! It wasn’t kind. You seem to think I don’t care. I -wish you wouldn’t! I’m sure I turned perfectly green when Mr. Miner told -me—he must have thought it very extraordinary. You might at least have -given me warning.”</p> - -<p>“I’m very sorry,” said Ralston. “I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. -Wasn’t I all right when I came to see you?”</p> - -<p>He looked at her rather anxiously again—for another reason, this time. -But her answer satisfied him.</p> - -<p>“Oh—you were ‘dear’—even nicer than usual! But don’t do it again—I -mean, such things. You don’t know how frightened I was when he told me. -In fact, I’m rather ashamed of it, and it’s much better that you -shouldn’t know.”</p> - -<p>“All right!” And Ralston smiled happily. “Now,” he continued after a -moment’s thought, “I want to explain to you what I’ve found out about -this idea of yours.”<a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a></p> - -<p>“Don’t call it an idea, Jack. You promised that you would do it, you -know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. I know I did. But it’s absolutely impossible to have it quite a -secret—theoretically, at least.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” She slackened her pace instinctively, and then, seeing that they -were just entering Fifth Avenue, walked on more briskly, turning down in -the direction of the Square.</p> - -<p>Ralston told her in a few words what he had learned from the lawyer.</p> - -<p>“You see,” he concluded, “there’s no way out of it. And, of course, -anybody may go to the Bureau of Vital Statistics and look at the -records.”</p> - -<p>“But is anybody likely to?” asked Katharine. “Is the Clerk of the -Records, or whatever you call him, the sort of man who would be likely -to know papa, for instance? That’s rather important.”</p> - -<p>“No. I shouldn’t think so. But everybody knows all about you. You might -as well be the President of the United States as be a Lauderdale, as far -as doing anything incognito is concerned.”</p> - -<p>“There’s only one President at a time, and there are twenty-three -Lauderdales in the New York directory besides ourselves, and six of them -are Alexanders.”</p> - -<p>“Are there? How did you happen to know that?” asked Ralston. -<a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a></p> -<p>“Grandpapa looked them up the other day. He’s always looking up things, -you know—when he’s not asleep, poor dear!”</p> - -<p>“That certainly makes a difference.”</p> - -<p>“Of course it does,” said Katharine. “No doubt the Clerk of the Records -has seen the name constantly. Besides, I don’t suppose he does the work -himself. He only signs things. He probably looks at the books once a -month, or something of that sort.”</p> - -<p>“Even then—he might come across the entry. He may have heard my name, -too—you see my father was rather a bigwig in the Navy—and then, seeing -the two together—”</p> - -<p>“And what difference does it make? It isn’t really a secret marriage, -you know, Jack—at least, it’s not to be a secret after I tell uncle -Robert, which will be within twenty-four hours, you know. On the -contrary, I shall tell him that we meant to tell everybody, and that it -will be an eternal disgrace to him if he does nothing for you.”</p> - -<p>“He’ll bear that with equanimity, dear. You won’t succeed.”</p> - -<p>“Something will have to be done for us. When we’re married and everybody -knows it, we can’t go on living as if we weren’t—indefinitely—it would -be too ridiculous. Papa couldn’t stand that—he’s rather afraid of -ridicule, I believe, though he’s not afraid of anything else. So, as I -was saying, something will have to be done.”<a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a></p> - -<p>“That’s a hopeful view,” laughed Ralston. “But I like the idea that it’s -not to be a secret for more than a day. It makes it look different.”</p> - -<p>“But I always told you that was what I meant, dear—I couldn’t do -anything mean or underhand. Didn’t you believe me?”</p> - -<p>“Of course—but somehow I didn’t see it exactly as I do now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Jack—you have no more sense than—than a small yellow dog!”</p> - -<p>At which very remarkable simile Ralston laughed again, as he caught -sight of the creature that had suggested it—a small yellowish cur -sitting on the pavement, bolt upright against the railing, and looking -across the street, grinning from ear to ear and making his pink tongue -shake with a perfectly unnecessary panting, the very picture of canine -silliness.</p> - -<p>“Yes—that’s the dog I mean,” said Katharine. “Look at him—he’s -behaving just as you do, sometimes. But let’s be serious. What am I to -do? Who is going to marry us?”</p> - -<p>“Oh—I’ll find somebody,” answered Ralston, confidently. “They all say -it’s easy enough to be married in New York, but that it’s awfully hard -to be divorced.”</p> - -<p>“All the better!” laughed Katharine. “By the bye—what time is it?”</p> - -<p>“Five minutes to eleven,” answered Ralston, looking at his watch.<a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a></p> - -<p>“Dear me! And at eleven I’m due at Mr. Crowdie’s for my portrait. I -shall be late. Go and see about finding a clergyman while I’m at the -studio. It can’t be helped.”</p> - -<p>Ralston glanced at her in surprise. Of her sitting for her portrait he -had not heard before.</p> - -<p>“I must say,” he answered, “you don’t seem inclined to waste time this -morning—”</p> - -<p>“Certainly not! Why should we lose time? We’ve lost a whole year -already. Do you think I’m the kind of girl who has to talk everything -over fifty times to make up her mind? When you came, day before -yesterday, I’d decided the whole matter. And now I mean—yes, you may -look at me and laugh, Jack—I mean to put it through. I’m much more -energetic than you seem to think. I believe you always imagined I was a -lazy, pokey, moony sort of girl, with too much papa and mamma and weak -tea and buttered toast in her nature. I’m not, you know. I’m just as -energetic for a girl as you are for a man.”</p> - -<p>“Rather more so,” said Ralston, watching her with intense admiration of -her strong and beautiful self, and with considerable indifference to -what she was saying, though her words amused him. “Please tell me about -Crowdie and the portrait.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—the portrait? Mr. Crowdie wants to paint it for Hester. I’m going -to sit the first time<a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a> this morning. That’s all. Here we are at the -corner. We must cross here to get over to Lafayette Place.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then,” said Ralston, as they walked on, “there’s only one more -point, and that’s to find a clergyman. I suppose you can’t suggest -anybody, can you?”</p> - -<p>“Hardly! You must manage that. I’m sure I’ve done quite enough already.”</p> - -<p>They discussed the question as they walked, without coming to any -conclusion. Ralston determined to spend the day in looking for a proper -person. He could easily withhold his name in every case, until he had -made the arrangements. As a matter of fact, it is not hard to find a -clergyman under the circumstances, since no clergyman can properly -refuse to marry a respectable couple against whom he knows nothing. The -matter of subsequent secrecy becomes for him more a question of taste -than of conscience.</p> - -<p>They reached the door of the Crowdie house, and Katharine turned at the -foot of the white stone steps to say good-bye.</p> - -<p>“Say you’re glad, Jack dear!” she said suddenly, as she put out her -hand, and their eyes met.</p> - -<p>“Glad! Of course I’m glad—no, I really am glad now, though I wasn’t at -first. It looks different—it looks all right to-day.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t look just as I expected you would,<a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a> though,” said Katharine, -doubtfully. “And yet it seems to me you ought—” She stopped.</p> - -<p>“Katharine—dear—you can’t expect me to be as enthusiastically happy as -though it really meant being married to you—can you?”</p> - -<p>“But it does mean it. What else should it mean, or could it mean? Why -isn’t it just the same as though we had a big wedding?”</p> - -<p>“Because things won’t turn out as you think they will,” answered -Ralston. “At least, not soon—uncle Robert won’t do anything, you know. -One can’t take fate and destiny and fortune and shuffle them about as -though they were cards.”</p> - -<p>“One can, Jack! That’s just it. Everybody has one chance of being happy. -We’ve got ours now, and we’ll take it.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll take it anyhow, whether it’s really a chance or not. -Good-bye—dear—dear—”</p> - -<p>He pressed her hand as he spoke, and his voice was tender and rang true, -but it had not that quaver of emotion in it which had so touched -Katharine on that one evening, and which she longed to hear again; and -Ralston missed the wave of what had seemed like deep feeling, and wished -it would come back. His nerves were perfectly steady now, though he had -been late at his club on the previous evening, and had not slept much.</p> - -<p>“I’ll write you a note this afternoon,” he said, “as soon as I’ve -arranged with the clergyman. If<a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a> it has to be very early, you must find -some excuse for going out of the house. Of course, I’ll manage it as -conveniently as I can for you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, there’ll be no trouble about my going out,” answered Katharine. -“Nobody ever asks me where I’m going in the morning. You’ll let me have -the note as soon as you can, won’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Of course. Before dinner, at all events. Good-bye again, dear.”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye—until to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>She added the last two words very softly. Then she nodded affectionately -and went up the steps. As she turned, after ringing the bell, she saw -him walking away. Then he also turned, instinctively, and waved his hat -once, and smiled, and was gone. Fletcher opened the door, and Katharine -went in.</p> - -<p>“How is Mr. Crowdie to-day—is he painting?” she asked of the servant.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Miss Katharine, Mr. Crowdie’s very well, and he left word that he -expected you at eleven, Miss.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know—I’m late.”</p> - -<p>And she hurried up the stairs, for she had often been to the studio with -Hester and with Crowdie himself, to see his pictures, and knew her way. -But she knocked discreetly at the door when she had reached the upper -story of the house.</p> - -<p>“Come in, Miss Lauderdale,” said Crowdie’s silvery voice, and she heard -his step on the polished<a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a> floor as he left his work and came forward to -meet her.</p> - -<p>It seemed to her that his face was paler and his mouth redder than ever, -and the touch of his soft white hand was exceedingly unpleasant to her, -even through her glove.</p> - -<p>He had placed a big chair ready for her, and she sat down as she was, -with her hat and veil on, and looked about. Crowdie pushed away the -easel at which he had been working. It ran almost noiselessly over the -waxed oak, and he turned it with the face of the picture to the wall in -a corner at some distance.</p> - -<p>The studio was, as has been said, a very large room, occupying almost -the whole upper story of the house, which was deeper than ordinary -houses, though not very broad on the front. The studio was, therefore, -nearly twice as long as its width, and looked even larger than it was -from having no windows below, and only one door. There was, indeed, a -much larger exit, by which Crowdie had his pictures taken out, by an -exterior stair to the yard, but it was hidden by a heavy curtain on one -side of the enormous fireplace. There were great windows, high up, on -the north side, which must have opened above the roof of the -neighbouring house, and which were managed by cords and weights, and -could be shaded by rolling shades of various tints from white to dark -grey. Over it<a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a> was a huge skylight, also furnished with contrivances for -modifying the light or shutting it out altogether.</p> - -<p>So far, the description might answer for the interior of a -photographer’s establishment, but none of the points enumerated struck -Katharine as she sat in her big chair waiting to be told what to do.</p> - -<p>The first impression was that of a magnificent blending of perfectly -harmonious colours. There was an indescribable confusion of soft and -beautiful stuffs of every sort, from carpets to Indian shawls and -Persian embroideries. The walls, the chairs and the divans were covered -with them, and even the door which gave access to the stairs was draped -and made to look unlike a door, so that when it was shut there seemed to -be no way out. The divans were of the Eastern kind—great platforms, as -it were, on which were laid broad mattresses, then stuffs, and then -endless heaps of cushions, piled up irregularly and lying about in all -directions. Only the polished floor was almost entirely bare—the rest -was a mass of richness. But that was all. There were no arms, such as -many artists collect in their studios, no objects of metal, save the -great dull bronze fire-dogs with lions’ heads, no plants, no flowers, -and, excepting three easels with canvases on them, there was nothing to -suggest the occupation of Walter<a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a> Crowdie—nor any occupation at all. -Even the little Japanese censer in which Hester said that he burned -strange perfumes was hidden out of sight when not in use. There was not -so much as a sketch or a drawing or a bit of modelled clay to be seen. -There was not even a table with paints and brushes. Such things were -concealed in a sort of small closet built out upon the yard, on the -opposite side from the outer staircase, and hidden by curtains.</p> - -<p>The total absence of anything except the soft materials with which -everything was covered, produced rather a strange effect, and for some -mysterious reason it was not a pleasant one. Crowdie’s face was paler -and his lips were redder than seemed quite natural; his womanish eyes -were too beautiful and their glance was a caress—as warm velvet feels -to the hand.</p> - -<p>“Won’t you let me help you to take off your veil?” he said, coming close -to Katharine.</p> - -<p>“Thank you—I can do it myself,” she answered, with unnecessary -coldness.<a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Crowdie</span> stepped backward from her, as she laid her hat and veil upon her -knee. He slowly twisted a bit of crayon between his fingers, as though -to help his thoughts, and he looked at her critically.</p> - -<p>“How are you going to paint me?” she asked, regretting that she had -spoken so very coldly a moment earlier.</p> - -<p>“That’s one of those delightful questions that sitters always ask,” -answered the artist, smiling a little. “That’s precisely what I’m asking -myself—how in the world am I going to paint you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh—that isn’t what I meant! I meant—full face or side face, you -know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,—of course. I was only laughing at myself. You have no idea -what an extraordinary change taking off your hat makes, Miss Lauderdale. -It would be awfully rude to talk to a lady about her face under ordinary -circumstances. In detail, I mean. But you must forgive me, because it’s -my profession.”</p> - -<p>He moved about with sudden steps, stopping and<a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a> gazing at her each time -that he obtained a new point of view.</p> - -<p>“How does my hat make such a difference?” asked Katharine. “What sort of -difference?”</p> - -<p>“It changes your whole expression. It’s quite right that it should. When -you have it on, one only sees the face—the head from the eyes -downwards—that means the human being from the perceptions downwards. -When you take your hat off, I see you from the intelligence upwards.”</p> - -<p>“That would be true of any one.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt. But the intelligence preponderates in your case, which is -what makes the contrast so strong.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t know I was as intelligent as all that!” Katharine laughed a -little at what she took for a piece of rather gross flattery.</p> - -<p>“No,” answered Crowdie, thoughtfully. “That is your peculiar charm. Do -you mind the light in your eyes? Just to try the effect? So? Does that -tire you?”</p> - -<p>He had changed the arrangement of some of the shades so as to throw a -strong glare in her face. She looked up and the white light gleamed like -fire in her grey eyes.</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t stand it long,” she said. “Is it necessary?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. Nothing is necessary. I’ll try it another way. So.” He moved -the shades again.<a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a></p> - -<p>“What a funny speech!” exclaimed Katharine. “To say that nothing is -necessary—”</p> - -<p>“It’s a very true speech. Nothing is the same as Pure Being in some -philosophies, and Pure Being is the only condition which is really -absolutely necessary. Now, would you mind letting me see you in perfect -profile? I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s only at first. When we’ve -made up our minds—if you’d just turn your head towards the fireplace, a -little more—a shade more, please—that’s it—one moment so—”</p> - -<p>He stood quite still, gazing at her side face as though trying to fix it -in his memory in order to compare it with other aspects.</p> - -<p>“I want to paint you every way at once,” he said. “May I ask—what do -you think, yourself, is the best view of your face?”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered Katharine, with a little laugh. “What -does Hester think? As it’s to be for her, we might consult her.”</p> - -<p>“But she doesn’t know it’s for her—she thinks it’s for you.”</p> - -<p>“We might ask her all the same, and take her advice. Isn’t she at home?”</p> - -<p>“No,” answered Crowdie, after a moment’s hesitation. “I think she’s gone -out shopping.”</p> - -<p>Katharine was not naturally suspicious, but there was something in the -way Crowdie hesitated about the apparently insignificant answer which -struck<a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_203_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_203_sml.jpg" width="257" height="414" alt="“ ‘What have you decided?’ she enquired.”—Vol. I., p. -203." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">“ ‘What have you decided?’ she enquired.”—Vol. I., <a href="#page_203">p. -203</a>.</span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">her as odd. She had made the suggestion because his mere presence was so -absurdly irritating to her that she longed for Hester’s company as an -alleviation. But it was evident that Crowdie did not want his wife at -that moment. He wanted to be alone with Katharine.</p> - -<p>“You might send and find out,” said the young girl, mercilessly.</p> - -<p>“I’m pretty sure she’s gone out,” Crowdie replied, moving up an easel -upon which was set a large piece of grey pasteboard. “Even if she is in, -she always has things to do at this time.”</p> - -<p>He looked steadily at Katharine’s face and then made a quick stroke on -the pasteboard, then looked again and then made another stroke.</p> - -<p>“What have you decided?” she enquired.</p> - -<p>“Just as you are now, with your head a little on one side and that clear -look in your eyes—no—you were looking straight at me, but not in full -face. Think of what you were thinking about just when you looked.”</p> - -<p>Katharine smiled. The thought had not been flattering to him. But she -did as he asked and met his eyes every time he glanced at her. He worked -rapidly, with quick, sure strokes, using a bit of brown chalk. Then he -took a long, new, black lead pencil, with a very fine point, from the -breast-pocket of his jacket, and very carefully made a few marks with -it. Instead of putting it back when<a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a> he used the bit of pastel again, he -held the pencil in his teeth. It was long and stuck out on each side of -his bright red lips. Oddly enough, Katharine thought it made him look -like a cat with black whiskers, and the straight black line forced his -mouth into a wide grin. She even fancied that to increase the -resemblance his eyes looked green when he gazed at her intently, and -that the pupils were not quite round, but were turning into upright -slits. She looked away for a moment and almost smiled. His legs were a -little in-kneed, as those of a cat look when she stands up to reach -after anything. There was something feline even in his little feet, -which were short with a very high instep, and he wore low shoes of dark -russet leather.</p> - -<p>“There is a smile in your eyes, but not in your face,” said Crowdie, -taking the pencil from between his teeth. “I suppose it’s rude to ask -you what you are thinking about?”</p> - -<p>“Not at all,” answered Katharine. “I was thinking how funny you looked -with that pencil in your mouth.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Crowdie laughed carelessly and went on with his work.</p> - -<p>Katharine noticed that when he next wished to dispose of the pencil he -put it into his pocket. As he had chosen a position in which she must -look directly at him, she could not help observing<a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a> all his movements, -while her thoughts went back to her own interests and to Ralston. It was -much more pleasant to think of John than of Crowdie.</p> - -<p>“I’m discouraged already,” said Crowdie, suddenly, after a long silence, -during which he had worked rapidly. “But it’s only a first attempt at a -sketch. I want a lot of them before I begin to paint. Should you like to -rest a little?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>Katharine rose and came forward to see what he had been doing. She felt -at once a little touch of disappointment and annoyance, which showed -that she was not altogether deficient in vanity, though of a pardonable -sort, considering what she saw. To her unpractised eye the sketch -presented a few brown smudges, through which a thin pencil-line ran here -and there.</p> - -<p>“You don’t see any resemblance to yourself, I suppose,” said Crowdie, -with some amusement.</p> - -<p>“Frankly—I hope I’m better looking than that,” laughed Katharine.</p> - -<p>“You are. Sometimes you’re divinely beautiful.” His voice grew -exquisitely caressing.</p> - -<p>Katharine was not pleased.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t ask for impossible compliments,” she said coolly.</p> - -<p>“Now look,” answered Crowdie, taking no notice of the little rebuke, and -touching the smudge with his fingers. “You mustn’t look too close, you<a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a> -know. You must try and get the effect—not what you see, but what I -see.”</p> - -<p>Without glancing at her face he quickly touched the sketch at many -points with his thumb, with his finger, with his bit of crayon, with his -needle-pointed lead pencil. Katharine watched him intently.</p> - -<p>“Shut your eyes a little, so as not to see the details too distinctly,” -he said, still working.</p> - -<p>The face began to stand out. There was very little in the sketch, but -there was the beginning of the expression.</p> - -<p>“I begin to see something,” said Katharine, with increasing interest.</p> - -<p>“Yes—look!”</p> - -<p>He glanced at her for a moment. Then, holding the long pencil almost by -the end and standing well back from the pasteboard, he drew a single -line—the outline of the part of the face and head furthest from the -eye, as it were. It was so masterly, so simple, so faultless, and yet so -striking in its effect, that Katharine held her breath while the point -moved, and uttered an exclamation when it stopped.</p> - -<p>“You are a great artist!”</p> - -<p>Crowdie smiled.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t ask for impossible compliments,” he said, repeating her own -words and imitating her tone, as he stepped back from the easel and<a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a> -looked at what he had done. “She’s not so bad-looking, is she?” He -fumbled in his pocket and found two or three bits of coloured pastels -and rubbed a little of each upon the pasteboard with his fingers. “More -life-like, now. How do you like that?”</p> - -<p>“It’s wonderful!”</p> - -<p>“Wonderfully like?”</p> - -<p>“How can I tell? I mean that it’s a wonderful performance. It’s not for -me to judge of the likeness.”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it? In spite of proverbs, we’re the only good judges of -ourselves—outwardly or inwardly. Will you sit down again, if you are -rested? Do you know, I’m almost inclined to dab a little paint on the -thing—it’s a lucky hit—or else you’re a very easy subject, which I -don’t believe.”</p> - -<p>“And yet you were so discouraged a moment ago.”</p> - -<p>“That’s always my way. I don’t know about other artists, of course. It’s -only amateurs that tell each other their sensations about their daubs. -We don’t. But I’m always in a fit just before I’m going to succeed.”</p> - -<p>Katharine said nothing as she went back to her seat, but the expression -he had just used chilled her suddenly. She had received a vivid -impression from the account Hester had given her of his recent attack, -and she had unconsciously associated<a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a> the idea of a fit with his -ailment. Then she was amused at her own folly.</p> - -<p>Crowdie looked at her keenly, then at his drawing, and then seemed to -contemplate a particular point at the top of her head. She was not -watching him, as she knew that he was not yet working again. There was -an odd look in his beautiful eyes which would not have pleased her, had -she seen it. He left the easel again and came towards her.</p> - -<p>“Would you mind letting me arrange your hair a little?” he asked, -stopping beside her.</p> - -<p>Katharine instinctively raised one hand to her head, and it unexpectedly -met his fingers, which were already about to touch her hair. The -sensation was so inexpressibly disagreeable to her that she started, -lowering her head as though to avoid him, and speaking sharply.</p> - -<p>“Don’t!” she cried. “I can do it myself.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Crowdie, drawing back. “It’s the merest -trifle—but I don’t see how you can do it yourself. I didn’t know you -were so nervous, or I would have explained. Won’t you let me take the -end of my pencil and just lift your hair a little? It makes such a -difference in the outline.”</p> - -<p>It struck Katharine that she was behaving very foolishly, and she sat up -straight in her chair.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” she said, quite naturally. “Do<a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a> it in any way you like. -I’ve a horror of being touched unexpectedly, that’s all. I suppose I -really am nervous.”</p> - -<p>Which was not at all true in general, though as regards Crowdie it was -not half the truth.</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” he answered, proceeding to move her hair, touching it very -delicately with his pointed white fingers. “It was stupid of me, but -most people don’t mind. There—if you only knew what a difference it -makes. Just a little bit more, if you’ll let me—on the other side. Now -let me look at you, please—yes—that’s just it.”</p> - -<p>Katharine suffered intensely during those few moments. Something within -her, of which she had never been conscious before, but which was most -certainly a part of herself, seemed to rise up in fury, outraged and -insulted, against something in the man beside her, which filled her with -a vague terror and a positive disgust. While his soft and womanish -fingers touched her hair, she clasped her hands together till they hurt, -and repeated to herself with set lips that she was foolish and nervous -and unstrung. She could not help the sigh of relief which escaped her -lips when he had finished and went back to his easel. Perhaps he noticed -it. At all events he became intent on his work and said nothing for -fully five minutes.</p> - -<p>During that time she looked at him and tried to<a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a> solve the mystery of -her unaccountable sensations. She thought of what her mother had -said—that Crowdie was like a poisonous flower. He was so white and red -and soft, and the place was so still and warm, with its masses of rich -drapery that shut off every sound of life from without. And she thought -of what Miner had said—oddly enough, in exactly the same strain, that -he was like some strange tropical fruit—gone bad at the core. Fruit or -flower, or both, she thought. Either was apt enough.</p> - -<p>The air was perfectly pure. It was only warm and still. Possibly there -was the slightest smell of turpentine, which is a clean smell and a -wholesome one. Whatever the perfumes might be which he occasionally -burned, they left no trace behind. And yet Katharine fancied they were -there—unholy, sweet, heavy, disquieting, offending that something which -in the young girl had never been offended before. The stillness seemed -too warm—the warmth too still—his face too white—his mouth was as -scarlet and as heavy as the blossom of the bright red calla lily. There -was something repulsively fascinating about it, as there is in a wound.</p> - -<p>“You’re getting tired,” he said at last. “I’m not surprised. It must be -much harder to sit than to paint.”</p> - -<p>“How did you know I was tired?” asked Katharine,<a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a> moving from her -position, and looking at a piece of Persian embroidery on the opposite -wall.</p> - -<p>“Your expression had changed when I spoke,” he said. “But it’s not at -all necessary to sit absolutely motionless as though you were being -photographed. It’s better to talk. The expression is like—” He stopped.</p> - -<p>“Like what?” she asked, curious to hear a definition of what is said too -often to be undefinable.</p> - -<p>“Well—I don’t know. Language isn’t my strong point, if I have any -strong point at all.”</p> - -<p>“That’s an affectation, at all events!” laughed Katharine, becoming -herself again when not obliged to look at him fixedly.</p> - -<p>“Is it? Well—affectation is a good word. Expression is not expression -when it’s an affected expression. It’s the tone of voice of the picture. -That sounds wild, but it means something. A speech in print hasn’t the -expression it has when it’s well spoken. A photograph is a speech in -print. It’s the truth done by machinery. It’s often striking at first -sight, but you get tired of it, because what’s there is all there—and -what is not there isn’t even suggested, though you know it exists.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I see,” said Katharine, who was interested in what he said, and -had momentarily forgotten his personality.<a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a></p> - -<p>“That shows how awfully clever you are,” he answered with a silvery -little laugh. “I know it’s far from clear. There’s a passage somewhere -in one of Tolstoi’s novels—‘Peace and War,’ I think it is—about the -impossibility of expressing all one thinks. It ought to follow that the -more means of expression a man has, the nearer he should get to -expressing everything in him. But it doesn’t. There’s a fallacy -somewhere in the idea. Most things—ideas, anything you choose to call -them—are naturally expressible in a certain material—paint, wood, -fiddle-strings, bronze and all that. Come and look at yourself now. You -see I’ve restrained my mania for oils a few minutes. I’m trying to be -conscientious.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would go on talking about expression,” said Katharine, -rising and coming up to the easel. “It seems very much improved,” she -added as she saw the drawing. “How fast you work!”</p> - -<p>“There’s no such thing as time when things go right,” replied Crowdie. -“Excuse me a moment. I’ll get something to paint with.”</p> - -<p>He disappeared behind the curtain in the corner, to the out-built closet -in which he kept his colours and brushes, and Katharine was left alone. -She stood still for a few moments contemplating the growing likeness of -herself. There was as yet hardly any colour in the sketch, no more, in -fact, than he had rubbed on while she had watched him<a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a> do it, when she -had rested the first time. It was not easy to see what he had done -since, and yet the whole effect was vastly improved. As she looked, the -work itself, the fine pencil-line, the smudges of brown and the -suggestions of colouring seemed all so slight as to be almost -nothing—and yet she felt that her expression was there. She thought of -her mother’s laborious and minutely accurate drawing, which never -reached any such effect as this, and she realized the almost impossible -gulf which lies between the artist and the amateur who has tried too -late to become one—in whom the evidence of talent is made -unrecognizable by an excess of conscientious but wholly misapplied -labour. The amateur who has never studied at all may sometimes dash off -a head with a few lines, which would be taken for the careless scrawling -of a clever professional. But the amateur who, too late, attempts to -perfect himself by sheer study and industry is almost certainly lost as -an artist—a fact which is commonly interpreted to mean that art itself -comes by inspiration, and that so-called genius needs no school; whereas -it only means that if we go to school at all we must go at the scholar’s -age and get the tools of expression, and learn to handle them, before we -have anything especial to express.</p> - -<p>“Still looking at it?” asked Crowdie, coming out of his sanctum with a -large palette in his left<a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a> hand, and a couple of brushes in his right. -“Now I’m going to begin by spoiling it all.”</p> - -<p>There were four or five big, butter-like squeezings of different colours -on the smooth surface of the board. Crowdie stuck one of his brushes -through the thumb-hole of the palette, and with the other mixed what he -wanted, dabbing it into the paints and then daubing them all together. -Katharine sat down once more.</p> - -<p>“I thought painters always used palette-knives,” she said, watching him.</p> - -<p>“Oh—anything answers the purpose. I sometimes paint with my -fingers—but it’s awfully messy.”</p> - -<p>“I should think so,” she laughed, taking her position again as he looked -at her.</p> - -<p>“Yes—thank you,” he said. “If you won’t mind looking at me for a minute -or two, just at first. I want your eyes, please. After that you can look -anywhere you like.”</p> - -<p>“Do you always paint the eyes first?” asked Katharine, idly, for the -sake of not relapsing into silence.</p> - -<p>“Generally—especially if they’re looking straight out of the picture. -Then they’re the principal thing, you know. They are like little -holes—if you look steadily at them you can see the real person inside. -That’s the reason why a portrait that looks at you, if it’s like at all, -is so much more like than one that looks away.”<a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a></p> - -<p>“How naturally you explain things!” exclaimed the young girl, becoming -interested at once.</p> - -<p>“Things are so natural,” answered the painter. “Everything is natural. -That’s one of my brother-in-law’s maxims.”</p> - -<p>“It sounds like a truism.”</p> - -<p>“Everything that is true sounds like a truism—and is one. We know -everything that’s true, and it all sounds old because we do know it -all.”</p> - -<p>“What an extraordinary way of putting it—to say that we know -everything! But we don’t, you know!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, we do—as far as we ever can know at all. I don’t mean little -peddling properties of petroleum and tricks with telephones—what they -call science, you know. I mean about big things that don’t -change—ideas.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—about ideas. You mean right and wrong, and the future life and the -soul, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean. In a hundred thousand ages we shall -never get one inch further than we are now. A little bit more to the -right, please—but go on looking at me a moment longer, if you’re not -tired.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve only just sat down again. But what you were saying—you meant to -add that we know nothing, and that it’s all a perfectly boundless -uncertainty.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. I think we know some things and<a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a> shan’t lose them, and we -don’t know some others and never shall.”</p> - -<p>“What kind of things, for instance?” asked Katharine. “In the first -place, there is a soul, and it is immortal.”</p> - -<p>“Lucretius says that there is a soul, but that it isn’t immortal. -There’s something, anyhow—something I can’t paint. People who deny the -existence of the soul never tried to paint portraits, I believe.”</p> - -<p>“You certainly have most original ideas.”</p> - -<p>“Have I? But isn’t that true? I know it is. There’s something in every -face that I can’t paint—that the greatest painter that ever lived can’t -paint. And it’s not on account of the material, either. One can get just -as near to it in black and white as in colours,—just near enough to -suggest it,—and yet one can see it. I call it the ghost. I don’t know -whether there are ghosts or not, but people say they’ve seen them. They -are generally colourless, apparently, and don’t stay long. But did you -ever notice, in all those stories, that people always recognize the -ghost instantly if it’s that of a person they’ve known?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. Now I think of it, that’s true,” said Katharine.</p> - -<p>“Well, that’s why I call the recognizable something about the living -person his ghost. It’s what we can’t get. Now, another thing. If one is -told<a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a> that the best portrait of some one whom one knows is a portrait of -some one else instead, one isn’t much surprised. No, really—I’ve tried -it, just to test the likeness. Most people say they are surprised, but -they’re not. They fall into the trap in a moment, and tell you that they -see that they were mistaken, but that it’s a strong resemblance. That -couldn’t happen with a real person. It happens easily with a -photograph—much more easily than with a picture. But with a real person -it’s quite different, even though he may have changed immensely since -you saw him—far beyond the difference between a good portrait and the -sitter, so far as details are concerned. But the person—you recognize -him at once. By what? By that something which we can’t catch in a -picture. I call it the ghost—it’s a mere fancy, because people used to -believe that a ghost was a visible soul.”</p> - -<p>“How interesting!” exclaimed Katharine. “And it sounds true.”</p> - -<p>“A thing must sound true to be interesting,” said Crowdie. “Excuse me a -moment. I want another colour.”</p> - -<p>He dived into the curtained recess, and Katharine watched the -disagreeable undulation of his movements as he walked. She wondered why -she was interested as soon as he talked, and repelled as soon as he was -silent. Much of what he said was more or less paradoxical, she thought,<a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a> -and not altogether unlike the stuff talked by cynical young men who pick -up startling phrases out of books, and change the subject when they are -asked to explain what they mean. But there was something more in what he -said, and there was the way of saying it, and there was the weight a -man’s sayings carry when he is a real master of one thing, no matter how -remote from the subject of which he is speaking. Crowdie came back -almost immediately with his paint.</p> - -<p>“Your eyes are the colour of blue fox,” he remarked, dabbing on the -palette with his brush.</p> - -<p>“Are they? They’re a grey of some sort, I believe. But you were talking -about the soul.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know I was; but I’m glad I’ve done with it. I told you that -language wasn’t my strong point.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—but you may be able to say lots of interesting things, besides -painting well.”</p> - -<p>“Not compared with people who are good at talking. I’ve often been -struck by that.”</p> - -<p>He stopped speaking, and made one or two very careful strokes, -concentrating his whole attention for the moment.</p> - -<p>“Struck by what?” asked Katharine.</p> - -<p>“By the enormous amount some men know as compared with what they can do. -I believe that’s what I meant to say. It wasn’t particularly worth -saying, after all. There—that’s better! Just one<a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a> moment more, please. -I know I’m tiring you to death, but I’m so interested—”</p> - -<p>Again he executed a very fine detail.</p> - -<p>“There!” he exclaimed. “Now we can talk. Don’t you want to move about a -little? I don’t ask you to look at the thing—it’s a mere beginning of a -sketch—it isn’t the picture, of course.”</p> - -<p>“But I want to see it,” said Katharine.</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course. But you won’t like it so much now as you did at first.”</p> - -<p>Katharine saw at once that he was right, and that the painting was not -in a stage to bear examination, but she looked at it, nevertheless, with -a vague idea of learning something about the art by observing its -processes. Crowdie stood at a little distance behind her, his palette -and brushes still in his hand. Indeed, there was no place but the floor -where he could have laid them down. She knew that he was there, and she -was certain that he was looking at her. The strange nervousness and -sense of repulsion came over her at once, but in her determination not -to yield to anything which seemed so foolish, she continued to -scrutinize the rough sketch on the easel. Crowdie, on his part, said -nothing, as though fearing lest the sound of his voice should disturb -the graceful lines of her figure as she stood there.</p> - -<p>At last she moved and turned away, but not towards him. Suddenly, from -feeling that he was<a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a> looking at her, she felt that she could not meet -his eyes. She knew just what they would be like, long, languishing and -womanish, with their sweeping lashes, and they attracted her, though she -did not wish to see them. She walked a few steps down the length of the -great room, and she was sure that those eyes were following her. An -intense and quite unaccustomed consciousness overcame her, though she -was never what is called shy.</p> - -<p>She was positively certain that his eyes were fixed on the back of her -head, willing her to turn and look at him; but she would not. Then she -saw that she was reaching the end of the room, and that, unless she -stood there staring at the tapestries and embroideries, she must face -him. She felt the blood rush suddenly to her throat and just under her -ears, and she knew that she who rarely blushed at all was blushing -violently. She either did not know or she forgot that a blush is as -beautiful in most dark women as it is unbecoming and even painful to see -in fair ones. She was only conscious that she had never, in all her many -recollections, felt so utterly foolish, and angry with herself, and -disgusted with the light, as she did at that moment. Just as she reached -the wall, she heard his footstep, and supposing that he had changed his -position, she turned at once with a deep sense of relief.<a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a></p> - -<p>Crowdie was standing before his easel again, studying what he had done, -as unconcernedly as though he had not noticed her odd behaviour.</p> - -<p>“I feel flushed,” she said. “It must be very warm here.”</p> - -<p>“Is it?” asked Crowdie. “I’ll open something. But if you’ve had enough -of it for the first day, I can leave it as it is till the next sitting. -Can you come to-morrow?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. That is—no—I may have an engagement.” She laughed nervously as -she thought of it.</p> - -<p>“The afternoon will do quite as well, if you prefer it. Any time before -three o’clock. The light is bad after that.”</p> - -<p>“I think the day after to-morrow would be better, if you don’t mind. At -the same hour, if you like.”</p> - -<p>“By all means. And thank you, for sitting so patiently. It’s not every -one who does. I suppose I mustn’t offer to help you with your hat.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks, I can easily manage it,” answered Katharine, careful, however, -to speak in her ordinary tone of voice. “If you had a looking-glass -anywhere—” She looked about for one.</p> - -<p>“There’s one in my paint room, if you don’t mind.”</p> - -<p>He led the way to the curtain behind which he had disappeared in search -of his colours, and held<a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a> it up. There was an open door into the little -room—which was larger than Katharine had expected—and a dressing-table -and mirror stood in the large bow-window that was built out over the -yard. Crowdie stood holding the curtain back while she tied her veil and -ran the long pin through her hat. It did not take more than a minute, -and she passed out again.</p> - -<p>“That’s a beautiful arrangement,” she said. “A looking-glass would spoil -the studio.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he answered, as he walked towards the door by her side. “You see -there isn’t an object but stuffs and cushions in the place, and a chair -for you—and my easels—all colour. I want nothing that has shape except -what is human, and I like that as perfect as possible.”</p> - -<p>“Give my love to Hester,” said Katharine, as she went out. “Oh, don’t -come down; I know the way.”</p> - -<p>He followed her, of course, and let her out himself. It was past twelve -o’clock, and she felt the sun on her shoulders as she turned to the -right up Lafayette Place, and she breathed the sparkling air with a -sense of wild delight. It was so fresh and pure, and somehow she felt as -though she had been in a contaminating atmosphere during the last three -quarters of an hour.<a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Alexander Lauderdale</span> Junior was a man of regular ways, as has been seen, -and of sternly regular affections, so far as he could be said to have -any at all. Most people were rather afraid of him. In the Trust Company -which occupied his attention he was the executive member, and it was -generally admitted that it owed something of its exceptional importance -to his superior powers of administration, his cast-iron probity and his -cold energy in enforcing regulations. The headquarters of the Company -were in a magnificent granite building, on the second floor at the -front, and Alexander Junior sat all day long in a spotless and speckless -office, behind a highly polished table and before highly polished -bookcases, upon which the light fell in the daytime through the most -expensive and highly polished plate glass windows, and on winter -afternoons from glittering electric brackets and chandeliers. He himself -was not less perfect and highly polished in appearance than his -surroundings. He was like one of those beautiful models of machinery -which work silently and accurately all day long, apparently for the<a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a> -mere satisfaction of feeling their own wheels and cranks go round, -behind the show window of the shop where the patent is owned, producing -nothing, indeed, save a keen delight in the soul of the admiring -mechanician.</p> - -<p>He was perfect in his way. It was enough to catch one glimpse of him, as -he sat in his office, to be sure that the Trust Company could be -trusted, that the widow’s portion should yield her the small but regular -interest which comforts the afflicted, and that the property of the -squealing and still cradle-ridden orphan was silently rolling up, to be -a joy to him when he should be old enough to squander it. The Trust -Company was not a new institution. It had been founded in the dark ages -of New York history, by just such men as Alexander Junior, and just such -men had made it what it now was. Indeed, the primeval Lauderdale, whom -Charlotte Slayback called Alexander the Great, had been connected with -it before he died, his Scotch birth being counted to him for -righteousness, though his speech was imputed to him for sin. Neither of -his sons had, however, had anything to do with it, nor his sons’ sons, -but his great-grandson, Alexander the Safe, was predestined from his -childhood to be the very man wanted by the Company, and when he was come -to years of even greater discretion than he had shown as a small boy, -which was saying much, he was<a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a> formally installed behind the plate glass -and the very shiny furniture of the office he had occupied ever since. -With the appearance of his name on the Company’s reports the business -increased, for in the public mind all Lauderdales were as one man, and -that one man was Robert the Rich, who had never been connected with any -speculation, and who was commonly said to own half New York. Acute -persons will see that there must have been some exaggeration about the -latter statement, but as a mere expression it did not lack force, and -pleased the popular mind. It mattered little that New York should have -enough halves to be distributed amongst a considerable number of very -rich men, of whom precisely the same thing was said. Robert the Rich was -a very rich man, and he must have his half like his fellow rich men.</p> - -<p>Alexander Junior had no more claim upon his uncle’s fortune than Mrs. -Ralston. His father was one of Robert’s brothers and hers had been the -other. Nor was Robert the Rich in any way constrained to leave any money -to any of his relations, nor to any one in particular in the whole wide -world, seeing that he had made it himself, and was childless and -answerable to no man for his acts. But it was probable that he would -divide a large part of it between his living brother, the -philanthropist, and the daughter of his dead brother Ralph—the soldier -of the family, who<a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a> had been killed at Chancellorsville. Now as it was -certain that the philanthropist, for his part, if he had control of what -came to him, would forthwith attempt to buy the Central Park as an -airing ground for pauper idiots, or do something equally though -charitably outrageous, the chances were that his portion—if he got -any—would be placed in trust, or that it would be paid him as income by -his son, if the latter were selected to manage the fortune. This was -what most people expected, and it was certainly what Alexander Junior -hoped.</p> - -<p>It was natural, too, and in a measure just. The male line of the -Lauderdales was dying out, and Alexander Junior would be the last of -them, in the natural succession of mortality, being by far the youngest -as he was by far the strongest. It would be proper that he should -administer the estate until it was finally divided amongst the female -heirs and their children.</p> - -<p>He was really and truly a man of spotless probity, in spite of the -suspicion which almost inevitably attaches to people who seem too -perfect to be human. On the surface these perfections of his were so -hard that they amounted to defects. It is aggressive virtue that -chastises what it loves—by its mere existence. But neither his probity, -nor his exterior mechanical superiority, so to say, was connected with -the mainspring of his character. That lay much deeper, and he concealed -it<a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a> with as much skill as though to reveal its existence would have -ruined him in fortune and reputation, though it would probably have -affected neither the one nor the other. The only members of the family -who suspected the truth were his daughter Charlotte and Robert the Rich.</p> - -<p>Charlotte, who was afraid of nothing, not even of certain things which -she might have done better to respect, if not to fear, said openly in -the family, and even to the face of her father, that she did not believe -he was poor. Thereupon, Alexander Junior usually administered a stern -rebuke in his metallic voice, whereat Charlotte would smile and change -the subject, as though she did not care to talk of it just then, but -would return to it by and by. She had magnificent teeth, and, when she -chose, her smile could be almost as terribly electric as Alexander’s -own.</p> - -<p>As for Robert Lauderdale, he had more accurate knowledge, but not much. -Like many eminently successful men he had an unusual mastery of details, -and an unfailing memory for those which interested him. He knew the -exact figure of his nephew’s salary from the Trust Company, and he was -able to calculate with tolerable exactness, also, what the Lauderdales -spent, what Mrs. Lauderdale earned and how much the annual surplus must -be. He knew also that Alexander Junior’s mother, who had thoroughly -understood her husband, the<a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a> philanthropist, had left what she possessed -to her only son, and only a legacy to her husband. Her property had been -owned in New England; the executor had been a peculiarly taciturn New -England lawyer, and Alexander had never said anything to any one else -concerning the inheritance. His mother had died after he had come of -age, but before he had been married, and there were no means whatever of -ascertaining what he had received. The philanthropist and his son had -continued to live together, as they still did; but the old gentleman had -always left household matters and expenses in his wife’s charge, and had -never in the least understood, nor cared to understand, the details of -daily life. He had his two rooms, he had enough to eat and he spent -nothing on himself, except for the large quantity of tobacco he consumed -and for his very modest toilet. As for the cigars, Alexander had brought -him down, in the course of ten years, by very fine gradations, from the -best Havanas which money could buy to ‘old Virginia cheroots,’ at ten -cents for a package of five,—a luxury which even the frugal inhabitant -of Calabrian Mulberry Street would consider a permissible extravagance -on Sundays. Alexander, who did not smoke, saw that the change had not -had any ill effect upon his father’s health, and silently triumphed. If -the old gentleman’s nerves had shown signs of weakness, Alexander had -previously<a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a> determined to retire up the scale of prices to the extent of -one cent more for each cigar. In the matter of dress the elder Alexander -pleased himself, and in so doing pleased his son also, for he generally -forgot to get a new coat until the old one was dropping to pieces, and -he secretly bought his shoes of a little Italian shoemaker in the South -Fifth Avenue, as has been already noticed; the said shoemaker being the -unhappy father of one of the philanthropist’s most favourite and -unpromising idiots.</p> - -<p>But of old Mrs. Lauderdale’s money, nothing more was ever heard, nor of -several thousand dollars yearly, which, according to old Robert’s -calculations, Alexander Junior saved regularly out of his salary.</p> - -<p>Yet the youngest of the Lauderdale men was always poor, and his wife -worked as hard as she could to earn something for her own little -pleasures and luxuries. Robert the Rich had once been present when -Alexander Junior had borrowed five dollars of his wife. It had impressed -him, and he had idly wondered whether the money had ever been returned, -and whether Alexander did not manage in this way to extract a -contribution from his wife’s earnings, as a sort of peace-offering to -the gold-gods, because she wasted what she got by such hard work, in -mere amusement and hats, as Alexander cruelly put it. But Robert, who -had<a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a> a broader soul, thought she was quite right, since, next to true -love, those were the things by which a woman could be made most happy. -It is true that Robert the Rich had never been married. As a matter of -fact, Alexander Lauderdale never returned the small sums he succeeded in -borrowing from his wife from time to time. But he kept a rigidly -accurate account of them, which he showed her occasionally, assuring her -that she ‘might draw on him’ for the money, and that he credited her -with five per cent interest so long as it was ‘in his hands’—which were -of iron, as she knew—and further, that it would be to her advantage to -invest all the money she earned in the same way, with him. A hundred -dollars, he said, would double itself in fourteen years, and in time it -would become a thousand, which would be ‘a nice little sum for her.’ He -had a set of expressions which he used in speaking of money, wherewith -he irritated her exceedingly. More than once she asked him to give her a -trifle out of what she had lent him, when she was in a hurry, or really -had nothing. But he invariably answered that he had nothing about him, -as he always paid everything by cheque,—which was true,—and never -spent but ten cents daily for his fare in the elevated road to and from -his office. He lunched somewhere, she supposed, during the day, and -would need money for that; but in this she was<a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a> mistaken, for his strong -constitution needed but two meals daily, breakfast at eight and dinner -at half-past seven. At one o’clock he drank a glass of water in his -office, and in fine weather took a turn in Broad Street or Broadway. He -sometimes, if hard pressed by her, said that he would include what she -wanted in the next cheque he drew for household expenses—and he -examined the accounts himself every Saturday afternoon—but he always -managed to be alone when he did this, and invariably forgot to make any -allowance for the purpose of paying his just debts.</p> - -<p>Robert Lauderdale knew, therefore, that there must be a considerable sum -of money, somewhere, the property of Alexander Junior, unless the latter -had privately squandered it. This, however, was a supposition which not -even the most hopelessly moonstruck little boy in the philanthropist’s -pet asylum would have entertained for a moment. The rich man had watched -his nephew narrowly from his boyhood to his middle age, and was a knower -of men and a good judge of them, and he was quite sure that he was not -mistaken. Moreover, he knew likewise Alexander’s strict adherence to the -letter of truth, for he had proved it many times, and Alexander had -never said that he had no money. But he never failed to say that he was -poor—which was a relative term. He would go so far as to say that he -had no money for a particular<a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a> object, clearly meaning that he would not -spend anything in that direction, but he had never said that he had -nothing. Now the great Robert was not the man to call a sum of several -hundred thousands a nothing, because he had so much more himself. He -knew the value of money as well as any man living. He used to say that -to give was a matter of sentiment, but that to have was a matter of -fact,—probably meaning thereby that the relation between length of head -and breadth of heart was indeterminate, but that although a man might -not have fifty millions, if he had half a million he was well enough off -to be able to give something to somebody, if he chose. But Robert the -Rich was fond of rather enigmatical sayings. He had seen the world from -quite an exceptional point of view and believed that he had a right to -judge it accordingly.</p> - -<p>He had watched his nephew during more than thirty years, and one half of -that period had sufficed to bring him to the conclusion that Alexander -Junior was a thoroughly upright but a thoroughly miserly person, and the -remaining half of the time had so far confirmed this judgment as to make -him own that the younger man was not only miserly, but in the very most -extended sense an old-fashioned miser in the midst of a new-fashioned -civilization, and therefore an anachronism, and therefore, also, not a -man to be treated like other men.<a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a></p> - -<p>Robert had long ago determined that Alexander should have some of the -money to do with as he pleased. His sole idea would be to hoard it and -pile it up to fabulous dimensions, and if anything happened to it he -would probably go mad, thought the great man. But the others were also -to have some of it, more or less according to their characters, and it -was interesting to speculate upon their probable actions when they -should be very rich. None of them, Robert believed, were really poor, -and certainly Alexander Junior was not. If they had been in need, the -old gentleman would have helped them with actual sums of money. But they -were not. As for Mrs. Lauderdale and her daughters, they really had all -that was necessary. Alexander did not starve them. He did not go so far -as that—perhaps because in his social position it would have been found -out. His wife was an excellent housekeeper, and old Robert liked the -simplicity of the little dinners to which he occasionally came without -warning, asking for ‘a bite,’ as though he were a poor relation. He -loved what was simple and, in general, all things which could be loved -for their own sake, and not for their value, and which were not beyond -his rather limited æsthetic appreciation.</p> - -<p>It was a very good thing, he thought, that Mrs. Lauderdale should do a -little work and earn a little money. It was an interest and an -occupation<a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a> for her. It was fitting that people should be willing to do -something to earn money for their charities, or even for their smaller -luxuries, though it was very desirable that they should not feel obliged -to work for their necessities. If everybody were in that position, he -supposed that every one would be far happier. And Mrs. Lauderdale had -her beauty, too. Robert the Rich was fond of her in a fatherly way, and -knowing what a good woman she was, he had determined to make her a -compensation when she should lose her good looks. When her beauty -departed, she should be made rich, and he would manage it in such a way -that her husband should not be able to get hold of any of her wealth, to -bury with what Robert was sure he had, in secret and profitable -investment. Alexander Junior should have none of it.</p> - -<p>As for his elder brother, the philanthropist, Robert Lauderdale had his -own theories. He did not think that the old man’s charities were by any -means always wise ones, and he patronized others of his own, of which he -said nothing. Robert thought that too much was done for the deserving -poor, and too little for the undeserving poor, and that the starving -sinner might be just as hungry as the starving saint—a point of view -not popular with the righteous, who covet the unjust man’s sunshine for -themselves and accuse him unfairly of bringing about cloudy weather, -though every one<a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a> knows that clouds, even the very blackest, are -produced by natural evaporation.</p> - -<p>But it was improbable, as Robert knew, that his brother should outlive -him, and he contributed liberally to the support and education of the -idiots, and his brother was mentioned in the will in connection with a -large annuity which, however, he had little chance of surviving to -enjoy.</p> - -<p>There were plenty of others to divide the vast inheritance when the time -should come. There were Mrs. Lauderdale and her two daughters, and her -baby grandson, Charlotte’s little boy. And there was Katharine Ralston -and there was John. And then there were the two Brights and their -mother, whose mother had been a Lauderdale, so that they were direct -relations. And there were the Miners—the three old-maid sisters and -little Frank Miner, who really seemed to be struggling hard to make a -living by literature—not near connections, these Miners, but certainly -included in the tribe of the Lauderdales on account of their uncle’s -marriage with the millionaire’s first cousin—whom he remembered as -‘little cousin Meg’ fifty years ago. Robert the Rich always smiled—a -little sadly—when he reached this point in the enumeration of the -family, and was glad that the Miners were in his will.</p> - -<p>The Miners would really have been the poorest of the whole connection, -for their father had been<a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a> successively a spendthrift bankrupt, a -drunkard and a lunatic,—which caused Alexander Junior to say severely -that Livingston Miner had an unnatural thirst for emotions; but a -certain very small investment which Frank Miner had made out of the -remnants of the estate had turned out wonderfully well. Miner had never -known that old Lauderdale had mentioned the investment to old Beman, and -that the two great men had found the time to make it roll over and over -and grow into a little fortune at a rate which would have astonished -persons ignorant of business—after which they had been occupied with -other things, each in his own way, and had thought nothing more about -the matter. So that the Miners were comparatively comfortable, and the -three old maids stayed at home and ‘took care’ of their extremely -healthy brother instead of going out as governesses—and when they were -well stricken in old-maidhood they had a queer little love story all to -themselves, which perhaps will be told some day by itself.</p> - -<p>The rich man made few presents, for he had few wants, and did not -understand them in others. He was none the less on that account a -generous man, and would often have given, had he known what to give; but -those who expressed their wishes were apt to offend him by expressing -them too clearly. The relations all lived in good houses and had an -abundance of bread and a sufficient allowance of<a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a> butter, and John -Ralston was the only one in connection with whom he had heard mention of -a tailor’s bill—John Ralston was more in the old gentleman’s mind than -any one knew. What did the others all want? Jewels, perhaps, and horses -and carriages and a lot of loose cash to throw out of the window. That -was the way he put it. He had never kept a brougham himself until he was -fifty years of age. It was true that he had no womankind and was a -strong man, like all his tribe. But then, many of his acquaintances who -might have kept a dozen horses, said it was more trouble than it was -worth, and hired what they wanted. His relations could do the same—it -was a mere curiosity on their part to experience the sensation of -looking rich. Robert Lauderdale knew the sensation very well and knew -that it was quite worthless. Of course, he thought, they all knew that -at his death they would be provided for—even lazy Jack, as he mentally -nicknamed Ralston. At least, he supposed that they knew it. They should -have a fair share of the money in the end.</p> - -<p>But he was conscious, and acutely conscious, that most of them wanted -it, and he had very little belief in the disinterested affection of any -of them. Even the old philanthropist, if he had been offered the chance -by a playful destiny, would have laid violent hands on it all for his -charities, to the<a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a> exclusion of the whole family. His son would have -buried it in his own Trust Company, and longed to have it for that -purpose, and for no other. Jack Ralston wanted to squander it; Hamilton -Bright wanted to do banking with it and to out-Rothschild the -Rothschilds in the exchanges of the world. Crowdie, whom Robert the Rich -detested, wanted his wife to have it in order that he might build marble -palaces with it on the shores of more or less mythic lakes. Katharine -Ralston would have liked some of it because she liked to be above all -considerations of money, and her husband’s death had made a great -difference in her income. Mrs. Lauderdale wanted it, of course, and her -ideal of happiness would be realized in having three or four princely -establishments, in moving with the seasons from one to the other and in -always having her house full of guests. She was born in Kentucky—and -she would be a superb hostess. Perhaps she should have a chance some -day. Charlotte Slayback wanted as much as she could get because her -husband was rich, and she had nothing, and she had good blood in her -veins, but an abundance of evil pride in her heart. There was Katharine -Lauderdale, about whom the great man was undecided. He liked her and -thought she understood him. But of course she wanted the money too—in -order to marry lazy Jack—and wake up love’s young dream with a jump, as -he expressed it familiarly.<a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a> She should not have it for that purpose, at -all events. It would be much better that she should marry Hamilton -Bright, who was a sensible fellow. Had not Ralston been offered two -chances, at both of which he had pitiably failed? He had no idea of -doing anything more for the boy at present. If he ever got any of the -money it should be from his mother. The two Katharines were out and out -the best of the tribe. He had a great mind to tear up his old will and -divide the whole fortune equally between Katharine Ralston and Katharine -Lauderdale. No doubt there would be a dispute about the will in any -case—he might just as well follow his inclinations, if he could not -prevent fighting.</p> - -<p>And then, when he reached that point, he was suddenly checked by a -consideration which does not present itself to ordinary men. As he -leaned back in his leathern writing chair, while his knotted fingers -played with the cork pen-holder he used, his great head slowly bowed -itself, and he sat long in deep thought.</p> - -<p>It was all very well for him to play at being just a capricious old -uncle with some money to leave, as he pleased, to this one or that one, -as old uncles did in story books, making everybody happy in the end. -That was all very well. He had his little likes and dislikes, his -attachments and his detestations, and he had a right to have them, as -smaller men had. A little here and a little<a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a> there would of course give -pleasure and might even make happiness. But how much would it need to -make them all rich, compared with their present position? Robert -Lauderdale did not laugh as he answered the question to himself. One -year’s income alone, divided amongst them, would give each a fortune. -The income of two years would give them wealth. And the capital would -remain—the vast possession which in a few years he must lay down -forever, which at any moment might be masterless, for he was an old man, -over seventy years of age. If he had a son, it would be different. -Things would follow their natural course for good or evil, and he would -not himself be to blame for what happened. But he had no one, and the -thing he must leave to some one was great power in its most serviceable -form—money.</p> - -<p>He had been face to face with the problem for years and had not solved -it. It is a great one in America, at the present day, and Robert -Lauderdale knew it. He was well aware that he and a score of others, -some richer, some less rich than himself, were execrated by a certain -proportion of the community and pointed out as the disturbers of the -equal distribution of wealth. He was made personally sure of the fact by -hundreds of letters, anonymous and signed, warning him of the -approaching destruction of himself and his property.<a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a> People who did not -even know that he was a bachelor, threatened to kidnap his children and -keep them from him until he should give up his wealth. He was -threatened, entreated, admonished, preached at and held up to ridicule -by every species of fanatic which the age produces. He was not afraid of -any of them. He did not have himself guarded by detectives in plain -clothes and athletes in fashionable coats, when he chose to walk in the -streets, and he did not yield to the entreaties of women who wrote to -him from Texas that they should be perfectly happy if he would send them -grand pianos to the addresses they gave. He was discriminating, he was -just according to his light and he tried to do good, while he took no -notice of those who raved and abused him. But he knew that there was a -reason for the storm, and was much more keenly alive to the difficulties -of the situation than any of his anonymous correspondents.</p> - -<p>He had in his own hands and at his absolute disposal the wealth which, -under a proper administration, would perpetually supply between seven -and eight thousand families with the necessaries of life. He had made -that calculation one day, not idly, but in the endeavour to realize what -could really be done with so much money. He was not a visionary -philanthropist like his brother, though he helped him in many of his -schemes. He was not a saint, though he was a good man, as men go.<a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a> He -had not the smallest intention of devoting a gigantic fortune -exclusively to the bettering of mankind, for he was human. But he felt -that in his lonely wealth he was in a measure under an obligation to all -humanity—that he had created for himself a responsibility greater than -one man could bear, and that he and others like him had raised a -question, and proposed a problem which had not before been dreamt of in -the history of the world. He, an individual with no especial gifts -besides his keen judgment in a certain class of affairs, with nothing -but his wealth to distinguish him from any other individual, possessed -the equivalent of a sum of money which would have seemed very large in -the treasury of a great nation, or which would have been considered -sufficient as a reserve wherewith to enter upon a great war. And there -were others in an exactly similar position. He knew several of them. He -could count half a dozen men who, together with himself, could upset the -finances of the world if they chose. It needed no tortuous reasoning and -but little vanity to show him that he and they did not stand towards -mankind as other men stood. And the thought brought with it the -certainty that there was a right course for him to pursue in the -disposal of his money, if he could but see it in the right light.</p> - -<p>This was the man whom all the Lauderdale tribe called uncle Robert, and -to whom Katharine intended<a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a> to appeal as soon as she had been secretly -married to John Ralston, and from whom she felt sure of obtaining what -she meant to ask. He was capable of surprising her.</p> - -<p>‘You have a good house, good food, good clothes—and so has your -husband. What right have you, Katharine Lauderdale, or Mrs. John -Ralston, to claim more than any member of each of the seven or eight -thousand families whom I could support would get in the distribution?’</p> - -<p>That was the answer she might receive—in the form of a rather -unanswerable question.<a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> afternoon which followed the first sitting in Crowdie’s studio -seemed very long to Katharine. She did all sorts of things to make the -time pass, but it would not. She even set in order a whole drawer full -of ribbons and gloves and veils and other trifles, which is generally -the very last thing a woman does to get rid of the hours.</p> - -<p>And all the time she was thinking, and not sure whether it would not be -better to fight against her thoughts. For though she was not afraid of -changing her mind she had a vague consciousness that the whole question -might raise its head again and face her like a thing in a dream, and -insist that she should argue with it. And then, there was the plain and -unmistakable fact that she was on the eve of doing something which was -hardly ever done by the people amongst whom she lived.</p> - -<p>It was not that she was timid, or dreaded the remarks which might be -made. Any timidity of that sort would have checked her at the very -outset. If the man she loved had been any one but Jack Ralston, whom she -had known all her life, she could never have thought of proposing such -a<a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a> thing. Oddly enough, she felt that she should blush, as she had -blushed that morning at the studio, at the mere idea of a secret -marriage, if Ralston were any one else. But not from any fear of what -other people might say. Not only had the two been intimate from -childhood—they had discussed during the last year their marriage, and -all the possibilities of it, from every point of view. It was a subject -familiar to them, the difficulties to be overcome were clear to them -both, they had proposed all manner of schemes for overcoming them, they -had talked for hours about running away together and had been sensible -enough to see the folly of such a thing. The mere matter of saying -certain words and of giving and receiving a ring had gradually sunk into -insignificance as an event. It was an inevitable formality in Ralston’s -eyes, to be gone through with scrupulous exactness indeed, and to be -carefully recorded and witnessed, but there was not a particle of -romance connected with it, any more than with the signing and witnessing -of a title-deed or any other legal document.</p> - -<p>Katharine had a somewhat different opinion of it, for it had a real -religious value in her eyes. That was one reason why she preferred a -secret wedding. Of course, the moment would come, sooner or later, for -they were sure to be married in the end, publicly or privately. But in -any case it would be a solemn moment. The obligations, as<a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a> she viewed -them, were for life. The very words of the promise had an imposing -simplicity. In the church to which she strongly inclined, marriage was -called a sacrament, and believed to be one, in which the presence of the -Divine personally sanctified the bond of the human. Katharine was quite -willing to believe that, too. And the more she believed it, the more she -hated the idea of a great fashionable wedding, such as Charlotte -Slayback had endured with much equanimity. She could imagine nothing -more disagreeable, even painful, than to be the central figure of such -an exhibition.</p> - -<p>That holy hour, when it came at last, should be holy indeed. There -should be nothing, ever thereafter, to disturb the pure memory of its -sanctity. A quiet church, the man she loved, herself and the interpreter -of God. That was all she wanted—not to be disturbed in the greatest -event of her life by all the rustling, glittering, flower-scented, -grinning, gossiping crowd of critics, whose ridiculous presence is -considered to lend marriage a dignity beyond what God or nature could -bestow upon it.</p> - -<p>This was Katharine’s view, and as she had no intention of keeping her -marriage to Ralston a secret during even so much as twenty-four hours, -it was neither unnatural nor unjustifiable. But in spite of all the real -importance which she gave to the ceremony as a fact, it seemed so much a -matter of course, and she had thought of it so long and<a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a> under so many -aspects, that in the chain of future events it was merely a link to be -reached and passed as soon as possible. It was not the ring, nor the -promise nor the blessing, by which her life was to be changed. She knew -that she loved John Ralston, and she could not love him better still -from the instant in which he became her lawful husband. The difficulties -began beyond that, with her intended attack upon uncle Robert. She told -herself that she was sure of success, but she was not, since she could -not see into the future one hour beyond the moment of her meeting with -the old gentleman. That seeing into the future is the test of -confidence, and the only one.</p> - -<p>It struck her suddenly that everything which was to happen after the -all-important interview was a blank to her. She paused in what she was -doing—she was winding a yellow ribbon round her finger—and she looked -out of the window. It was raining, for the weather had changed quickly -during the afternoon. Rain in Clinton Place is particularly dreary. -Katharine sat down upon the chair that stood before her little writing -table in the corner by the window, and watched the grey lace veil which -the falling raindrops wove between her and the red brick houses -opposite.</p> - -<p>A feeling of despair came over her. Uncle Robert would refuse to do -anything. What would happen then? What could she do? She was<a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a> brave -enough to face her father’s anger and her mother’s distress, for she -loved Ralston with all her heart. But what would happen? If uncle Robert -failed her, the future was no longer blank but black. No one else could -do anything. Of what use would the family battle be? Her father could -not, and would not, do anything for her or her husband. He was the sort -of man who would take a stern delight in seeing her bear the -consequences of her mistake—it could not be called a fault, even by -him. To impose herself on Mrs. Ralston was more than Katharine’s pride -could endure to contemplate. Of course, it would be possible to -live—barely to live—on the charity of her husband’s mother. Mrs. -Ralston would do anything for her son, and would sacrifice herself -cheerfully. But to accept any such sacrifice was out of the question. -And then, too, Katharine knew what extreme economy meant, for she had -suffered from it long under her father’s roof, and it was not pleasant. -Yet they would be poorer still at the Ralstons, and she would be the -cause of it.</p> - -<p>If uncle Robert refused to help them, the position would be desperate. -She watched the rain and tried to think it all over. She supposed that -her father would insist upon—what? Not upon keeping the secret, for -that would not be like him. He was a horribly virtuous man, Charlotte -used to say. Oh, no! he would not act a lie on any<a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a> account, not he! -Katharine wondered why she hated this scrupulous truthfulness in her -father and admired it above all things in Ralston. Jack would not act a -lie either. But then, if there were to be no secret, and if the marriage -were to be announced, what would happen? Would her father insist upon -her living at home until her husband should be able to support her? What -a situation! She cared less than most girls about social opinion, but -she really wondered what society would say. Her father would say -nothing. He would smile that electric smile of his, and hold his head -higher than ever. ‘This is what happens to daughters who disobey their -parents,’ he would seem to tell the world. She had always thought that -he might be like the first Brutus, and she felt sure of it now.</p> - -<p>It seemed like weakness to think of going to uncle Robert that very -afternoon, before the inevitable moment was past. Yet it would be such -an immense satisfaction to have had the interview and to have his -promise to do something for Ralston. The thought seemed cowardly and yet -she dwelt on it. Of course, her chief weapon with the old gentleman was -to be the fact that the thing was done and could not be undone, so that -he could have no good advice to give. And, yet, perhaps she might move -him by saying that she had made up her mind and was to be married -to-morrow.<a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a> He might not believe her, and might laugh and send her -away—with one of his hearty avuncular kisses—she could see his dear -old face in her imagination. But if he did that, she could still return -to-morrow, and show him the certificate of her marriage. He would not -then be able to say that she had not given him fair warning. She wished -it would not rain. She would have walked in the direction of his house, -and when she was near it she knew in her heart that she would -yield—since it seemed like a temptation—and perhaps it would be -better.</p> - -<p>But it was raining, and uncle Robert lived far away from Clinton Place -in a house he had built for himself at the corner of a new block facing -the Central Park. He had built the whole block and had kept possession -of it afterwards. It was almost three miles from Alexander Lauderdale’s -house in unfashionable Clinton Place—three miles of elevated road, or -of horse-car or of walking—and in any case it meant getting wet in such -a rain storm. Moreover, Katharine rarely went alone by the elevated -road. She wished it would stop raining. If it would only stop for half -an hour she would go. Perhaps it was as well to let fate decide the -matter in that way.</p> - -<p>Just then a carriage drove up to the door. She flattened her face -against the window, but could not see who got out of it. It was a cab, -however,<a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a> and the driver had a waterproof hat and coat. In all -probability it came from one of the hotels. Any one might have taken it. -Katharine drew back a little and looked idly at the little mottled mist -her breath had made upon the window pane. The door of her room opened -suddenly.</p> - -<p>“Kitty, are you there?” asked a woman’s voice.</p> - -<p>Katharine knew as the handle of the latch was turned that her sister -Charlotte had come. No one else ever entered her room without knocking, -and no one else ever called her ‘Kitty.’ She hated the abbreviation of -her name and she resented the familiarity of the unbidden entrance. She -turned rather sharply.</p> - -<p>“Oh—is that you? I thought you were in Washington.” She came forward, -and the two exchanged kisses mechanically.</p> - -<p>“Benjamin Slayback of Nevada had business in New York, so I came up to -get a breath of my native microbes,” said Charlotte, going to the mirror -and beginning to take off her hat very carefully so as not to disturb -her hair. “We are at a hotel, of course—but it’s nice, all the same. I -suppose mamma’s at work and I know papa’s down town, and the ancestor is -probably studying some new kind of fool—so I came to your room.”</p> - -<p>“Will you have some tea?” asked Katharine.</p> - -<p>“Tea? What wild extravagance! I suppose you offer it to me as ‘Mrs. -Slayback.’ I wonder if<a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a> papa would. I can see him smile—just like -this—isn’t it just like him?”</p> - -<p>She smiled before the mirror and then turned suddenly on Katharine. The -mimicry was certainly good. Mrs. Slayback, however, was fair, like her -mother, with a radiant complexion, golden hair and good -features,—larger and bolder than Mrs. Lauderdale’s, but not nearly so -classically perfect. There was something hard in her face, especially -about the eyes.</p> - -<p>“It’s just the same as ever,” she said, seating herself in the small -arm-chair—the only one in the room. “The same dear, delightful, dreary, -comfortless, furnace-heated, gas-lighted, -‘put-on-your-best-hat-to-go-to-church’ sort of existence that it always -was! I wonder how you all stand it—how I stood it so long myself!”</p> - -<p>Katharine laughed and turned her head. She had been looking out of the -window again and wondering whether the rain would stop after all. She -and her sister had never lived very harmoniously together. Their pitched -battles had begun in the nursery with any weapons they could lay hands -on, pillows, moribund dolls, soapy sponges, and the nurse’s shoes. -Though Katharine was the younger, she had soon been the stronger at -close quarters. But Charlotte had the sharper tongue and was by far the -better shot with any projectile when safely entrenched behind the bed.<a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a> -At the first show of hostilities she made for both sponges—a rag-doll -was not a bad thing, if she got a chance to dip it into the basin, but -there was nothing like a sponge, when it was ‘just gooey with soap,’ as -the youthful Charlotte expressed it. She carried the art of throwing to -a high degree of perfection, and on very rare occasions, after she was -grown up, she surprised her adorers by throwing pebbles at a mark with -an unerring accuracy which would have done credit to a poacher’s -apprentice.</p> - -<p>Since the nursery days the warfare had been carried on by words and the -encounters had been less frequent, but the contrast was always apparent -between Katharine’s strength and Charlotte’s quickness. Katharine -waited, collected her strength, chose her language and delivered a heavy -blow, so to say. Charlotte, as Frank Miner put it, ‘slung English all -over the lot.’ Both were effective in their way. But they had the good -taste to quarrel in private and, moreover, in many things they were -allies. With regard to their father, Katharine took an evil and silent -delight in her sister’s sarcasms, and Charlotte could not help admiring -Katharine’s solid, unyielding opposition on certain points.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes!” said Katharine, answering Charlotte’s last remark. “There’ll -be less change than ever now that you’re married.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so. Poor Kitty! We used to fight<a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a> now and then, but I know -you enjoyed looking on when I made a row at dinner. Didn’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I did. I’m a human being.” Katharine laughed again. “Won’t -you really have tea? I always have it when I want it.”</p> - -<p>“You brave little thing! Do you? Well—if you like. You quiet people -always have your own way in the end,” added Mrs. Slayback, rather -thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s the steady push that does it.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you have your way, too?” asked Katharine, in some surprise at her -sister’s tone of voice.</p> - -<p>“No. I’m ashamed to say that I don’t. No—” She seemed to be -recapitulating events. “No—I don’t have my way at all—not the least -little bit. I have the way of Benjamin Slayback of Nevada.”</p> - -<p>“Why do you talk of your husband in that way?” enquired Katharine.</p> - -<p>“Shall I call him Mr. Slayback?” asked Charlotte, “or Benjamin—dear -little Benjamin! or Ben—the ‘soldier bold’? How does ‘Ben’ strike you, -Kitty? I know—I’ve thought of calling him Minnie—last syllable of -Benjamin, you see. There was a moment when I hesitated at -‘Benjy’—‘Benjy, darling, another cup of coffee?’—it would sound so -quiet and home-like at breakfast, wouldn’t it? It’s fortunate that papa -made us get up early all our lives. My dream of married happiness—a -nice little French<a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a> maid smiling at me with a beautiful little tea-tray -just as I was opening my eyes—I had thought about it for years! Well, -it’s all over. Benjamin Slayback of Nevada takes his breakfast like a -man—a regular Benjamin’s portion of breakfast, and wants to feast his -eyes on my loveliness, and his understanding on my wit, and his inner -man on the flesh of kine—and all that together at eight o’clock in the -morning—Benjamin Slayback of Nevada—there’s no other name for him!”</p> - -<p>“The name irritates me—you repeat it so often!”</p> - -<p>“Does it, dear? The man irritates me, and that’s infinitely worse. I -wish you knew!”</p> - -<p>“But he’s awfully good to you, Charlie. You can’t deny that, at all -events.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—and he calls me Lottie,” answered Charlotte, with much disgust. -“You know how I hate it. But if you are going to lecture me on my -husband’s goodness—Kitty, I tell you frankly, I won’t stand it. I’ll -say something to you that’ll make you—just frizzle up! Remember the -soapy sponge of old, my child, and be nice to your sister. I came here -hoping to see you. I want to talk seriously to you. At least—I’m not -sure. I want to talk seriously to somebody, and you’re the most serious -person I know.”</p> - -<p>“More so than your husband?”</p> - -<p>“He’s grave enough sometimes, but not generally.<a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a> It’s almost always -about his constituents. They are to him what the liver is to some -people—only that they are beyond the reach of mineral waters. -Besides—it’s about him that I want to talk. You look surprised, though -I’m sure I don’t know why. I suppose—because I’ve never said anything -before.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t even know what you’re going to say—”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Slayback looked at her younger sister steadily for a moment, and -then looked at the window. The rain was still falling fast and steadily; -and the room had a dreary, dingy air about it as the afternoon advanced. -It had been Charlotte’s before her marriage, and Katharine had moved -into it since because it was better than her own. The elder girl had -filled it with little worthless trifles which had brightened it to a -certain extent; but Katharine cared little for that sort of thing, and -was far more indifferent to the aspect of the place in which she lived. -There were a couple of dark engravings of sacred subjects on the -walls,—one over the narrow bed in the corner, and the other above the -chest of drawers, and there was nothing more which could be said to be -intended for ornament. Yet Charlotte Slayback’s hard face softened a -little as her eyes wandered from the window to the familiar, faded wall -paper and the old-fashioned furniture. The silence lasted some time. -Then she turned to her sister again.<a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_257_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_257_sml.jpg" width="235" height="382" alt="“ ‘Kitty—don’t do what I’ve done,’ she said -earnestly.”—Vol. I., p. 257." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">“ ‘Kitty—don’t do what I’ve done,’ she said -earnestly.”—Vol. I., <a href="#page_257">p. 257</a>.</span> -</div> - -<p>“Kitty—don’t do what I’ve done,” she said, earnestly.</p> - -<p>She watched the girl’s face for a change of expression, but Katharine’s -impassive features were not quick to express any small feeling beyond -passing annoyance.</p> - -<p>“Aren’t you happy, Charlie?” Katharine asked, gravely.</p> - -<p>“Happy!”</p> - -<p>The elder woman only repeated the single word, but it told her story -plainly enough. She would have given much to have come back to the old -room, dreary as it looked.</p> - -<p>“I’m very sorry,” said Katharine, in a lower voice and beginning to -understand. “Isn’t he kind to you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s not that! He’s kind—in his way—it makes it worse—far -worse,” she repeated, after a moment’s pause. “I hadn’t been much used -to that sort of kindness before I was married, you know—except from -mamma, and that was different—and to have it from—” She stopped.</p> - -<p>Katharine had never seen her sister in this mood before. Charlotte was -generally the last person to make confidences, or to complain softly of -anything she did not like. Katharine thought she must be very much -changed.</p> - -<p>“You say you’re unhappy,” said the young girl. “But you don’t tell me -why. Has there been any trouble—anything especial?”<a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a></p> - -<p>“No. You don’t understand. How should you? We never did understand each -other very well, you and I. I don’t know why I come to you with my -troubles, either. You can’t help me. Nobody can—unless it were—a -lawyer.”</p> - -<p>“A lawyer?” Katharine was taken by surprise now, and her eyes showed it.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” answered Charlotte, her voice growing cold and hard again. -“People can be divorced for incompatibility of temper.”</p> - -<p>“Charlotte!” The young girl started a little, and leaned forward, laying -her hand upon her sister’s knee.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes! I mean it. I’m sorry to horrify you so, my dear, and I suppose -papa would say that divorce was not a proper subject for conversation. -Perhaps he’s right—but he’s not here to tell us so.”</p> - -<p>“But, Charlie—” Katharine stopped short, unable to say the first word -of the many that rushed to her lips.</p> - -<p>“I know,” said Charlotte, paying no attention. “I know exactly what -you’re going to say. You are going to argue the question, and tell me in -the first place that I’m bad, and then that I’m mad, and then that I’m a -mother,—and all sorts of things. I’ve thought of them all, my dear; and -they’re very terrible, of course. But I’m quite willing to be them all -at once, if I can only get my<a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a> freedom again. I don’t expect much -sympathy, and I don’t want any good advice—and I haven’t seen a lawyer -yet. But I must talk—I must say it out—I must hear it! Kitty—I’m -desperate! I never knew what it meant before.”</p> - -<p>She rose suddenly from her seat, walked twice up and down the room, and -then stood still before Katharine, and looked down into her face.</p> - -<p>“Of course you can’t understand,” she said, as she had said before. “How -should you?” She seemed to be waiting for an answer.</p> - -<p>“I think I could, if you would tell me more about yourself,” Katharine -replied. “I’m trying to understand. I’d help you if I knew how.”</p> - -<p>“That’s impossible.” Mrs. Slayback seated herself again. “But it’s this. -You must have wondered why I married him, didn’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Well—not exactly. But it seemed to me—there were other men, if you -meant to marry a man you didn’t love.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe in love,” said Charlotte. “But I wanted to be married -for many reasons—most of all, because I couldn’t bear the life here.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I know. You’re not like me. But why didn’t you choose somebody -else? I can’t understand marrying without love; but it seems to me, as I -said, that if one is going to do such a thing one had better make a -careful choice.”</p> - -<p>“I did. I chose my husband for many reasons.<a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a> He is richer than any of -the men who proposed to me, and that’s a great thing. And he’s very -good-natured, and what they call ‘an able man.’ There were lots of good -reasons. There were things I didn’t like, of course; but I thought I -could make him change. I did—in little things. He never wears a green -tie now, for instance—”</p> - -<p>“As if such things could make a difference in life’s happiness!” cried -Katharine, contemptuously.</p> - -<p>“My dear—they do. But never mind that. I thought I could—what shall I -say?—develop his latent social talent. And I have. In that way he’s -changed a good deal. You’ve not seen him this year, have you? No, of -course not. Well, he’s not the same man. But it’s in the big things. I -thought I could manage him, by sheer force of superior will, and make -him do just what I wanted—oh, I made such a mistake!”</p> - -<p>“And because you’ve married a man whom you can’t order about like a -servant, you want to be divorced,” said Katharine, coldly.</p> - -<p>“I knew you couldn’t understand,” Charlotte answered, with unusual -gentleness. “I suppose you won’t believe me if I tell you that I suffer -all the time, and—very, very much.”</p> - -<p>Katharine did not understand, but her sister’s tone told her plainly -enough that there was real trouble of some sort.</p> - -<p>“Charlie,” she said, “there’s something on your<a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a> mind—something else. -How can I know what it is, unless you tell me, dear?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Slayback turned her head away, and bit her lip, as though the kind -words had touched her.</p> - -<p>“It’s my pride,” she said suddenly and very quickly. “He hurts it so!”</p> - -<p>“But how? Merely because he does things in his own way? He probably -knows best—they all say he’s very clever in politics.”</p> - -<p>“Clever! I should think so! He’s a great, rough, good-natured, -ill-mannered—no, he’s not a brute. He’s painfully kind. But with that -exterior—there’s no other word. He has the quickness of a woman in some -ways. I believe he can be anything he chooses.”</p> - -<p>“But all you say is rather in his favour.”</p> - -<p>“I know it is. I wish it were not. If I loved him—the mere idea is -ridiculous! But if I did, I would trot by his side and carry the basket -through life, like his poodle. But I don’t love him—and he expects me -to do it all the same. I’m curled, and scented, and fed delicately, and -put to sleep on a silk cushion, and have a beautiful new ribbon tied -round my neck every morning, just like a poodle-dog—and I must trot -quietly and carry the basket. That’s all I am in his life—it wasn’t -exactly my dream,” she added bitterly.</p> - -<p>“I see. And you thought that it was to be the other way, and that he was -to trot beside you.”<a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a></p> - -<p>“You put it honestly, at all events. Yes. I suppose I thought that. I -did not expect this, anyhow—and I simply can’t bear it any longer! So -long as there’s any question of social matters, of course, everything is -left to me. He can’t leave a card himself, he won’t make visits—he -won’t lift a finger, though he wants it all properly and perfectly done. -Lottie must trot—with the card-basket. But if I venture to have an -opinion about anything, I have no more influence over him than the -furniture. I mustn’t say this, because it will be repeated that his wife -said it; and I mustn’t say that, because those are not his political -opinions; and I mustn’t say something else, because it might get back to -Nevada and offend his constituents—and as for doing anything, it’s -simply out of the question. When I’m bored to death with it all, he -tells me that his constituents expect him to stay in Washington during -the session, and he advises me to go away for a few days, and offers to -draw me a cheque. He would probably give me a thousand dollars for my -expenses if I wanted to stay a week with you. I don’t know whether he -wants to seem magnificent, or whether he thinks I expect it, or if he -really imagines that I should spend it. But it isn’t that I want, -Kitty—it isn’t that! I didn’t marry for money, though it was very nice -to have so much—it wasn’t for that, it really, really wasn’t! I suppose -it’s absurd—perfectly wild—<a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>but I wanted to be somebody, to have some -influence in the world, to have just a little of what people call real -power. And I haven’t got it, and I can’t have it; and I’m nothing but -his poodle-dog, and I’m perfectly miserable!”</p> - -<p>Katharine could find nothing to say when her sister paused after her -long speech. It was not easy for her to sympathize with any one so -totally unlike herself, nor to understand the state of mind of a woman -who wanted the sort of power which few women covet, who had practically -given her life in exchange for the hope of it, and who had pitiably -failed to obtain it. She stared out of the window at the falling rain, -and it all seemed very dreary to her.</p> - -<p>“It’s my pride!” exclaimed Charlotte, suddenly, after a pause. “I never -knew what it meant before—and you never can. It’s intolerable to feel -that I’m beaten at the very beginning of life. Can’t you understand -that, at least?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—but, Charlie dear,—it’s a long way from a bit of wounded pride to -a divorce—isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” answered Charlotte, disconsolately. “I suppose it is. But if you -knew the horrible sensation! It grows worse and worse—and the less I -can find fault with him for other things, the worse it seems to grow. -And it’s quite useless to fight. You know I’m good at fighting, don<a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>’t -you? I used to think I was, until I tried to fight my husband. My -dear—I’m not in it with him!”</p> - -<p>Katharine rose and turned her back, feeling that she could hardly -control herself if she sat still. There was an incredible frivolity -about her sister at certain moments which was almost revolting to the -young girl.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” asked Charlotte, observing her movement.</p> - -<p>“Oh—nothing,” answered Katharine. “The shade isn’t quite up and it’s -growing dark, that’s all.”</p> - -<p>“I thought you were angry,” said Mrs. Slayback.</p> - -<p>“I? Why should I be angry? What business is it of mine?” Katharine -turned and faced her, having adjusted the shade to her liking. “Of -course, if you must say that sort of thing, you had better say it to me -than to any one else. It doesn’t sound well in the world—and it’s not -pleasant to hear.”</p> - -<p>“Why not?” asked Charlotte, her voice growing hard and cold again. “But -that’s a foolish question. Well—I’ve had my talk out—and I feel -better. One must sometimes, you know.” Her tone softened again, -unexpectedly. “Don’t be too hard on me, Kitty dear—just because you’re -a better woman than I am.” There was a tremor in her last words.</p> - -<p>Katharine did not understand. She understood,<a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a> however, and for the -first time in her life, that a frivolous woman can suffer quite as much -as a serious one—which is a truth not generally recognized. She put her -arm round her sister’s neck very gently, and pressed the fair head to -her bosom, as she stood beside her.</p> - -<p>“I’m not better than you, Charlie—I’m different, that’s all. Poor dear! -Of course you suffer!”</p> - -<p>“Dear!” And Charlotte rubbed her smooth cheek affectionately against the -rough grey woollen of her sister’s frock.<a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> rain continued to fall, and even if the weather had changed it would -have been too late for Katharine to go and see Robert Lauderdale after -her sister had left her. On the whole, she thought, it would probably -have been a mistake to speak to him beforehand. She had felt a strong -temptation to do so, but it had not been the part of wisdom. She waited -for Ralston’s note.</p> - -<p>At last it came. It was short and clear. He had, with great difficulty, -found a clergyman who was willing to marry them, and who would perform -the ceremony on the following morning at half-past nine o’clock. The -clergyman had only consented on Ralston’s strong representations, and on -the distinct understanding that there was to be no unnecessary secrecy -after the fact, and that the couple should solemnly promise to inform -their parents of what they had done at the earliest moment consistent -with their welfare. Ralston had written out his very words in regard to -that matter, for he liked them, and felt that Katharine should.</p> - -<p>John had been fortunate in his search, for he<a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a> had accidentally come -upon a man whose own life had been marred by the opposition of a young -girl’s family to her marriage with him. He himself had in consequence -never married; the young girl had taken a husband and had been a most -unhappy woman. He sympathized with Ralston, liked his face, and agreed -to marry Ralston and Katharine immediately. His church lay in a distant -part of the city, and he had nothing to do with society, and therefore -nothing to fear from it. If trouble arose he was justified beforehand by -the fact that no clergyman has an absolute right to refuse marriage to -those who ask it, and by the thought that he was contributing to -happiness of the kind which he himself had most desired, but which had -been withheld from him under just such circumstances as those in which -Ralston and Katharine were placed. The good man admired, too, the wisdom -of the course they were taking. When he had said that he would consider -the matter favourably, provided that there was no legal obstacle, -Ralston had told him the whole truth, and had explained exactly what -Katharine and he intended to do. Of course, he had to explain the -relationship which existed between them and old Robert Lauderdale, and -the clergyman, to Ralston’s considerable surprise, took Katharine’s view -of the possibilities. He only insisted that the plan should be -conscientiously carried out as soon as might be, and that Katharine<a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a> -should therefore go, in the course of the same day, and tell her story -to Mr. Robert Lauderdale. Ralston made no difficulty about that, and -agreed to be at the door of the clergyman’s house on the following -morning at half-past nine. The latter would open the church himself. It -was very improbable that any one should see them at that hour, and in -that distant part of the city.</p> - -<p>There is no necessity for entering upon a defence of the clergyman’s -action in the affair. It was a case, not of right or wrong, nor of doing -anything irregular, but possibly excusable. Theoretically, it was his -duty to comply with Ralston’s request. In practice, it was a matter of -judgment and of choice, since if he had flatly refused, as several -others had done without so much as knowing the names of the parties, -Ralston would certainly have found it out of the question to force his -consent. He believed that he was doing right, he wished to do what was -kind, and he knew that he was acting legally and that the law must -support him. He ran the risk of offending his own congregation if the -story got abroad, but he remembered his own youth and he cheerfully took -that risk. He would not have done as much for any two who might have -chanced to present themselves, however. But Ralston impressed him as a -man of honour, a gentleman and very truthful, and there was just enough -of socialistic tendency<a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a> in the good man, as the pastor of a very poor -congregation, to enjoy the idea that the rich man should be forced, as a -matter of common decency, to do something for his less fortunate -relation. With his own life and experience behind him, he could not -possibly have seen things as Robert Lauderdale saw them.</p> - -<p>So the matter was settled, and Katharine had Ralston’s note. He added -that he would be in Clinton Place at half-past eight o’clock in the -morning, on foot. They might be seen walking together at almost any -hour, by right of cousinship, but to appear together in a carriage, -especially at such an hour, was out of the question.</p> - -<p>It would have been unlike her to hesitate now. She had made up her mind -long before she had spoken to Ralston on Monday evening, and there was -nothing new to her in the idea. But she could not help wondering about -the future, as she had been doing when Charlotte Slayback had -unexpectedly appeared in the afternoon. Meanwhile the evening was before -her. She was going to a dinner-party of young people and afterwards to -the dance at the Thirlwalls’, of which she had spoken to Ralston. He -would be there, but would not be at the dinner, as she knew. At the -latter there were to be two young married women who were to chaperon the -young girls to the other house afterwards.<a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a></p> - -<p>At eight o’clock Katharine sat down to table between two typical, -fashion-struck youths, one of whom took more champagne than was good for -him, and talked to her of college sports and football matches in which -he had not taken part, but which excited his enthusiasm, while the other -drank water, and asked if she preferred Schopenhauer or Hegel. Of the -two, she preferred the critic of athletics. But the dinner seemed a very -long one to Katharine, though it was really of the short and fashionable -type.</p> - -<p>Then came another girls’ talk while the young men smoked furiously -together in another room. The two married women managed to get into a -corner, and told each other long stories in whispers, while the young -girls, who were afraid of romping and playing games because they were in -their ball-dresses, amused themselves as they could, with a good deal of -highly slangy but perfectly harmless chaff, and an occasional attempt at -a little music. As all the young men smoked the very longest and -strongest cigars, because they had all been told that cigarettes were -deadly, it was nearly ten o’clock when they came into the drawing-room. -They were all extremely well behaved young fellows, and the one who had -talked about athletics to Katharine was the only one who was a little -too pink. The dance was an early affair, and in a few moments the whole -party<a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a> began to get ready to go. They transferred themselves from one -house to another in big carriages, and all arrived within a short time -of one another.</p> - -<p>Ralston was in the room when Katharine entered, and she saw instantly -that he had been waiting for her and expected a sign at once. She smiled -and nodded to him from a distance, for he had far too much tact to make -a rush at her as soon as she appeared. It was not until half an hour -later that they found themselves together in the crowded entrance hall, -and Ralston assured himself more particularly that everything was as she -wished it to be.</p> - -<p>“So to-morrow is our wedding day,” he said, looking at her face. Like -most dark beauties, she looked her best in the evening.</p> - -<p>“Yes—it’s to-morrow, Jack. You are glad, aren’t you?” she asked, -repeating almost exactly the last words she had spoken that morning as -he had left her at the door of the Crowdies’ house.</p> - -<p>“Do you doubt that I’m as glad as you are?” asked Ralston, earnestly. -“I’ve waited for you a long time—all my life, it seems to me.”</p> - -<p>“Have you?”</p> - -<p>Her grey eyes turned full upon him as she put the question, which -evidently meant more to her than the mere words implied. He paused -before answering her, with an over-scrupulous caution, the result of her -own earnestness.<a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a></p> - -<p>“Why do you hesitate?” she asked, suddenly. “Didn’t you mean exactly -what you said?”</p> - -<p>“I said it seemed to me as though I had waited all my life,” he -answered. “I wanted to be—well—accurate!” He laughed a little. “I am -trying to remember whether I had ever cared in the least for any one -else.”</p> - -<p>Katharine laughed too. He sometimes had an almost boyish simplicity -about him which pleased her immensely.</p> - -<p>“If it takes such an effort of memory, it can’t have been very serious,” -she said. “I’m not jealous. I only wish to know that you are.”</p> - -<p>“I love you with all my heart,” he answered, with emphasis.</p> - -<p>“I know you do, Jack dear,” said Katharine, and a short silence -followed.</p> - -<p>She was thinking that this was the third time they had met since Monday -evening, and that she had not heard again that deep vibration, that -heart-stirring quaver, in his words, which had touched her that first -time as she had never been touched before. She did not analyze her own -desire for it in the least, any more than she doubted the sincerity of -his words because they were spoken quietly. She had heard it once and -she wanted to hear it again, for the mere momentary satisfaction of the -impression.</p> - -<p>But Ralston was very calm that evening. He<a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a> had been extremely careful -of what he did since Monday afternoon, for he had suffered acutely when -his mother had first met him on the landing, and he was determined that -nothing of the sort should happen again. The excitement, too, of -arranging his sudden marriage had taken the place of all artificial -emotions during the last forty-eight hours. His nerves were young and -could bear the strain of sudden excess and equally sudden abstention -without troubling him with any physical distress. And this fact easily -made him too sure of himself. To a certain extent he was cynical about -his taste for strong drink. He said to himself quite frankly that he -wanted excitement and cared very little for the form in which he got it. -He should have preferred a life of adventure and danger. He would have -made a good soldier in war and a bad one in peace—a safe sailor in -stormy weather and a dangerous one in a calm. That, at least, was what -he believed, and there was a foundation of truth in it, for he was -sensible enough to tell himself the truth about himself so far as he was -able.</p> - -<p>On the evening of the dance at which he met Katharine he had dined at -home again. His mother was far too wise to ask many questions about his -comings and goings when he was with her, and it was quite natural that -he should not tell her how he had spent his day. He wished that he were -free to tell her everything, however,<a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a> and to ask her advice. She was -eminently a woman of the world, though of the more serious type, and he -knew that her wisdom was great in matters social. For the rest, she had -always approved of his attachment for Katharine, whom she liked best of -all the family, and she intended that, if possible, her son should marry -the young girl before very long. With her temper and inherited impulses -it was not likely that she should blame Ralston for any honourable piece -of rashness. Having once been convinced that there was nothing underhand -or in the least unfair to anybody in what he was doing, Ralston had not -the slightest fear of the consequences. The only men of the family whom -he considered men were Katharine’s father and Hamilton Bright. The -latter could have nothing to say in the matter, and Ralston knew that -his friendship could be counted on. As for Alexander Junior, John looked -forward with delight to the scene which must take place, for he was a -born fighter, and quarrelsome besides. He would be in a position to tell -Mr. Lauderdale that neither righteous wrath nor violent words could undo -what had been done properly, decently and in order, under legal -authority, and by religious ceremony. Alexander Junior’s face would be a -study at that moment, and Ralston hoped that the hour of triumph might -not be far distant.</p> - -<p>“I wonder whether it seems sudden to you,” said<a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a> Katharine, presently. -“It doesn’t to me. You and I had thought about it ever so long.”</p> - -<p>“Long before you spoke to me on Monday?” asked John. “I thought it had -just struck you then.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed! I began to think of it last year—soon after you had seen -papa. One doesn’t come to such conclusions suddenly, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Some people do. Of course, I might have seen that you had thought it -all out, from the way you spoke. But you took me by surprise.”</p> - -<p>“I know I did. But I had gone over it again and again. It’s not a light -matter, Jack. I’m putting my whole life into your hands because I love -you. I shan’t regret it—I know that. No—you needn’t protest, dear. I -know what I’m doing very well, but I don’t mean to magnify it into -anything heroic. I’m not the sort of girl to make a heroine, for I’m far -too sensible and practical. But it’s practical to run risks sometimes.”</p> - -<p>“It depends on the risk, I suppose,” said Ralston. “Many people would -tell you that I’m not a safe person to—”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense! I didn’t mean that,” interrupted the young girl. “If you were -a milksop, trotting along at your mother’s apron strings, I wouldn’t -look at you. Indeed, I wouldn’t! I know you’re rather fast, and I like -it in you. There was a little boy next to me at dinner this evening—a -dear<a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a> little pale-faced thing, who talked to me about Schopenhauer and -Hegel, and drank five glasses of Apollinaris—I counted them. There are -lots of them about nowadays—all the fittest having survived, it’s the -turn of the unfit, I suppose. But I wouldn’t have you one little tiny -bit better than you are. You don’t gamble, and you don’t drink, and -you’re merely supposed to be fast because you’re not a bore.”</p> - -<p>Ralston was silent, and his face turned a little pale. A violent -struggle arose in his thoughts, all at once, without the slightest -warning nor even the previous suspicion that it could ever arise at all.</p> - -<p>“That’s not the risk,” continued Katharine. “Oh, no! And perhaps what I -mean isn’t such a very great risk after all. I don’t believe there is -any, myself—but I suppose other people might. It’s that uncle Robert -might not, after all—oh, well! We won’t talk about such things. If one -only takes enough for granted, one is sure to get something in the end. -That isn’t exactly Schopenhauer, is it? But it’s good philosophy.”</p> - -<p>Katharine laughed happily and looked at him. But his face was unusually -grave, and he would not laugh.</p> - -<p>“It’s too absurd that I should be telling you to take courage and be -cheerful, Jack!” she said, a moment later. “I feel as though you were -reproaching me with not being serious enough for<a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a> the occasion. That -isn’t fair. And it is serious—it is, indeed.” Her tone changed. “I’m -putting my very life into your hands, dear, as I told you, because I -trust you. What’s the matter, Jack? You seem to be thinking—”</p> - -<p>“I am,” answered Ralston, rather gloomily. “I was thinking about -something very, very important.”</p> - -<p>“May I know?” asked Katharine, gently. “Is it anything you should like -me to know—or to ask me about, before to-morrow?”</p> - -<p>“To-morrow!” Ralston repeated the word in a low voice, as though he were -meditating upon its meaning.</p> - -<p>They were seated on a narrow little sofa against the lower woodwork of -the carved staircase. The hall was crowded with young people coming and -going between the other rooms. Katharine was leaning back, her head -supported against the dark panel, her eyes apparently half closed—for -she was looking down at him as he bent forward. He held one elbow on his -knee and his chin rested in his hand, as he looked up sideways at her.</p> - -<p>“Katharine”—he began, and then stopped suddenly, and she saw now that -he was turning very pale, as though in fear or pain.</p> - -<p>“Yes?” She paused. “What is it, Jack dear? There’s something on your -mind—are you afraid to tell me? Or aren’t you sure that you should?”<a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a></p> - -<p>“I’m afraid,” said Ralston. “And so I’m going to do it,” he added a -moment later. “Did you ever hear that I was what they call dissipated?”</p> - -<p>“Is that it?” Katharine laughed, almost carelessly. “No, I never heard -that said of you. People say you’re fast, and rather wild—and all that. -I told you what I thought of that—I like it in you. Perhaps it isn’t -right, exactly, to like a dash of naughtiness—is it?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” answered Ralston, evidently not comprehending the -question, but intent upon his own thoughts. In the short pause which -followed he did not change his position, but the veins swelled in his -temples, and his eyelids drooped a little when he spoke again. -“Katharine—I sometimes drink too much.”</p> - -<p>Katharine trembled a little, but he did not see it. For some seconds she -did not move, and did not take her eyes from him. Then she very slowly -raised her hand and passed it over her brow, as though she were -confused, and presently she bent forward, as he was bending, resting one -elbow on her knee and looking earnestly into his face.</p> - -<p>“Why do you do it, Jack? Don’t you love me?” She asked the two questions -slowly and distinctly, but in the one there was all her pity—in the -other all her love.</p> - -<p>Again, as more than once lately, Ralston was almost irresistibly -impelled to make a promise,<a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a> simple and decisive, which should change -his life, and which at all costs and risks he would keep. The impulse -was stronger now, with Katharine’s eyes upon his, and her happiness on -his soul, than it had been before. But the arguments for resisting it -were also stronger. He was calm enough to know the magnitude of his -temptations and his habitual weakness in resisting them. He said -nothing.</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you answer me, dear?” Katharine asked softly. “They were not -hard questions, were they?”</p> - -<p>“You know that I love you,” he answered—then hesitated, and then went -on. “If I did not love you, I should not have told you. Do you believe -that?”</p> - -<p>He guessed that she only half realized and half understood all the -meaning of what he had said. He had no thought of gaining credit in her -opinion for having done what very few men would have risked in his -position. The wish to speak had come from the heart, not from the head. -But he had not foreseen that it must appear very easy to her for him to -overcome a temptation which seemed insignificant in her eyes, compared -with a life’s happiness.</p> - -<p>“Yes—I know that,” she answered. “But, Jack dear—yes, it was brave and -honest of you—but you don’t think I expected a confession, do<a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a> you? I -daresay you have done many things that weren’t exactly wrong and that -were not at all dishonourable, but which you shouldn’t like to tell me. -Haven’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I have. Every man has, by the time he’s five and twenty—lots -of things.”</p> - -<p>“Well—but now, Jack—now, when we are married, you won’t do such -things—whatever they may be—any more—will you?”</p> - -<p>“That’s it—I don’t know,” answered Ralston, determined to be honest to -the very end, with all his might, in spite of everything.</p> - -<p>“You don’t know?” As Katharine repeated the words her face changed in a -way that shocked him, and he almost started as he saw her expression.</p> - -<p>“No,” he answered, steadily enough. “I don’t—in regard to what I spoke -of. For other things, for anything else in the world that you ask me, I -can promise, and feel sure. But that one thing—it comes on me -sometimes, and it gets the better of me. I know—it’s weak—it’s -contemptible, it’s brutal, if you like. But I can’t help it, every time. -Of course you can’t understand. Nobody can, who hasn’t felt it.”</p> - -<p>“But, Jack—if you promised me that you wouldn’t?”</p> - -<p>Her face changed again, and softened, and her voice expressed the -absolute conviction that he<a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a> would and could do anything which he had -given his word that he would do. That perfect belief is more flattering -than almost anything else to some men.</p> - -<p>“Katharine—I can’t!” Ralston shook his head. “I won’t give you a -promise which I might break. If I broke it, I should—you wouldn’t see -me any more after that. I’ll promise that I’ll try, and perhaps I shall -succeed. I can’t do more—indeed, I can’t.”</p> - -<p>“Not for me, Jack dear?” Her whole heart was in her voice, pleading, -pathetic, maidenly.</p> - -<p>“Don’t ask me like that. You don’t know what you’re asking. You’ll make -me—no, I won’t say that. But please don’t—”</p> - -<p>Once more Katharine’s expression changed. Her face was quite white, and -her grey eyes were light and had a cold flash in them. The small, angry -frown that came and went quickly when she was annoyed, seemed chiselled -upon the smooth forehead. Ralston’s head was bent down and his hand -shaded his eyes.</p> - -<p>“And you made me think you loved me,” said Katharine, slowly, in a very -low voice.</p> - -<p>“I do—”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say it again. I don’t want to hear it. It means nothing, now that -I know—it never can mean anything again. No—you needn’t come with me. -I’ll go alone.”<a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a></p> - -<p>She rose suddenly to her feet, overcome by one of those sudden -revulsions of the deepest feelings in her nature, to which strong people -are subject at very critical moments, and which generally determine -their lives for them, and sometimes the lives of others. She rose to -leave him with a woman’s magnificent indifference when her heart speaks -out, casting all considerations, all details, all questions of future -relation to the winds, or to the accident of a chance meeting at some -indefinite date.</p> - -<p>There were many people in the hall just then. A dance was beginning, and -the crowd was pouring in so swiftly that for a moment the young girl -stood still, close to Ralston, unable to move. He did not rise, but -remained seated, hidden by her and by the throng. He seized her hand -suddenly, as it hung by her side. No one could have noticed the action -in the press.</p> - -<p>“Katharine—” he cried, in a low, imploring tone.</p> - -<p>She drew her hand away instantly. He remembered afterwards that it had -felt cold through her glove. He heard her voice, and, looking past her, -saw Crowdie’s pale face and red mouth—and met Crowdie’s languorous -eyes, gazing at him.</p> - -<p>“I want to go somewhere else, Mr. Crowdie,” Katharine was saying. “I’ve -been in a draught, and I’m cold.”</p> - -<p>Crowdie gave her his arm, and they moved on<a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a> with the rest. Ralston had -risen to his feet as soon as he saw that Crowdie had caught sight of -him, and stood looking at the pair. His face was drawn and tired, and -his eyes were rather wild.</p> - -<p>His first impulse was to get out of the house, and be alone, as soon as -he could, and he began to make his way through the crowd to a small room -by the door, where the men had left their coats. But, before he had -succeeded in reaching the place, he changed his mind. It looked too much -like running away. He allowed himself to be wedged into a corner, and -stood still, watching the people absently, and thinking over what had -occurred.</p> - -<p>In the first place, he wondered whether Katharine had meant as much as -her speech and action implied—in other words, whether she intended to -let him know that everything was altogether at an end between them. It -seemed almost out of the question. After all, he had spoken because he -felt that it was a duty to her. He was, indeed, profoundly hurt by her -behaviour. If she meant to break off everything so suddenly, she might -have done it more kindly. She had been furiously angry because he would -not promise an impossibility. It was true that she could not understand. -He loved her so much, even then, that he made excuses for her conduct, -and set up arguments in her favour.<a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a></p> - -<p>Was it an impossibility, after all? He stood still in his corner, and -thought the matter over. As he considered it, he deliberately called the -temptation to him to examine it. And it came, in its full force. Men who -have not felt it no more know what it means than Katharine Lauderdale -knew, when she accused John Ralston of not loving her, and left him, -apparently forever, because he would not promise never to yield to it -again.</p> - -<p>During forty-eight hours he had scarcely tasted anything stronger than a -cup of coffee, for the occurrence of Monday had produced a deep -impression on him—and this was Wednesday night. For several years he -had been used to drinking whatever he pleased, during the day, merely -exercising enough self-control to keep out of women’s society when he -had taken more than was good for him, and enough discretion in the -matter of hours to avoid meeting his mother when he was not quite -himself. There are not so many men in polite society who regulate their -lives on such principles as there used to be, but there are many still. -Men know, and keep the matter to themselves. Insensibly, of course, John -Ralston had grown more or less dependent on a certain amount of -something to drink every day, and he had very rarely been really -abstemious for so long a time as during the last two days. He had lived, -too, in a state of<a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a> considerable anxiety, and had scarcely noticed the -absence of artificial excitement. But now, with the scene of the last -quarter of an hour, the reaction had come. He had received a violent -shock, and his head clamoured for its accustomed remedy against all -nervous disturbances. Then, too, he was very thirsty. He honestly -disliked the taste of water—as his father had hated it before him—and -he had not really drunk enough of it. He was more thirsty than he had -been when he had swallowed a pint of champagne at a draught on Monday -afternoon. That, to tell the truth, was the precise form in which the -temptation presented itself to him at the present moment. It was -painfully distinct. He knew that the Thirlwalls, in whose house he was, -always had Irroy Brut, which chanced to be the best dry wine that year, -and he knew that he had only to follow the crowd to the supper room and -swallow as much of it as he desired. Everybody was drinking it. He could -hear the glasses faintly ringing in the distance, as he stood in his -corner. He let the temptation come to see how strong it would be.</p> - -<p>It was frightfully vivid, as he let the picture rise before his eyes. He -was now actually in physical pain from thirst. He could see clearly the -tall pint-glass, foaming and sparkling with the ice-cold, pale wine. He -could hear the delicious little hiss of the tiny bubbles as thousands -of<a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a> them shot to the surface. He could smell the aromatic essence of the -lemon peel as the brim seemed to come beneath his nostrils. He could -feel the exquisite sharp tingle, the inexpressible stinging delight of -the perfect liquid, all through his mouth, to his very throat—just as -he had seen and smelt and tasted it all on Monday afternoon, and a -thousand times before that—but not since then.</p> - -<p>It became intolerable, or almost intolerable, but still he bore it, with -that curious pleasure in the pain of it which some people are able to -feel in self-imposed suffering. Then he opened his eyes wide, and tried -to drive it away.</p> - -<p>But that was not so easy. That diabolical clinking and ringing of -distant glasses, away, far away, as it seemed, but high and distinct -above the hum of voices, tortured him, and drew him towards it. His -mouth and throat were actually parched now. It was no longer -imagination. And now, too, the crowd had thinned, and as he looked he -saw that it would be very easy for him to get to the supper room.</p> - -<p>After all, he thought, it was a perfectly legitimate craving. He was -excessively thirsty, and he wanted a glass of champagne. He knew very -well that in such a place he should not take more than one glass, and -that could not hurt him. Did he ever drink when there were women -present, in the<a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a> sense of drinking too much? On Monday the accident had -made a difference. Surely, as he had often heard, the manly course was -to limit himself to what he needed, and not go beyond it. All those -other people did that—why should not he? What was the difference -between them and him? How the thirst burned him, and the ring of the -glasses tortured him!</p> - -<p>He moved a step from the corner, in the direction of the door, fully -intending to have his glass of wine. Then something seemed to snap -suddenly over his heart, with a sharp little pain.</p> - -<p>“I’ll be damned if I do,” said Ralston, almost audibly.</p> - -<p>And he went back to his corner, and tried to think of something else.<a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Crowdie’s</span> artistic temperament was as quick as a child’s to understand -the moods of others, and he saw at a glance that something serious had -happened to Katharine. He had not the amateur’s persistent desire to -feel himself an artist at every moment. On the contrary, he had far more -of the genuine artist’s wish to feel himself a man of the world when he -was not at his work. What he saw impressed itself upon his accurate and -retentive memory for form and colour, but he was not always studying -every face he met, and thinking of painting it. He was fond of trying to -read character, and prided himself upon his penetration, which was by no -means great. It is a common peculiarity of highly gifted persons to -delight in exhibiting a small talent which seems to them to be their -greatest, though unappreciated by the world. Goethe thought himself a -painter. Michelangelo believed himself a poet. Crowdie, a modern artist -of reputation, was undoubtedly a good musician as well, but in his own -estimation his greatest gift was his knowledge of men. Yet in this he -was profoundly mistaken. Though his reasoning was often as clear<a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a> as his -deductions were astute, he placed the centre of human impulses too low, -for he judged others by himself, which is an unsafe standard for men who -differ much from the average of their fellow-men. He mistook his -quickness of perception for penetration, and the heart of men and things -escaped him.</p> - -<p>He looked at Katharine and saw that she was very angry. He had caught -sight of Ralston’s face, and he supposed that the latter had been -drinking. He concluded that Ralston had offended Katharine, and that -there was to be a serious quarrel. Katharine, too, had evidently been in -the greatest haste to get away, and had spoken to Crowdie and taken his -arm merely because of the men she knew he had been nearest to her in the -crowd. The painter congratulated himself upon his good fortune in -appearing at that moment.</p> - -<p>“Will you have some supper?” he asked, guiding his companion toward the -door.</p> - -<p>“It’s too early—thanks,” answered the young girl, almost absently. “I’d -rather dance, if you don’t mind,” she added, after a moment.</p> - -<p>“Of course!” And he directed his course towards the dancing room.</p> - -<p>In spite of his bad figure, Crowdie danced very well. He was very light -on his feet, very skilful and careful of his partner, and, strange to -say, very enduring. Katharine let herself go on his arm,<a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a> and they -glided and swayed and backed and turned to the right and left to the -soft music. For a time she had altogether forgotten her strong antipathy -for him. Indeed, she had almost forgotten his existence. Momentarily, he -was a nonentity, except as a means of motion.</p> - -<p>As she moved the colour slowly came back to her pale face, the frown -disappeared and the cold fire in her eyes died away. She also danced -well and was proud of it, though she was far from being equal to her -mother, even now. With Katharine it was an amusement; with Mrs. -Lauderdale it was still a passion. But now she did not care to stop, and -went on and on, till Crowdie began to wonder whether she were not -falling into a dreamy and half-conscious state, like that of the Eastern -dervishes.</p> - -<p>“Aren’t you tired?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“No—go on!” she answered, without hesitation.</p> - -<p>He obeyed, and they continued to dance till many couples stopped to look -at them, and see how long they would keep it up. Even the musicians -became interested, and went on playing mechanically, their eyes upon the -couple. At last they were dancing quite alone. As soon as the young girl -saw that she was an object of curiosity, she stopped.</p> - -<p>“Come away!” she said quickly. “I didn’t realize that they were all -looking at us—it was so nice.”<a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a></p> - -<p>It was not without a certain degree of vanity that Crowdie at last led -her out of the room. He remembered her behaviour to him that morning and -on former occasions, and he thought that he had gained a signal success. -It was not possible, he thought, that if he were still as repulsive to -her as he undoubtedly had been, she should be willing to let him dance -with her so long. Dancing meant much to him.</p> - -<p>“Shall we sit down somewhere?” he asked, as they got away from the crowd -into a room beyond.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—if there’s a place anywhere. Anything!” She spoke carelessly -and absently still.</p> - -<p>They found two chairs a little removed from the rest, and sat down side -by side.</p> - -<p>“Miss Lauderdale,” said Crowdie, after a momentary pause, “I wish you’d -let me ask you a question. Will you?”</p> - -<p>“If it’s not a rude one,” answered Katharine, indifferently, and -scarcely looking at him. “What is it?”</p> - -<p>“Well—you know—we’re relations, or connections, at least. Hester is -your cousin, and she’s your most intimate friend. Isn’t she?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. Is it about her? There she is, just over there—talking to that -ugly, thin man with the nice face. Do you see her?”</p> - -<p>Crowdie looked in the direction indicated, though he did not in the -least wish to talk about his wife to Katharine.<a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a></p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; I see her,” he answered. “She’s talking to Paul Griggs, the -writer. You know him, don’t you? I wonder how he comes here!”</p> - -<p>“Is that Paul Griggs?” asked Katharine, with a show of interest. “I’ve -always wished to see him.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. But it has nothing to do with Hester—”</p> - -<p>“What has nothing to do with Hester?” asked Katharine, with despairing -absence of mind, as she watched the author’s face.</p> - -<p>“The question I was going to ask you—if you would let me.”</p> - -<p>Katharine turned towards him. He could produce extraordinarily soft -effects with his beautiful voice when he chose, and he had determined to -attract her attention just then, seeing that she was by no means -inclined to give it.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—the question,” she said. “Is it anything very painful? You -spoke—how shall I say?—in such a pathetic tone of voice.”</p> - -<p>“In a way—yes,” answered Crowdie, not at all disturbed by her manner. -“Painful is too strong a word, perhaps—but it’s something that makes me -very uncomfortable. It’s this—why do you dislike me so much? Or don’t -you know why?”</p> - -<p>Katharine paused a moment, being surprised by what he asked. She had no -answer ready, for she could not tell him that she disliked his white -face and scarlet lips and the soft sweep of his eyelashes.<a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a> She took -refuge in her woman’s right to parry one question with another.</p> - -<p>“What makes you think I dislike you?” she enquired.</p> - -<p>“Oh—a thousand things—”</p> - -<p>“I’m very sorry there are so many!” She laughed good-humouredly, but -with the intention of turning the conversation if possible.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Crowdie, gravely. “You don’t like me, for some reason which -seems a good one to you. I’m sure of that, because I know that you’re -not capricious nor unreasonable by nature. I should care, in any -case—even if we were casual acquaintances in society, and only met -occasionally. Nobody could be quite indifferent to your dislike, Miss -Lauderdale.”</p> - -<p>“No? Why not? I’m sure a great many people are. And as for that, I’m not -so reasonable as you think, I daresay. I’m sorry you think I don’t like -you.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think—I know it. No—please! Let me tell you what I was going -to say. We’re not mere ordinary acquaintances, though I don’t in the -least hope ever to be a friend of yours, exactly. You see—owing to -Hester—and on account of the portrait, just now—I’m thrown a good deal -in your way. I can’t help it. I don’t want to give up painting you—”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t wish you to! I’ll come every day, if you like—every day I -can.”<a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a></p> - -<p>“Yes; you’re very good about it. It’s just because you are, that I’m -more sensitive about your dislike, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“But, my dear Mr. Crowdie, how—”</p> - -<p>“My dear Miss Lauderdale, I’m positively repulsive to you. You can’t -deny it really, though you’ll put it much more gently. To-day, when I -wanted to help you to take off your hat, you started and changed -colour—just as though you had touched a snake. I know that those things -are instinctive, of course. I only want you to tell me if you have any -reason—beyond a mere uncontrollable physical repulsion. There’s no -other way of putting it, I’m afraid. I mean, whether I’ve ever done -anything to make you hate the sight of me—”</p> - -<p>“You? Never. On the contrary, you’re always very kind, and nice in every -way. I wish you would put it out of your head—the whole idea—and talk -about something else. No, honestly, I’ve nothing against you, and I -never heard anything against you. And I’m really very much distressed -that I should have given you any such impression. Isn’t that the answer -to your question?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—in a way. It reduces itself to this—if you never looked at me, -and never heard my voice, you wouldn’t hate me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—your voice—no!” The words escaped her involuntarily, and conveyed -a wrong impression; for though she meant that his voice was<a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a> beautiful, -she knew that its mere beauty sometimes repelled her as much as his -appearance did.</p> - -<p>“Then it’s only my looks,” he said with a laugh. “Thanks! I’m quite -satisfied now, and I quite agree with you in that. You noticed to-day -that there were no mirrors in the studio.” He laughed again quite -naturally.</p> - -<p>“Really!” exclaimed Katharine, as a sort of final protest, and taking -the earliest opportunity of escaping from the difficult situation he had -created. “I wish you would tell me something about Mr. Griggs, since you -know him. I’ve been watching him—he has such a curious face!”</p> - -<p>“Paul Griggs? Oh, yes—he’s a curious creature altogether.” And Crowdie -began to talk about the man.</p> - -<p>Katharine was in reality perfectly indifferent, and followed her own -train of thought while Crowdie made himself as agreeable as he could, -considering that he was conscious of her inattention. He would have been -surprised had he known that she was thinking about him.</p> - -<p>Since Hester had told her the story of his strange illness, Katharine -could not be near him without remembering her cousin’s vivid description -of his appearance and condition during the attack. It was but a step -from such a picture to the question of the morphia and Crowdie’s story, -and one step further brought the comparison between<a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a> slavery to one form -of excitement and slavery to another; in other words, between John -Ralston and the painter, and then between Hester’s love for Crowdie and -Katharine’s for her cousin. But at this point the divergence began. -Crowdie, who looked weak, effeminate and anything but manly, had found -courage and strength to overcome a habit which was said to be almost -unconquerable. Katharine would certainly never have guessed that he had -such a strong will, but Hester had told her all about it, and there -seemed to be no other explanation of the facts. And Ralston, with his -determined expression and all his apparently hardy manliness, had -distinctly told her that he did not feel sure of keeping a promise, even -for the sake of her love. It seemed incredible. She would have given -anything to be able to ask Crowdie questions about his life, but that -was impossible, under the circumstances. He might never forgive his wife -for having told his secret.</p> - -<p>Her sudden and violent anger had subsided, and she already regretted -what she had said and done with Ralston. Indeed, she found it hard to -understand how she could have been so cruelly unkind, all in a moment, -when she had hardly found time to realize the meaning of what he had -told her. Another consideration and another question presented -themselves now, as she remembered and recapitulated the circumstances of -the scene. For<a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a> the first time she realized the man’s loyalty in -thrusting his shortcomings under her eyes before the final step was -taken. It must have been a terrible struggle for him, she thought. And -if he was brave enough to do such a thing as that,—to tell the truth to -her, and the story of his shameful weakness,—what must that temptation -be which even he was not brave enough to resist? No doubt, he did resist -it often, she thought, and could do so in the future, though he said -that he could not be sure of himself. He was so brave and manly. Yet it -was horrible to think of him in connection with something which appeared -to be unspeakably disgusting in her eyes.</p> - -<p>The vice was one which she could not understand. Few women can; and it -would be strange, indeed, if any young girl could. She had seen drunken -men in the streets many times, but that was almost all she knew of it. -Occasionally, but by no means often, she had seen a man in society who -had too much colour, or was unnaturally pale, and talked rather wildly, -and people said that he had taken too much wine—and generally laughed. -Such a man was making himself ridiculous, she thought, but she -established no connection between him and the poor wretch reeling blind -drunk out of a liquor shop, who was pointed out to her by her father as -an awful example. She had even seen a man once who was lying perfectly -helpless in<a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a> the gutter, while a policeman kicked him to make him get -up—and it had made a strong impression upon her. She remembered -distinctly his swollen face, his bloodshot blue eyes and his filthy -clothes—all disgusting enough.</p> - -<p>That was the picture which rose before her eyes when John Ralston, -putting his case more strongly than was necessary in order to clear his -conscience altogether, had told her that he could not promise to give up -a bad habit for her sake. In the first moment she had thought merely of -the man in society who behaved a little foolishly and talked too loud, -but Ralston’s earnest manner had immediately evoked the recollection of -her father’s occasional discourses upon what he called the besetting sin -of the lower classes in America, and had vividly recalled therewith the -face of the besotted wretch in the gutter. She knew of no intermediate -stage. To be a slave to drink meant that and nothing else. The society -man whom she took as an example was not a slave to drink; he was merely -foolish and imprudent, and might get into trouble. To think of marrying -a man who had lain in the gutter, half blind with liquor, to be kicked -by a policeman, was more than she could bear. The inevitable comic side -to things is rarely discernible to those brought most closely into -connection with them. It was not only serious to Katharine; it was -horrible, repulsive, sickening.<a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a> It was no wonder that she had sprung -from her seat and turned her back on Ralston, and that she had done the -first thing which presented itself as a means of distracting her -thoughts.</p> - -<p>But now, matters began to look differently to her calmer judgment. It -was absurd to think that Ralston should make a mountain of a mole-hill, -and speak as he had spoken of himself, if he only meant that he now and -then took a glass of champagne more than was good for him. Besides, if -he did it habitually, she must have seen him now and then behaving like -her typical young gentleman, and making a fool of himself. But she had -never noticed anything of the kind. On the other hand, she could not -believe that he could ever, under any circumstances, turn into the kind -of creature who had been held up to her as an example of the habitual -drunkard. There must be something between the two, she felt sure, -something which she could not understand. She would find out. And she -must see John again, before she left the dance. Her eyes began to look -for him in the crowd.</p> - -<p>There are times when the processes of a girl’s mind are primitive in -their simplicity. Katharine suddenly remembered hearing that men drank -out of despair. She had seen Ralston’s face when she had risen and left -him, and it had certainly expressed despair very strongly. Perhaps he -had<a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a> gone at once to drown his cares—that was the expression she had -heard—and it would be her fault.</p> - -<p>Such a sequence of ideas looks childish in this age of profound -psychological analysis, but it is just such reasoning which sometimes -affects people most when their hearts are touched. We have all thought -and done very childish things at times.</p> - -<p>Katharine forgot all about Crowdie and what he was saying. She had given -a sort of social, mechanical attention to his talk, nodding -intelligently from time to time, and answering by vague monosyllables, -or with even more vague questions. Crowdie had the sense to understand -that she did not mean to be rude, and that her mind was wholly -absorbed—most probably with what had taken place between her and -Ralston a quarter of an hour earlier. He talked on patiently, since he -could do nothing else, but he was not at all surprised when she at last -interrupted him.</p> - -<p>“Would you mind looking to see if my cousin—Jack Ralston, you know,—is -still in the hall?” she asked, without ceremony.</p> - -<p>“Certainly,” said Crowdie, rising. “Shall I tell him you want him, if -he’s there?”</p> - -<p>“Do, please. It’s awfully good of you, Mr. Crowdie,” she added, with a -preoccupied smile.</p> - -<p>Crowdie dived into the crowd, looking about<a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a> him in every direction, and -then making his way straight to Ralston, who had not left his corner.</p> - -<p>“Miss Lauderdale wants to speak to you, Ralston,” said the painter, as -he reached him. “Hallo! What’s the matter? You look ill.”</p> - -<p>“I? Not a bit!” answered Ralston. “It’s the heat, I suppose. Where is -Miss Lauderdale?” He spoke in a curiously constrained tone.</p> - -<p>“I’ll take you to her—come along!”</p> - -<p>The two moved away together, Ralston following Crowdie through the -press. Through the open door of the boudoir Ralston saw Katharine’s eyes -looking for him.</p> - -<p>“All right,” he said to Crowdie, “I see her. Don’t bother.”</p> - -<p>“Over there in the low chair by the plants,” answered the painter, in -unnecessary explanation.</p> - -<p>“All right,” said Ralston again, and he pushed past Crowdie, who turned -away to seek amusement in another direction. Katharine looked up gravely -at him as he came to her side, and then pointed to the chair Crowdie had -left vacant.</p> - -<p>“Sit down. I want to talk to you,” she said quickly, and he obeyed, -drawing the chair a little nearer.</p> - -<p>“I thought you never meant to speak to me again,” he said bitterly.</p> - -<p>“Did you? You thought that? Seriously?”<a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a></p> - -<p>“I suppose most men would have thought very much the same.”</p> - -<p>“You thought that I could change completely, like that—in a single -moment?”</p> - -<p>“You seemed to change.”</p> - -<p>“And that I did not love you any more?”</p> - -<p>“That was what you made me think—what else? You’re perfectly justified, -of course. I ought to have told you long ago.”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t speak to me so—Jack.”</p> - -<p>“What do you expect me to say?” he asked, and with a weary look in his -eyes he leaned back in his low chair and watched her.</p> - -<p>“Jack—dear—you didn’t understand when I told Mr. Crowdie to call -you—you don’t understand now. I was angry then—by the staircase. I’m -sorry. Will you forgive me?”</p> - -<p>Ralston’s face changed instantly, and he leaned forward again, so as to -be able to speak in a lower tone.</p> - -<p>“Darling—don’t say such things! I’ve nothing to forgive—”</p> - -<p>“You have, Jack! Indeed, you have—oh! why can’t we be alone for ten -minutes—I’d explain it all—what I thought—”</p> - -<p>“But there’s nothing to explain, if you love me still—at least, not for -you.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, there is. There’s ever so much. Jack, why did you tell me? You -frightened me so—<a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>you don’t know! And it seemed as though it were the -end of everything, and of me, myself, when you said you couldn’t be sure -of keeping a promise for my sake. You didn’t mean what you said—at -least, not as I thought you meant it—you didn’t mean that you wouldn’t -try—and of course you would succeed in the end.”</p> - -<p>“I think I should succeed very soon, with you to help me, Katharine. But -that’s not what a man—who is a man—accepts from a woman.”</p> - -<p>“Her help—not her help, Jack? How can you say so!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I mean it. Suppose that I should fail, what sort of life should -you lead—tied to a man who drinks? Don’t start, dear—it’s the truth. -We shall never talk about it again, after this, perhaps, and I may just -as well say what I think. I must say it, if I’m ever to respect myself -again.”</p> - -<p>Katharine looked at him, realized again what his courage had been in -making the confession, and she loved him more than ever.</p> - -<p>“Jack—” she began, and hesitated. “Since we are talking of it, and must -talk of it—can’t you tell me what makes you do it—I mean—you know! -What is it that attracts you? It must be something very strong—isn’t -it? What is it?”</p> - -<p>“I wish I knew!” answered Ralston, half savagely. “It began—oh, at -college, you know. I was vain of being able to stand more than the<a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a> -other fellows and of going home as steady as though I’d had nothing.”</p> - -<p>“But a man who can walk straight isn’t drunk, Jack—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, isn’t he!” exclaimed Ralston, with a sour smile. “They’re the worst -kind, sometimes—”</p> - -<p>“But I thought that a man who was really drunk—was—was quite -senseless, and tumbled down, you know—in a disgusting state.”</p> - -<p>“It’s not a pretty subject—especially when you talk about it, dear—but -it’s not always of that description.”</p> - -<p>It shocked Ralston’s refined nature to hear her speak of such things. -For he had all the refinement of nervous natures, like many a man who -has been wrecked by drink—even to men of genius without number.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it quite—no, of course it’s not. I know well enough.” Katharine -paused an instant. “I don’t care if it’s not what they call refined, -Jack. I’m not going to let that sort of squeamishness come between you -and me. It’s not as though I’d come upon it as a subject of -conversation—and—and I’m not afraid you’ll think any the worse of me -because I talk about horrid things, when I must talk about them—when -everything depends on them—you and I, and our lives. I must know what -it is that you feel—that you can’t resist.”<a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a></p> - -<p>Ralston felt how strong she was, and was glad.</p> - -<p>“Go on,” she said. “Tell me all about it—how it began.”</p> - -<p>“That was it—at college, I suppose,” he answered. “Then it grew to be a -habit—insensibly, of course. I thought it didn’t hurt me and I liked -the excitement. Perhaps I’m naturally melancholic and depressed.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t wonder!”</p> - -<p>“No—it’s not the result of anything especial. I’ve not had at all an -unhappy life. I was born gloomy, I suppose—and unlucky, too. You see -the trouble is that those things get hold of one’s nerves, and then it -becomes a physical affair and not a mere question of will. Men get so -far that it would kill them to stop, because they’re used to it. But -with me—no, I admit the fact—it is a question of will and nothing -else. Just now—oh, well, I’ve talked enough about myself.”</p> - -<p>“What—‘just now’? What were you going to say? You wanted to go and -drink, just after I left you?”</p> - -<p>“How did you guess that?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. I was sure of it. And—and you didn’t, Jack?”</p> - -<p>“No, I didn’t.”</p> - -<p>“Why not? What stopped you? It was so easy!”</p> - -<p>“I felt that I should be a brute if I did—so I<a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a> didn’t. That’s all. -It’s not worth mentioning—only it shows that it is a question of will. -I’m all right now—I don’t want it any more. Perhaps I shan’t, for days. -I don’t know. It’s a hopeless sort of thing, anyway. Sometimes I’m just -on the point of taking an oath. But if I broke it, I should blow my -brains out, and I shouldn’t be any better off. So I have the sense not -to promise myself anything.”</p> - -<p>“Promise me one thing,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “It’s a thing you -can promise—trust me, won’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I promise,” answered Ralston, without hesitation.</p> - -<p>“That you will never bind yourself by any oath at all, will you?”</p> - -<p>Ralston paused a moment.</p> - -<p>“Yes—I promise you that,” he said. “I think it’s very sensible. Thank -you, dear.”</p> - -<p>There was a short silence after he had spoken. Then Katharine laughed a -little and looked at him affectionately.</p> - -<p>“How funny we are!” she exclaimed. “Half an hour ago I quarrelled with -you because you wouldn’t promise, and now I’ve got you to swear that you -never will promise, under any circumstances.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he answered. “It’s very odd. But other things are changed, too, -since then, though it’s not long.”<a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a></p> - -<p>“You’re mistaken, Jack,” she said, misunderstanding him. “Haven’t I said -enough? Don’t you know that I love you just as much as I ever did—and -more? But nothing is changed—nothing—not the least little bit of -anything.”</p> - -<p>“Dear—how good you are!” Ralston’s voice was very tender just then. -“But I mean—about to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing’s changed, Jack,” said Katharine, leaning forward and speaking -very earnestly.</p> - -<p>But Ralston shook his head, sadly, as he met her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Yes, dear, it’s all changed. That can’t be as you wanted it—not now.”</p> - -<p>“But if I say that I will? Oh, don’t you understand me yet? It’s made no -difference. I lost my head for a moment—but it has made no difference -at all, except that I respect you ever so much more than I did, for -being so honest!”</p> - -<p>“Respect me!” repeated Ralston, with grave incredulity. “Me! You can’t!”</p> - -<p>“I can and I do. And I mean to be married to you—to-morrow, just as we -said. I wonder what you think I’m made of, to change and take back my -word and promise! Don’t you see that I want to give you everything—my -whole life—much more than I did this morning? Yes, ever so much more, -for you need me more than I knew or guessed. You see, I didn’t quite -understand at first,<a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a> but it’s all clear now. You’re much more -unhappy—and much more foolish about it—than I am. I don’t want to go -back over it all again, but won’t it be much easier for you when you -have me to help you? It seems to me that it must be, because I love you -so! Won’t it be much easier? Tell me!”</p> - -<p>“Yes—of course it would. I don’t like to think of it, because I mustn’t -do it. I should never have asked you to marry me at all, until I was -sure of myself. But—well, I couldn’t help it. We loved each other.”</p> - -<p>“Jack—what do you mean?”</p> - -<p>“That I love you far too much to tie myself round your life, like a -chain. I won’t do it. I’ll do the best I can to get over this thing and -if I do—I shan’t be half good enough for you—but if you will still -have me then, we’ll be married. If I can’t get over it—why then, that -means that I shall go to the devil, I suppose. At all events, you’ll be -free.”</p> - -<p>He spoke very quietly, but the words hurt him as they came. He did not -realize until he had finished speaking that the resolution had been -formed within the last five minutes, though he felt that he was right.</p> - -<p>“If you knew how you hurt me, when you talk like that!” said Katharine, -in a low voice.</p> - -<p>“It’s a question of absolute right and <a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>wrong—it’s a question of -honour,” he continued, speaking quickly to persuade himself. “Just put -yourself in the position of a third person, and think about it. What -should you say of a man who did such a thing—who accepted such a -sacrifice as you wish to make?”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t a sacrifice—it’s my life.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—that’s it! What would your life be, with a man on whom you -couldn’t count—a man you might be ashamed of, at any moment—who can’t -even count on himself—a fellow who’s good for nothing on earth, and -certainly for nothing in heaven—a failure, like me, who—”</p> - -<p>“Stop! You shan’t say any more. I won’t listen! Jack, I shall go away, -as I did before—”</p> - -<p>“Well—but isn’t it all true?”</p> - -<p>“No—not a word of it is true! And if it were true twenty times over, -I’d marry you—now, in spite of everybody. I—I believe I’d commit a sin -to marry you. Oh, it’s of no use! I can’t live without you—I can’t, -indeed! I called you back to tell you so—”</p> - -<p>She stopped, and she was pale. He had never seen her as she was now, and -she had never looked so beautiful to him.</p> - -<p>“For that matter, I couldn’t live without you,” he said, in a rather -uncertain voice.</p> - -<p>“And you shall not!” she answered, with determination. “Don’t talk to me -of sacrifice—what<a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a> could anything be compared with that—with giving -you up? You don’t know what you’re saying. I couldn’t—I couldn’t do -it—not if it meant death!”</p> - -<p>“But, dear—Katharine dear—if I fail, as I shall, I’m sure—just -think—”</p> - -<p>“If you do—but you won’t—well, if you should think you had—oh, Jack! -If you were the worst man alive, I’d rather die with you than live for -any one else! God knows I would—”</p> - -<p>“It’s very, very hard!” Ralston twisted his fingers together and bowed -his head, still trying to resist her.</p> - -<p>She bent forward again.</p> - -<p>“Dear—tell me! A little while ago—out there—when you wanted -it—wasn’t that hard?”</p> - -<p>Ralston nodded silently.</p> - -<p>“And didn’t you resist because it was a little—just a little for my -sake? Just at that moment when you said to yourself that you wouldn’t, -you know, or just before, or just afterwards—didn’t you think a little -of me, dear?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I did. Oh, Katharine, Katharine—” His voice was shaking now.</p> - -<p>“Yes. I know now,” she answered. “I don’t want anything but that—all my -life.”</p> - -<p>Still Ralston bent his head again, looking down at his hands and -believing that he was still resisting. He could not have spoken, had he -tried,<a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a> and Katharine saw it. She leaned still nearer to him.</p> - -<p>“Dear—I’m going home now. I shall be walking in Clinton Place at -half-past eight to-morrow morning, as we arranged. Good-night—dear.”</p> - -<p>Before he realized what she meant to do, she had risen and reached the -door. He sprang to his feet and followed her, but the crowd had closed -again and she was gone.<a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katharine Lauderdale</span> slept sweetly that night. She had, as she thought, -at last reached the crisis of her life, and the moment of action was at -hand. She felt, too, that almost at the last moment she had avoided a -great risk and made a good resolution—she felt as though she had saved -John Ralston from destruction. Loving him as truly as she did, her -satisfaction over what she had done was far greater than her pain at -what he had told her of himself.</p> - -<p>But this was not insignificant, though she wilfully made it seem as -small as she could. It was quite clear that it was not a matter to be -laughed at, and that Ralston did not deserve to be called quixotic -because he had thought it his duty to tell her of his weakness. It was -not a mountain, she was sure, but she admitted that it was not a -mole-hill either. Men who exaggerated the golden letter of virtue at the -expense of the gentle spirit of charity, as her father did, exaggerated -also, as a rule, those forms of wickedness to which they were themselves -least liable. She knew that. But she was also aware that drinking too -much was not by<a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a> any means an imaginary vice. It was a matter of fact, -with which whole communities had to deal, and about which men very -unlike her father in other ways spoke gravely. Nevertheless, though a -fact, all details connected with it were vague. It seemed to her a -matter of certainty that John Ralston would at once change his life and -become in that respect, as in all others, exactly what her ideal of a -man always had been since she had loved him.</p> - -<p>Her mistake, if it were one, was pardonable enough. Had she become aware -of his fault by accident, and when, having succumbed to his weakness, -she could have seen him not himself, the whole effect upon her mind -would have been very different. But she had never seen him, as she -believed, in any such condition. It was as though he had told it as of -another man, and she found it impossible really to connect any such -ideas of inebriety as she had with the man she loved. It was as vague as -though he had told her that he had once had the scarlet fever. She would -have known very well what the scarlet fever was like, but she could not -have associated it with him in any really distinct way. It was because -it had seemed such a small matter at first sight that she had been -suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of bitter disappointment when he had -refused to give his promise for her sake. As soon as she had begun to -understand even a little of what he really<a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a> felt, she had been as ready -and as determined to stand by him through everything as though it had -been a question of a bodily illness, for which he was not responsible, -but in which she could really help him. When she had been angry, and -afterwards, when, in spite of him, she had so strongly insisted upon the -marriage, she had been alike under a false impression, though in -different degrees. She had not now any idea of what she had really -undertaken to do.</p> - -<p>With her nature she would probably have acted just as she did in the -last case, even had she understood all, by actual experience. She was -capable of great sacrifices—even greater than she dreamed of. But, not -understanding, it did not seem to her that she had done or promised -anything very extraordinary, and she was absolutely confident of -success. It was natural to her to accept wholly what she accepted at -all, and it had always seemed to her that there was something mean in -complaining of what one had taken voluntarily, and in finding fault with -details when one had agreed, as it were, to take over the whole at a -moral valuation.</p> - -<p>It has seemed necessary to dwell at great length on the events which -filled the days preceding Katharine’s marriage. Her surroundings had -made her what she was, and justified, if anything could justify, the -extraordinary step she was about<a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a> to take, and which she actually took -on the morning after the dance at the Thirlwalls’. It is under such -circumstances that such things are done, when they are done at all. The -whole balance of opinion in her family was against her marrying John -Ralston. The whole weight of events, so far as she was concerned, was in -favour of the marriage.</p> - -<p>That she loved him with all her heart, there was no doubt; and he loved -her with all that his nature could give of love, which was, indeed, less -than what she gave, but was of a good and faithful sort in its way. -Love, like most passions, good and bad, flourishes under restraint when -it is real and perishes almost immediately before opposition when it has -grown out of artificial circumstances—to revive, sometimes, in the -latter case, if the artificiality is resuscitated. Katharine had found -herself opposed at every turn in her love for Ralston. The result was -natural and simple—it had grown to be altogether the dominant reality -of her life.</p> - -<p>Even those persons who did not actively do their best to hinder her -marriage, contributed, by their actions and even by their existence, to -the fortifying of her resolution, as it seemed to her, but in reality to -the growth of the passion which needed no resolutions to direct it. For -instance, Crowdie’s repulsive personality threw Ralston’s undeniable -advantages into higher relief. His wife’s devotion<a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a> to him made -Katharine’s devotion to John seem ten times more reasonable than it was. -Charlotte Slayback’s wretchedly petty and miserable life with a man whom -she had not married for love, made a love match seem the truest -foundation for happiness. Old Robert Lauderdale’s solitary existence was -itself an argument in favour of marriage. The small, daily discomfort -which Alexander Junior’s miserly economy imposed upon his household, and -which Katharine had been forced to endure all her life, made Ralston’s -careless generosity a virtue by contrast. Even Mrs. Lauderdale had -turned against her daughter at last, for reasons which the young girl -could not understand, either at the time or for a long time afterwards.</p> - -<p>She felt herself very much alone in the world, in spite of her position. -And yet, since her mother had begun to lose her supreme beauty, -Katharine was looked upon as the central figure of the Lauderdale tribe, -next to Robert the Rich himself. ‘The beautiful Miss Lauderdale’ was a -personage of much greater importance than she herself knew, in the eyes -of society. She had grown used to hearing reports to the effect that she -was engaged to be married to this man, or that, and that her uncle -Robert had announced his intention of wrapping his wedding present in a -cheque for a million of dollars. Stories of that sort got into the -papers from time to time, and Alexander Junior never failed<a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a> to write a -stern denial of the report to the editor of the journal in which the -tale appeared. Katharine was used to seeing the family name in print on -all possible occasions and paid little attention to it. She did not know -how far people must have become subjects of general conversation before -they become the paragraphist’s means of support in the dull season of -the year. The paragraphists on a great daily paper have an intimate -knowledge of the public taste, for which they get little credit amongst -the social lights, who flatter themselves that the importance of the -paper in question depends very largely on their opinion of it. Society -is very much like a little community of lunatics, who live in an asylum -all by themselves, and who know nothing whatever about the great public -that lives beyond the walls, whereas the public knows a good deal about -the lunatics, and takes a lively interest in their harmless, or -dangerous, vagaries. And in the same way society itself forms a small -public for its own most prominent individuals,—for its own favourite -lunatics, so to say,—and watches their doings and talks about them with -constant interest, and flatters them when it thinks they are agreeable, -and abuses them bitterly behind their backs when it thinks they are not. -The daily dinner-party conversation is society’s imprinted but widely -circulated daily paper. It is often quite ignorant of state secrets,<a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a> -but it is never unacquainted with social events, and generally has -plenty of sound reasons with which to explain them. Society’s -comparative idleness, even in America, gives it opportunities of -conversation which no equally large body of men and women can be said to -possess outside of its rather elastic limits. It talks the same sort of -matter which the generally busy great public reads and wishes to read in -the daily press—and as talking is a quicker process than controversy in -print, society manages to say as much for and against the persons it -discusses, in a day, as the newspapers can say in a week, or perhaps -more. As a mere matter of statistics, there is no doubt that a couple of -talkative people spending an evening together can easily ‘talk off’ ten -thousand words in an hour—which is equal to about eight columns of an -ordinary big daily paper, and they are not conscious of making any great -effort. It is manifestly possible to say a great many things in eight -columns of a newspaper, especially if one is not very particular about -what one says.</p> - -<p>Katharine realized, no doubt, that there would some day be plentiful -discussion of her rashness in marrying Ralston against the wishes of the -family, and she knew that the circumstances would to some extent be -regarded as public property. But she was far from realizing her own -social importance, or that of the whole Lauderdale tribe, as<a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a> compared -with that of many people who spent enormous sums in amusing their -friends, consciously and unconsciously, but who could never be -Lauderdales, though it was not their fault.</p> - -<p>At the juncture she had now reached, such considerations would have had -little weight with her, but the probability is that, had she known -exactly what she was doing, and how it would be regarded should others -know of it, she would have vastly preferred to rebel openly and to leave -New York with John Ralston on the day she married him, in uncompromising -defiance of her family. Most people have known in the course of life of -one or two secret marriages and must have noticed that the motives to -secrecy generally seem inadequate. As a rule, they are, if taken by -themselves. But in actual fact they have mostly acted upon the persons -concerned through a medium of some sort of ignorance and in conjunction -with an impatient passion. It is common enough, even in connection with -more or less insignificant matters, to hear some one say, ‘I wonder why -I did that—I might have known better!’ Humanity is never wholly -logical, and is never more than very partially wise, even when it is old -enough to ‘know better.’ In nine cases out of ten, when it is said of a -man that ‘a prophet is without honour in his own country,’ the reason is -that his own country is the best judge of what he prophesies. And -similarly,<a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a> society judges the doings of all its members by its own -individual knowledge of its own customs, so that very few who do -anything not sanctioned by those customs get any credit, but, on the -contrary, are in danger of being called fools for believing that -anything not customary can be done at all.</p> - -<p>At half-past eight on Thursday morning Katharine left the house in -Clinton Place, and turned eastward to meet John Ralston. Her only source -of anxiety was the fear lest her father should by some accident go out -earlier than usual. There was no particular reason to expect that he -should be irregular on that particular day of all others, and she had -left him over his beefsteak, discussing the relative amounts of the -nutriment—as compared with the price per pound—contained in beef and -mutton. He had never been able to understand why any one who could get -meat should eat anything else, and the statistics of food consumption -interested his small but accurate mind. His wife listened quietly but -without response, so that the discussion was very one-sided. The -philanthropist generally shuffled down to breakfast when everything was -cold, a point about which he was utterly indifferent. He had long ago -discovered that by coming down late he could always be the last to -finish his meal, and could therefore begin to smoke as soon as he had -swallowed his last mouthful which was a habit very important to his -enjoyment<a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a> and very destructive to that of any one else, especially -since his son had reduced him to ‘Old Virginia Cheroots’ at ten cents -for five.</p> - -<p>But Alexander Junior was no more inclined than usual to reach his office -a moment before his accustomed time. Katharine generally left the -dining-room as soon as she had finished breakfast, and often went out -immediately afterwards for a turn in Washington Square, so that her -departure excited no remark. The rain had ceased, and though the air was -still murky and the pavements wet, it was a decently fine morning. -Ralston was waiting for her, walking up and down on a short beat, and -the two went away together.</p> - -<p>At first they were silent, and the silence had a certain constraint -about it which both of them felt, but did not know how to escape from. -Ralston was the first to speak.</p> - -<p>“You ought not to have come,” he said rather awkwardly, with a little -laugh.</p> - -<p>“But I told you I was coming,” she answered demurely. “Didn’t I?”</p> - -<p>“I know. That’s just it. You told me so suddenly that I couldn’t -protest. I ran after you, but you were gone to get your things, and when -you came downstairs there were a lot of people, and I couldn’t speak to -you.”</p> - -<p>“I saw you,” said Katharine. “It was just as well. You had nothing to -say to me that I didn<a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>’t know, and we couldn’t have begun the discussion -of the matter all over again at the last instant. And now, please, Jack -dear, don’t begin and argue. I’ve told you a hundred times that I know -exactly what I’m doing—and that it’s I who am making you do it. And -remember that unless we are married first uncle Robert will never make -up his mind to do anything for us. It’s never of any use to try and -overcome people’s objections. The only way is to ignore them, which is -just what we’re doing.”</p> - -<p>“There’s no doubt about that,” answered Ralston. “There’s one thing I -look forward to with pleasure, in the way of a row, though—I mean when -your father finds it out. I hope you’ll let me tell him and not spoil my -fun. Won’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, if you like. Why not? Not that I’m at all afraid. You don’t -know papa. When he finds that the thing is done, that it’s the -inevitable course of events, in fact, he’ll be quite different. He’ll -very likely talk of submission to the Divine will and offer to speak to -Beman Brothers about letting you try the clerkship again. I know papa! -Providence has an awfully good time with him—but nobody else does.”</p> - -<p>At which piece of irreverence Ralston laughed, for it exactly expressed -his idea of Alexander Junior’s character.</p> - -<p>“And there’s one other thing I don’t want you<a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a> to speak of, Jack,” -pursued Katharine, more gravely. “I mean what you told me last night. I -don’t intend ever to mention it again—do you understand, dear? I’ve -thought it all over since then. I’m glad you told me, and I admire you -for telling me, because it must have been hard, especially until I began -to understand. A woman doesn’t know everything, you see! Indeed, we -don’t know much about anything. We can only feel. And it did seem very -hard at first—only for a moment, Jack—that you should not be willing -to promise what I asked, when it was to make such a difference to me, -and I was willing to promise you anything. You see how I felt, don’t -you?”</p> - -<p>“Of course,” answered Ralston, looking down at the pavement as he walked -on and listened. “It was natural.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. I’m so glad you see it. But afterwards, when I thought of things -I’d heard—why, then I thought a great deal too much, you know—dreadful -things! But I understood better what it all meant. You see, at first, it -seemed so absurd! Just as though I had asked you not to—not to wear a -green tie, for instance, as Charlotte asked her husband. Absurd, wasn’t -it? So I was frightfully angry with you and got up and went away. I’m so -ashamed of myself for it, now. But then, when it grew clearer—when I -really knew that there was<a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a> suffering in it, and remembered hearing that -it was something like morphia and such things, that have to be cured by -degrees—you know what I mean—why, then I wanted you more than ever. -You know I’d give anything to help you—just to make it a little easier -for you, dear.”</p> - -<p>“You do! You’re doing everything—you’re giving me everything,” said -Ralston, earnestly.</p> - -<p>“Well—not everything—but myself, because that’s all I have to give—if -it’s any use to you.”</p> - -<p>“Dear—as if you weren’t everything the world has, and the only thing -and the best thing altogether!”</p> - -<p>“And if I didn’t love you better than anything—better than kings and -queens—I wouldn’t do it. Because, after all, though I’m not much, I’m -all I have. And then—I’m proud—inside, you know, Jack. Papa says I’m -not, because mamma and I sometimes go to the theatre in the gallery, for -economy. But that’s hardly a test in real life, I think—and besides, I -know I am. Don’t you think so?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—a little, in the right way. It’s nice. I like it in you.”</p> - -<p>“I’m so glad. It’s because I’m proud that I don’t want to talk about -that matter any more. It just doesn’t exist for me. That’s what I want -you to feel. But I want you to feel, too, that I’m always there, that I -shall always understand, and<a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a> that if I can help you the least little -bit, I mean to. I’ve turned into a woman all at once, Jack, in the last -twenty-four hours, and now in an hour I shall be your wife, though -nobody will know about it for a day or two. But I don’t mean to turn -into your grandmother, too, and be always lecturing you and asking -questions, and that sort of thing. You wouldn’t like it either, would -you?”</p> - -<p>“Hardly!”</p> - -<p>Ralston laughed again, for everything she said made him feel happier and -helped to destroy the painful impression of the previous night.</p> - -<p>“Why do you laugh, Jack? Oh, I suppose it’s my way of putting it. But -it’s what I mean, and that’s the principal thing. I’d rather die than -watch you all the time, to see what you do. Imagine if I were always -asking questions—‘Jack, where did you go last night?’ And—‘Jack, is -that your third or fourth glass of wine to-day?’ The mere idea is -disgusting. No. You must just do your best, and feel that I’m always -there—even when I’m not—and that I’m never watching you, even when I -look as though I were, and that neither you nor I are ever going to say -a word about it—from this very minute, forever! Do you understand? -Isn’t that the best way, Jack? And that I’m perfectly sure that it will -be all right in the end—you must remember that, too.”<a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a></p> - -<p>“I think you’re right,” said Ralston. “You’ve suddenly turned into a -woman, and into a very clever one. Those are just the things which most -women never will understand. They’d be much happier if they did.”</p> - -<p>The two walked on rapidly, talking as they went, and assuredly not -looking at all like a runaway couple. But though it was very early, they -avoided the streets in which they might easily meet acquaintances, for -it was the hour when men who had any business were going to it in -various ways, according to their tastes, but chiefly by the elevated -road. They had no difficulty in reaching unobserved the house of the -clergyman who had promised to marry them.</p> - -<p>He was in readiness, and at his window, and as they came in sight he -left the house and met them. All three walked silently to his church, -and he let them in with his own key, followed them and locked the door -behind them.</p> - -<p>In ten minutes the ceremony was over. The clergyman beckoned them into -the vestry, and immediately signed a form of certificate which he had -already filled in, and handed it to John without a word. John took a new -treasury note from his pocket-book and laid it upon the oak table.</p> - -<p>“I’m sure you must have many poor people in your parish,” he said, in -explanation.</p> - -<p>“I have,” said the clergyman. “Thank you,”<a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a> he added, placing the money -in his own pocket-book, which was an old black one, much the worse for -wear.</p> - -<p>“It is we who have to thank you,” answered John, “for helping us out of -a very difficult situation.”</p> - -<p>“Hm!” ejaculated the elder man, rubbing his chin with his hand and -fixing a penetrating glance on Ralston’s face. “Perhaps you won’t thank -me hereafter,” he said suddenly. “Perhaps you think it strange that a -man in my position should be a party to a secret marriage. But I do not -anticipate that you will ask me for a justification of my action. I had -reasons—reasons—old reasons.” He continued to rub his chin -thoughtfully. “I should like to say a word to you, Mrs. Ralston,” he -added, turning to Katharine.</p> - -<p>She started and blushed a little. She had not expected to be addressed -by what was now her name. But she held up her head, proudly, as though -she were by no means ashamed of it.</p> - -<p>“I shall not detain you a moment,” continued the clergyman, looking at -her as earnestly as he had looked at John. “I have perfect confidence in -Mr. Ralston, as I have shown by acceding to his very unusual request. He -has told you what I said to him yesterday, and I do not wish him to -doubt that I am sure that he has done so. It is merely as a matter of -conscience, to satisfy my own<a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a> scruples in fact, that I wish to repeat, -as nearly as possible, the same words, ‘mutatis mutandis,’ which I said -to him. I have married you and have given you my certificate that the -ceremony has been duly and properly performed, and you are man and wife. -But I have married you thus secretly and without witnesses—none being -indispensable—on the distinct understanding that your union is not to -be kept a secret by you any longer than you shall deem secrecy -absolutely necessary to your future happiness. Mr. Ralston informed me -that it was your intention to acknowledge what you had done to a near -relation, the head of your family, in fact, without any delay. I am sure -that it is really your intention to do so. But let me entreat you, if it -is possible, to lose no time, but to go, even at this hour, to the -person in question and tell your story, one or the other of you, or both -together. I am an old man, and human life is very uncertain, and human -honour is rightly held very dear, for if honour means anything, it means -the social application of that truth which is by nature divine. -To-morrow I may no longer be here to testify that I signed that document -with my own hand. To-day the person in whom you intend to confide can -come and see me and I will answer for what I have done, or he can -acknowledge your marriage without question, whichever he chooses to do; -it will be better if it be done quickly. It always seems to<a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a> me that -to-morrow is the enemy of to-day, and lies in ambush to attack it -unawares. Therefore, I entreat you to go at once to him you have chosen -and tell him what you have done. And so good-bye, and may God bless you -and make you happy and good.”</p> - -<p>“I shall go now,” said Katharine. “And we thank you very much,” she -added, holding out her hand.</p> - -<p>The clergyman let them out and stood looking after them for a few -seconds. Then he slowly nodded twice and re-entered the church. Ralston -and Katharine walked away very slowly, both looking down, and each -inwardly wondering whether the other would break the silence. It was -natural that they should not speak at first. The words of the service -had brought very clearly before them the meaning of what they had done, -and the clergyman’s short speech, made as he said for the sake of -satisfying his own scruples of conscience, had influenced them by its -earnestness. They reached a crossing without having exchanged a -syllable. As usual in such cases, a chance exclamation broke the ice.</p> - -<p>“Take care!” exclaimed Ralston, laying his hand on Katharine’s arm, and -looking at an express wagon which was bearing down on them.</p> - -<p>“It’s ever so far off still,” said Katharine, smiling suddenly and -looking into his face. “But I like you to take care of me,” she added.<a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a></p> - -<p>He smiled, too, and they waited for the wagon to go by. The clouds had -broken away at last and the low morning sun shone brightly upon them.</p> - -<p>“I’m so glad it’s fine on our wedding day, Jack!” exclaimed Katharine. -“It was horrid yesterday afternoon. How long ago that seems! Did you -hear him call me Mrs. Ralston? Katharine Ralston—how funny it sounds! -It’s true, that’s your mother’s name.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll be Mrs. John Ralston—to distinguish.” John laughed. “Yes—it -does seem long ago. What did you do with yourself yesterday?”</p> - -<p>“Yesterday? Let me see—I sat for my portrait, and then I went home, and -then late in the afternoon Charlotte suddenly appeared, and then I dined -with the Joe Allens—the young couple, you know, don’t you? And then I -went to the dance. I hardly knew what I was doing, half the time.”</p> - -<p>“And I hardly know why I asked the question. Isn’t it funny? I believe -we’re actually trying to make conversation!”</p> - -<p>“You are—I’m not,” laughed Katharine. “It was you who began asking. I -was talking quite sentimentally and appropriately about yesterday -seeming so long ago, you know. But it’s true. It does—it seems ages. I -wonder when time will begin again—I feel as though it had stopped -suddenly.”</p> - -<p>“It will begin again, and it will seem awfully<a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a> long, before this -afternoon—when uncle Robert has refused to have anything to do with -us.”</p> - -<p>“He won’t refuse—he shan’t refuse!” Katharine spoke with an energy -which increased at every syllable. “Now that the thing is done, Jack, -just put yourself in his position for a moment. Just imagine that you -have anywhere between fifty and a hundred millions, all of your own. -Yes—I know. You can’t imagine it. But suppose that you had. And suppose -that you had a grand-niece, whom you liked, and who wasn’t altogether a -disagreeable young person, and whom you had always rather tried to pet -and spoil—not exactly knowing how to do it, but out of sheer good -nature. And suppose that you had known ever so long that there was only -one thing which could make your nice niece perfectly happy—”</p> - -<p>“It’s all very well, Katharine,” interrupted Ralston, “but has he known -that?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve never failed to tell him so, on the most absurdly inadequate -provocation. So it must be his fault if he doesn’t know it—and I shall -certainly tell him all over again before I bring out the news. It -wouldn’t do to be too sudden, you know. Well, then—suppose all that, -and that the young gentleman in question was a proper young gentleman -enough, as young gentlemen go, and didn’t want money, and wouldn’t take -it if it were offered to him, but merely asked for a good chance to -work<a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a> and show what he could do. That’s all very simple, isn’t it? And -then realize—don’t suppose any more—just what’s going to happen inside -of half an hour. The devoted niece goes to the good old uncle, and says -all that over again, and calmly adds that she’s done the deed and -married the young gentleman and got a certificate, which she -produces—by the bye, you must give it to me. Don’t be afraid of my -losing it—I’m not such a goose. And she goes on to say that unless the -good uncle does something for her husband, she will simply make the -uncle’s life a perfectly unbearable burden to him, and that she knows -how to do it, because if he’s a Lauderdale, she’s a Lauderdale, and her -husband is half a Lauderdale, so that it’s all in the family, and no -entirely unnecessary consideration is to be shown to the victim—well? -Don’t you think that ought to produce an effect of some sort? I do.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” laughed Ralston, “I think so, too. Something is certainly sure to -happen.”</p> -<p> </p> -<p class="c"><small>END OF VOL. 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