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
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.