CHAPTER XVIII.
Ralston was in a thoroughly bad humour when he reached his club. The absurdity of a marriage, which was practically no marriage at all, had been thrust upon him on the very first day, and he felt that he had been led into a romantic piece of folly, which could not possibly produce any good results, either at the present time or afterwards. He was as properly and legally the husband of Katharine as the law and the church could make him, and yet he could not even get an interview of a quarter of an hour with his wife. He could not count, with certainty, upon seeing her anywhere, except at such a public place as the ball they were both going to that night, under the eyes of all New York society, so far as it existed for them. The position was ludicrous, or would have been, had he not been the principal actor in the comedy.
He was sure, too, that if Katharine had got any favourable answer from their uncle Robert, she would have said at least a word to this effect, even while she was in the act of thrusting him from the door. Two words, ‘all right,’ would have been enough. But she had only seemed anxious to get rid of him as quickly as possible, and he felt that he was not to be blamed for being angry. The details of the situation, as she had seen it, were quite unknown to him. He was not aware that Charlotte Slayback had been at luncheon, and had stayed until the last minute, nor that Katharine had really done everything in her power to make her mother go upstairs. The details, indeed, taken separately, were laughable in their insignificance, and it would hardly be possible for Katharine to explain them to him, so as to make him see their importance when taken all together. He was ignorant of them all, except of the fancied fact that Mrs. Lauderdale had been at the window of the library. Katharine had told him so, and had believed it herself, as was natural. She had not had time to explain why she believed it, and he would be more angry than ever if she ever told him that she had been mistaken, and that he might just as well have come and stayed as long as he pleased. He knew that a considerable time must have elapsed between the end of luncheon and his arrival at the door of the house; he supposed that Katharine had been alone with her mother and grandfather, as usual, and he blamed her for not exerting a little tact in getting her mother out of the way, when she must have had nearly an hour in which to do so. He went over and over all that he knew of the facts, and reached always the same conclusion—Katharine had not taken the trouble, and had probably only remembered when it was too late that he was to come at three o’clock.
It must not be supposed that Ralston belonged to the class of hasty and capricious men, who hate the object of their affections as soon as they are in the least annoyed with anything she has done—or who, at all events, act as though they did. Ralston was merely in an excessively bad temper with himself, with everything he had done and with the world at large. Had he received a note from Katharine at any time later in the afternoon, telling him to come back, he would have gone instantly, with just as much impatience as he had shown at three o’clock, when he had reached Clinton Place a quarter of an hour before the appointed time. He would probably not have alluded, nor even have wished to allude, to his summary dismissal at his first attempt. But he would come. He satisfied himself of that, for he sent a message from his club to his home, directing the servant to send on any note which might come for him; and, on repeating the message an hour later, he was told that there was nothing to send.
So he sat in the general room at the club, downstairs, and turned over a newspaper half a dozen times without understanding a word of its contents, and smoked discontentedly, but without ceasing. At last, by a mere accident, his eye fell upon the column of situations offered and wanted, and, with a sour smile, he began to read the advertisements. That sort of thing suited his case, at all events, he thought. He was very soon struck by the balance of numbers in favour of the unemployed, and by the severe manner in which those who offered situations spoke of thorough knowledge and of certificates of service.
It did not take him long to convince himself that he was fit for nothing but a shoeblack or a messenger boy, and he fancied that his age would be a drawback in either profession. He dropped the paper in disgust at last, and was suddenly aware that Frank Miner was seated at a small table opposite to him, but on the other side of the room. Miner looked up at the same moment, from a letter he was writing, his attention being attracted by the rustling of the paper.
“Hallo, Jack!” he cried, cheerily. “I knew those were your legs all the time.”
“Why didn’t you speak, then?” asked Ralston, rather coldly, and looking up and down the columns of the paper he had dropped upon his knee.
“I don’t know. Why should I?” Miner went on with his letter, having evidently interrupted himself in the midst of a sentence.
Ralston wished something would happen. He felt suddenly inclined to throw something at Miner, who generally amused him when he talked, but was clearly very busy, and went on writing as though his cheerful little life depended on it. But it was not probable that anything should happen just at that hour. There were three or four other men in different parts of the big room, writing or reading letters. There were doubtless a few others somewhere in the house, playing cards or drinking a quiet afternoon cocktail. It was a big club, having many rooms. But Ralston did not feel inclined to play poker, and he wished not to drink, if he could help it, and Miner went on writing, so he stayed where he was, and brooded over his annoyances. Suddenly Miner’s pen ceased with a scratch and a dash, audible all over the room, and he began to fold his letter.
“Come and have a drink, Jack!” he called out to Ralston, as he took up an envelope. “I’ve earned it, if you haven’t.”
“I don’t want to drink,” answered Ralston, gloomily, and, out of pure contrariety, he took up his paper again.
Miner looked long and steadily at him, closed his letter, put it into his pocket and crossed the room.
“I say, Jack,” he said, in an absurdly solemn tone, “are you ill, old man?”
“Ill? No. Why? Never was better in my life. Don’t be an idiot, Frank.” And he kept his paper at the level of his eyes.
“There’s something wrong, anyhow,” said Miner, thoughtfully. “Never knew you to refuse to drink before. I’ll be damned, you know!”
“I haven’t a doubt of it, my dear fellow. I always told you so.”
“For a gentle and unassuming manner, I think you take the cake, Jack,” answered Miner, without a smile. “What on earth is the matter with you? Let me see—you’ve either lost money, or you’re in love, or your liver’s out of order, or all three, and if that’s it, I pity you.”
“I tell you there’s nothing the matter with me!” cried Ralston, with some temper. “Why do you keep bothering me? I merely said I didn’t want to drink. Can’t a man not be thirsty? Confound it all, I’m not obliged to drink if I don’t want to!”
“Oh, well, don’t get into a fiery green rage about it, Jack. I’m thirsty myself, and I didn’t want to drink alone. Only, don’t go west of Maine so long as this lasts. They’re prohibition there, you know. Don’t try it, Jack; you’d come back on ice by the next train.”
“I’m going to stay here,” answered Ralston, without a smile. “Go ahead and get your drink.”
“All right! If you won’t, you won’t, I know. But when you’re scratching round and trying to get some sympathetic person, like Abraham and Lazarus, to give you a glass of water, think of what you’ve missed this afternoon!”
“Dives,” said Ralston, savagely, “is the only man ever mentioned in the Bible as having asked for a glass of water, and he’s—where he ought to be.”
“That’s an old, cold chestnut,” retorted Miner, turning to go, but not really in the least annoyed.
At that moment a servant crossed the room and stood before Ralston. Miner waited to see what would happen, half believing that Ralston was not in earnest, but had surreptitiously touched the electric bell on the table at his elbow, with the intention of ordering something.
“Mr. Lauderdale wishes to speak to you at the telephone, sir,” said the servant.
The man’s expression betrayed his respect for the name, and for a person who had a telephone in his house—an unusual thing in New York. It was the sort of expression which the waiters at restaurants put on when they present to the diner a dish of terrapin or a canvas-back duck, or open a very particularly old bottle of very particularly fine wine—quite different from the stolid look they wear for beef and table-claret.
“Which Mr. Lauderdale?” asked Ralston, with a sudden frown. “Mr. Alexander Lauderdale Junior?”
“I don’t know, sir. The gentleman’s at the telephone, sir.”
This seemed to be added as a gentle hint not to keep any one of the name of Lauderdale waiting too long.
Ralston rose quickly, and Miner watched him as he passed out with long strides and a rather anxious face, wondering what could be the matter with his friend, and somehow connecting his refusal to drink with the summons to the instrument. Then Miner followed slowly in the same direction, with his hands in his pockets and his lips pursed as though he were about to whistle. He knew the man well enough to be aware that his refusal to drink might proceed from his having taken all he could stand for the present, and Ralston’s ill temper inclined Miner to believe that this might be the case. Ralston rarely betrayed himself at all, until he suddenly became viciously unmanageable, a fact which made him always the function of a doubtful quantity, as Miner, who had once learned a little mathematics, was fond of expressing it.
The little man was essentially sociable, and though he might want the very small and mild drink he was fond of ever so much, he preferred, if possible, to swallow it in company. Instead of ringing, therefore, he strolled away in search of another friend. As luck would have it, he almost ran against Walter Crowdie, who was coming towards him, but looking after Ralston, as the latter disappeared at the other end of the hall. Crowdie seemed excessively irritated about something.
“Confound that fellow!” he exclaimed, giving vent to his feelings as he turned and saw Miner close upon him.
“Who? Me?” enquired the little man, with a laugh. “Everybody’s purple with rage in this club to-day—I’m going home.”
“You? No—is that you, Frank? No—I mean that everlasting Ralston.”
“Oh! What’s he done to you? What’s the matter with Ralston?”
“Drunk again, I suppose,” answered Crowdie. “But I wish he’d keep out of my way when he is—runs into me, treads on both my feet—with his heels, I believe, though I don’t understand how that’s possible—pushes me out of the way and goes straight on without a word. Confound him, I say! You used to be able to swear beautifully, Frank—can’t you manage to say something?”
“At any other time—oh, yes! But you’d better get Ralston himself to do it for you. I’m not in it with him to-day. He’s been giving me the life to come—hot—and Abraham and Isaac and Lazarus and the rich man, and the glass of water, all in a breath. Go and ask him for what you want.”
“Oh—then he is drunk, is he?” asked Crowdie, with a disagreeable sneer on his red lips.
“I suppose so,” answered Miner, quite carelessly. “At all events, he refused to drink—that’s always a bad sign with him.”
“Of course—that makes it a certainty. Gad, though! It doesn’t make him light on his feet, if he happens to tread on yours. It serves me right for coming to the club at this time of day! Perdition on the fellow! I’ve got on new shoes, too!”
“What are you two squabbling about?” enquired Hamilton Bright, coming suddenly upon them out of the cloak-room.
“We’re not squabbling—we’re cursing Ralston,” answered Miner.
“I wish you’d go and look after him, Ham,” said Crowdie to his brother-in-law. “He’s just gone off there. He’s as drunk as the dickens, and swearing against everybody and treading on their toes in the most insolent way imaginable. Get him out of this, can’t you? Take him home—you’re his friend. If you don’t he’ll be smashing things before long.”
“Is he as bad as that, Frank?” asked Bright, gravely. “Where is he?”
“At the telephone—I don’t know—he trod on Crowdie’s feet and Crowdie’s perfectly wild and exaggerates. But there’s something wrong, I know. I think he’s not exactly screwed—but he’s screwed up—well, several pegs, by the way he acts. They call drinks ‘pegs’ somewhere, don’t they? I wanted to make a joke. I thought it might do Crowdie good—”
“Well, it’s a very bad one,” said Bright. “He’s at the telephone, you say?”
“Yes. The man said Mr. Lauderdale wanted to speak to him—he didn’t know which Mr. Lauderdale—but it’s probably Alexander the Safe, and if it is, there’s going to be a row over the wires. When Jack’s shut up there alone in the dark in the sound-proof box with the receiver under his nose and Alexander at the other end—if the wires don’t melt—that’s all! And Alexander’s a metallic sort of man—I should think he’d draw the lightning right down to his toes.”
At that moment Ralston came swinging down the hall at a great pace, pale and evidently under some sort of powerful excitement. He nodded carelessly to the three men as they stood together and disappeared into the cloak-room. Bright followed him, but Ralston, with his hat on, his head down and struggling into his overcoat, rushed out as Bright reached the door, and ran into the latter, precisely as he had run into Crowdie. Bright was by far the heavier man, however, and Ralston stumbled at the shock. Bright caught him by one arm and held him a moment.
“All right, Ham!” he exclaimed. “Everybody gets into my way to-day. Let go, man! I’m in a hurry!”
“Wait a bit,” said Bright. “I’ll come with you—”
“No—you can’t. Let me go, Ham! What the deuce are you holding me for?”
He shook Bright’s arm angrily, for between the message he had received and the obstacles he seemed to meet at every step, he was, by this time, very much excited. Bright thought he read certain well-known signs in his face, and believed that he had been drinking hard and might get into trouble if he went out alone, for Ralston was extremely quarrelsome at such times, and was quite capable of hitting out on the slightest provocation, and had been in trouble more than once for doing so, as Bright was well aware.
“I’m going with you, Jack, whether you like it or not,” said the latter, with mistaken firmness in his good intentions.
“You’re not, I can tell you!” answered Ralston, in a lower tone. “Just let me go—or there’ll be trouble here.”
He was furious at the delay, but Bright’s powerful hand did not relax its grasp on his arm.
“Jack, old man,” said Bright, in a coaxing tone, “just come upstairs for a quarter of an hour, and get quiet—”
“Oh—that’s it, is it? You think I’m screwed. I’m not. Let me go—once—twice—”
Ralston’s face was now white with anger. The
unjust accusation was the last drop. He was growing dangerous, but Bright, in the pride of his superior strength, still held him firmly.
“Take care!” said Ralston, almost in a whisper. “I’ve counted two.” He paused a full two seconds. “Three! There you go!”
The other men saw his foot glide forward like lightning over the marble pavement. Instantly Bright was thrown heavily on his back, and before he could even raise his head, Ralston was out of the door and in the street. Crowdie and Miner ran forward to help the fallen man, as they had not moved from where they had stood, a dozen paces away. But Bright was on his feet in an instant, pale with anger and with the severe shock of his fall. He turned his back on his companions at once, pretending to brush the dust from his coat by the bright light which fell through the glass door. Frank Miner stood near him, very quiet, his hands in his pockets, as usual, and a puzzled look in his face.
“Look here, Bright,” he said gravely, watching Bright’s back. “This sort of thing can’t go on, you know.”
Bright said nothing, but continued to dust himself, though there was not the least mark on his clothes.
“Upon my word,” observed Crowdie, walking slowly up and down in his ungraceful way, “I think we’d better call a meeting at once and have him requested to take his name off. If that isn’t conduct unbecoming a gentleman, I don’t know what is.”
“No,” said Miner. “That wouldn’t do. It would stick to him for life. All the same, Bright, this is a club—it isn’t a circus—and this sort of horse-play is just a little too much. Why don’t you turn round? There’s no dust on you—they keep the floor of the arena swept on purpose when Ralston’s about. But it’s got to stop—it’s got to stop right here.”
Bright’s big shoulders squared themselves all at once and he faced about, apparently quite cool again.
“I say,” he began, “did anybody see that but you two?” He looked up and down the deserted hall.
“No—wait a bit, though—halloa! Where are the hall servants? There ought to be two of them. They must have just gone off. There they are, on the other side of the staircase. Robert! And you—whatever your name is—come here!”
The two servants came forward at once. They had retired to show their discretion and at the same time to observe what happened, the moment they had seen Bright catch Ralston’s arm.
“Look here,” said Bright to them. “If you say anything about what you saw just now, you’ll have to go. Do you understand? As we shan’t speak of it, we shall know that you have, if it’s talked about. That’s all right—you can go now. I just wanted you to understand.”
The two servants bowed gravely. They respected Bright, and, like all servants, they worshiped Ralston. There was little fear of their indiscretion. Bright turned to Crowdie and Miner.
“If anybody has anything to say about this, I have,” he said. “I’m the injured person if any one is. And of course I shall say nothing, and I’ll beg you to say nothing either. Of course, if he ever falls foul of you, you’re free to do as you please, and of course you might, if you chose, bring this thing before the committee. But I know you won’t speak of it—either of you. We’ve all been screwed once or twice in our lives, I suppose. As for me, I’m his friend, and he didn’t know what he was doing. He’s a deuced good fellow at heart, but he’s infernally hasty when he’s had too much. That’s all right, isn’t it? I can trust you, can’t I?”
“Oh, yes, as far as I’m concerned,” said Crowdie, speaking first. “If you like that sort of thing, I’ve nothing to say. You’re quite big enough to take care of yourself. I hope Hester won’t hear it. She wouldn’t like the idea of her brother being knocked about without defending himself. I don’t particularly like it myself.”
“That’s nonsense, Walter, and you know it is,” answered Bright, curtly, and he turned to Miner with a look of enquiry.
“All right, Ham!” said the little man. “I’m not going to tell tales, if you aren’t. All the same—I don’t want to seem squeamish, and old-maid-ish, and a frump generally—but I don’t think I do remember just such a thing happening in any club I ever belonged to. Oh, well! Don’t let’s stand here talking ourselves black in the face. He’s gone, this time, and he’ll never find his way back if he once gets round the corner. You’ll hear to-morrow that he’s been polishing Tiffany’s best window with a policeman. That’s about his pressure when he gets a regular jag on. As for me, I’ve been trying to get somebody to have a drink with me for just three quarters of an hour, and so far my invitations have come back unopened. I suppose you won’t refuse a pilot’s two fingers after the battle, Ham?”
“What’s a pilot’s two fingers?” asked Bright. “I’ll accept your hospitality to that modest extent, anyhow. Show us.”
“It’s this,” said Miner, holding up his hand with the forefinger and little finger extended and the others turned in. “The little finger is the bottom,” he explained, “and you don’t count the others till you get to the forefinger, and just a little above the top of that you can see the whiskey. Understand? What will you have, Crowdie?”
“A drop of maraschino, thanks,” said the painter.
“Maraschino!” Miner made a wry face at the thought of the sugary stuff. “All right then, come in!”
They all went back together into the room in which Ralston and Miner had been sitting before the trouble began. Crowdie and his brother-in-law were not on very good terms. The former behaved well enough when they met, but Bright’s dislike for him was not to be concealed—which was strange, considering that Bright was a sensible and particularly self-possessed man, who was generally said to be of a gentle disposition, inclined to live harmoniously with his surroundings. He soon went away, leaving the artist and the man of letters to themselves. Miner did not like Crowdie very much either, but he admired him as an artist and had the faculty of making him talk.
If Ralston had really been drinking, he could not have been in a more excited state than when he left the club, leaving his best friend stretched on his back in the hall. He was half conscious of having done something which would be considered wholly outrageous among his associates, and among gentlemen at large. The fact that Bright was his distant cousin was hardly an excuse for tripping him up even in jest, and if the matter were to be taken in earnest, Bright’s superior strength would not excuse Ralston for using his own far superior skill and quickness, in the most brutal way, and on rather slender provocation. No one but he himself, however, even knew that he had been making a great effort to cure himself of a bad habit, and that although it was now Thursday, he had taken nothing stronger than a little weak wine and water and an occasional cup of coffee since Monday afternoon. Bright could therefore have no idea of the extent to which his accusation had wounded and exasperated the sensitive man—rendered ten times more sensitive than usual by his unwonted abstention.
Ralston, however, did not enter into any such elaborate consideration of the matter as he hurried along, too much excited just then to stop and look for a cab. He was still whole-heartedly angry with Bright, and was glad that he had thrown him, be the consequences what they might. If Bright would apologize for having laid rough hands on him, Ralston would do as much—not otherwise. If the thing were mentioned, he would leave the club and frequent another to which he belonged. Nothing could be simpler.
But he had received a much more violent impression than he fancied, and he forgot many things—forgetting even for a moment where he was going. Passing an up-town hotel on his way, he entered the bar by sheer force of habit—the habit of drinking something whenever his nerves were not quite steady. He ordered some whiskey, still thinking of Bright, and it was not until he had swallowed half of it that he realized what he was doing. With a half-suppressed oath he set down the liquor unfinished, dropped his money on the metal table and went out, more angry than ever.
Realizing that he was not exactly in a condition to talk quietly to any one, he turned into a side street, lit a strong cigar and walked more slowly for a few minutes, trying to collect his thoughts, and at last succeeding to a certain extent, aided perhaps by the tonic effect of the spoonful of alcohol he had swallowed.
The whole thing had begun in a very simple way—the gradual increase of tension from the early morning until towards evening had been produced by small incidents following upon the hasty marriage ceremony, which, as has been said, had produced a far deeper impression upon him than upon Katharine herself. The endless hours of waiting, the solitary luncheon, the waiting again, Katharine’s summary dismissal of him, almost without a word of explanation—then more waiting, and Miner’s tiresome questions, and the sudden call to the telephone, and stumbling against Crowdie—and all the rest of it. Small things, all of them, after the marriage itself, but able to produce at least a fit of extremely bad temper by their cumulative action upon such a character. Ralston was undoubtedly a dangerous man to exasperate at five o’clock on that Thursday afternoon.
He had been summoned by Robert Lauderdale himself, and this had contributed not a little to the haste which had brought him into collision with Bright. The old gentleman had asked him to come up to his house at once; John had said that he would come immediately, but on asking a further question he found the communication closed.
It immediately struck him that Katharine had not found uncle Robert at home in the morning, that she had very possibly gone to him again in the afternoon, and that they were perhaps together at that very moment, and had agreed to send for Ralston in order to talk matters over. It was natural enough, considering his strong desire to see Katharine before the ball, and his anxiety to hear Robert Lauderdale’s definite answer, upon which depended everything in the immediate present and future, that he should not have cared to waste time in exchanging civilities in the hall of the club with Bright, whom he saw almost every day, or with Crowdie, whom he detested. The rest has been explained.
Nor was it at all unnatural that the three men should all have been simultaneously deceived into believing that he had been drinking more than was good for him. A man who is known to drink habitually can hardly get credit for being sober when he is perfectly quiet—never, when he is in the least excited. Ralston had been more than excited. He had been violent. He had disgraced himself and the club by a piece of outrageous brutality. If any one but Bright had suffered by it, there would have been a meeting of the committee within twenty-four hours, and John Ralston’s name would have disappeared from the list of members forever. It was fortunate for him that Bright chanced to be his best friend.
Ralston scarcely realized how strongly the man was attached to him. Embittered as he was by being constantly regarded as the failure of the family, he could hardly believe that any one but his mother and Katharine cared what became of him. A young man who has wasted three or four years in fruitless, if not very terrible, dissipation, whose nerves are a trifle affected by habits as yet by no means incurable, and who has had the word ‘failure’ daily branded upon him by his discriminating relatives, easily believes that for him life is over, and that he can never redeem the time lost—for he is constantly reminded of this by persons who should know better. And if he is somewhat melancholic by nature, he is very ready to think that the future holds but two possibilities,—the love of woman so long as it may last, and an easy death of some sort when there is no more love. That was approximately John Ralston’s state of mind as he ascended the steps of Robert Lauderdale’s house on that Thursday afternoon.
CHAPTER XIX.
Ralston shook himself and stamped his feet softly upon the rug as he took off his overcoat in the hall of Robert Lauderdale’s house. He was conscious that he was nervous and tried to restore the balance of forces by a physical effort, but he was not very successful. The man went before him and ushered him into the same room in which Katharine had been received that morning. The windows were already shut, and several shaded lamps shed a soft light upon the bookcases, the great desk and the solid central figure of the great man. Ralston had not passed the threshold before he was conscious that Katharine was not present, as he had hoped that she might be. His excitement gave place once more to the cold sensation of something infinitely disappointing, as he took the old gentleman’s hand and then sat down in a stiff, high-backed chair opposite to him—to be ‘looked over,’ he said to himself.
“So you’re married,” said Robert Lauderdale, abruptly opening the conversation.
“Then you’ve seen Katharine,” answered the young man. “I wasn’t sure you had.”
“Hasn’t she told you?”
“No. I was to have seen her this afternoon, but—she couldn’t do more than tell me that she would talk it all over this evening.”
“Oh!” ejaculated the old man. “That rather alters the case.”
“How?” enquired Ralston, whose bad temper made him instinctively choose to understand as little as possible of what was said.
“Well, in this way, my dear boy. Katharine and I had a long interview this morning, and as I supposed you must have met before now, I naturally thought she had explained things to you.”
“What things?” asked Ralston, doggedly.
“Oh, well! If I’ve got to go through the whole affair again—” The old man stopped abruptly and tapped the table with his big fingers, looking across the room at one of the lamps.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Ralston. “If you’ll tell me why you sent for me that will be quite enough.”
Robert Lauderdale looked at him in some surprise, for the tone of his voice sounded unaccountably hostile.
“I didn’t ask you to come for the sake of quarrelling with you, Jack,” he replied.
“No. I didn’t suppose so.”
“But you seem to be in a confoundedly bad temper all the same,” observed the old gentleman, and his bushy eyebrows moved oddly above his bright old eyes.
“Am I? I didn’t know it.” Ralston sat very quietly in his chair, holding his hat on his knees, but looking steadily at Mr. Lauderdale.
The latter suddenly sniffed the air discontentedly, and frowned.
“It’s those abominable cocktails you’re always drinking, Jack,” he said.
“I’ve not been drinking any,” answered Ralston, momentarily forgetting the forgetfulness which had so angered him ten minutes earlier.
“Nonsense!” cried the old man, angrily. “Do you think that I’m in my dotage, Jack? It’s whiskey. I can smell it!”
“Oh!” Ralston paused. “It’s true—on my way here, I began to drink something and then put it down.”
“Hm!” Robert Lauderdale snorted and looked at him. “It’s none of my business how many cocktails you drink, I suppose—and it’s natural that you should wish to celebrate the wedding day. Might drink wine, though, like a gentleman,” he added audibly.
Again Ralston felt that sharp thrust of pain which a man feels under a wholly unjust accusation brought against him when he has been doing his best and has more than partially succeeded. The fiery temper—barely under control when he had entered the house—broke out again.
“If you’ve sent for me to lecture me on my habits, I shall go,” he said, moving as though about to rise.
“I didn’t,” answered the old gentleman, with flashing eyes. “I asked you to come here on a matter of business—and you’ve come smelling of whiskey and flying into a passion at everything I say—and I tell you—pah! I can smell it here!”
He took a cigar from the table and lit it hastily. Meanwhile Ralston rose to his feet. He evidently had no intention of quarrelling with his uncle unnecessarily, but the repeated insult stung him past endurance. The old man looked up, with the cigar between his teeth, and still holding the match at the end of it. With the other hand he took a bit of paper from the table and held it out towards Ralston.
“That’s what I sent for you about,” he said.
Ralston turned suddenly and faced him.
“What is it?” he asked sharply.
“Take it, and see.”
“If it’s money, I won’t touch it,” Ralston answered, beginning to grow pale, for he saw that it was a cheque, and it seemed just then like a worse insult than the first.
“It’s not for you. It’s a matter of business. Take it!”
Ralston shifted his hat into his left hand and took the cheque in his right, and glanced at it. It was drawn in favour of Katharine Lauderdale for one hundred thousand dollars. He laughed in the old man’s face, being very angry.
“It’s a curiosity, at all events,” he said with contempt, laying it on the table.
“What do you mean?” cried his uncle, growing redder as Ralston turned white.
“There is no Katharine Lauderdale, in the first place,” answered the young man. “The thing isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. If it were worth money, I’d tear it up—if it were for a million.”
“Oh—would you?” The old gentleman looked at Ralston with a sort of fierce, contemptuous unbelief.
“Yes—I would. So would Katharine. I daresay she told you so.”
Robert Lauderdale bit his cigar savagely. It was a little too much to be browbeaten by a mere boy, when he had been used to commanding all his life. Whether he understood Ralston, or whether he completely lost his head, was never clear to either of them, then, or afterwards. He took a fresh cheque and filled it in carefully. His face was scarlet now, and his sandy eyebrows were knitted angrily together. When he had done, he scrutinized the order closely, and then laid it upon the end of the desk under Ralston’s eyes.
‘Pay to the order of John Ralston one million dollars, Robert Lauderdale.’
Ralston glanced at the writing without touching the paper, and involuntarily his eyes were fascinated by it for a moment. There was nothing wrong about the cheque this time.
In the instant during which he looked at it, as it lay there, the temptation to take it was hardly perceptible to him. He knew it was real, and yet it did not look real. In the progress of his increasing anger there was a momentary pause. The exceeding magnitude of the figure arrested his attention and diverted his thoughts. He had never seen a cheque for a million of dollars before, and he could not help looking at it, for its own sake.
“That’s a curiosity, too,” he said, almost unconsciously. “I never saw one.”
A moment later he set down his hat, took the slip of paper and tore it across, doubled it and tore it again, and mechanically looked for the waste-paper basket. Robert Lauderdale watched him, not without an anxiety of which he was ashamed, for he had realized the stupendous risk into which his anger had led him as soon as he had laid the cheque on the desk, but had been too proud to take it back. He would not have been Robert the Rich if he had often been tempted to such folly, but the young man’s manner had exasperated him beyond measure.
“That was a million of dollars,” he said, in an odd voice, as the shreds fell into the basket.
“I suppose so,” answered Ralston, with a sneer, as he took his hat again. “You could have drawn it for fifty millions, I daresay, if you had chosen. It’s lucky you do that sort of thing in the family.”
“You’re either tipsy—or you’re a better man than I took you for,” said Robert Lauderdale, slowly regaining his composure.
“You’ve suggested already that I am probably drunk,” answered Ralston, brutally. “I’ll leave you to consider the matter. Good evening.”
He went towards the door. Old Lauderdale looked after him a moment and then rose, heavily, as big old men do.
“Jack! Come back! Don’t be a fool, my boy!”
“I’m not,” replied the young man. “The wisest thing I can do is to go—and I’m going.” He laid hold of the handle of the door. “It’s of no use for me to stay,” he said. “We shall come to blows if this goes on.”
His uncle came towards him as he stood there. Hamilton Bright was more like him in size and figure than any of the other Lauderdales.
“I don’t want you to go just yet, Jack,” he said, more kindly than he had spoken yet, and laying his hand on Ralston’s arm very much as Bright had done in the club.
Ralston shrank from his touch, not because he was in the least afraid of being violent with an old man, but because the mere thought of such a thing offended his sense of honour, and the position in which the two were standing reminded him of what had happened but a short time previously.
“Just tell me one thing, my dear boy,” began Robert Lauderdale, whose short fits of anger were always succeeded immediately by a burst of sunshiny good humour. “I want to know what induced you to go and marry Katharine in that way?”
Ralston drew back still further, trying to avoid his touch. It was utterly impossible for him to answer that he had very reluctantly yielded to Katharine’s own entreaties. Nor was his anger by any means as transient as the old man’s.
“I entirely refuse to discuss the matter,” he said, and paused. “Do you want a plain statement?” he asked, a moment later. “Very well. It was understood that Katharine was to tell you about the marriage, and she has done so. You’re the head of the family, and you have a right to know. If I ever had any intention of asking anything of you, it certainly wasn’t money. And I’ve asked nothing. Possibly, just now, you meant to be generous. It struck me in rather a different light. I thought it was pretty clear, in the first place, that you took me for the sort of man who would be willing to live on his wife’s money, if she had any. If you meant to give her the money, there was no reason for putting the cheque into my hands—nor for writing a cheque at all. You could, and you naturally should, have written a note to Beman to place the sum to her credit. That was a mere comedy, to see what I would do—to try me, as I suppose you said to yourself. Thank you. I never offered myself to be a subject for your experiments. As for the cheque for a million—that was pure farce. You were so angry that you didn’t know what you were doing, and then your fright—yes, your fright—calmed you again. But there’s no harm done. You saw me throw it into the waste-paper basket. That’s all, I think. As you seem to think I’m not sober, you may as well let me take myself off. But if I’m drunk—well, don’t try any of those silly experiments on men who aren’t. You’ll get caught, and a million is rather a high price to pay for seeing a man’s expression of face change. Good night—let me go, please.”
During this long tirade Robert Lauderdale had walked up and down before him with short, heavy steps, uttering occasional ejaculations, but at the last words he took hold of Ralston’s arm again—rather roughly this time.
“You’re an insolent young vagabond!” he cried, breaking into a fresh fit of anger. “You’re insulting me in my own house.”
“You’ve been insulting me in your own house for the last quarter of an hour,” retorted Ralston.
“And you’re throwing away the last chance you’ll ever get from me—”
“It wasn’t much of a chance—for a gentleman,” sneered the young man, interrupting him.
“Confound it! Can’t you let me speak? I say—” He hesitated, losing the thread of his intended speech in his anger.
“You don’t seem to have anything especial to say, except in the way of abuse, and there’s no reason at all why I should listen to that sort of thing. I’m not your son, and I’m not your butler—I’m thankful I’m not your dog!”
“John!” roared the old man, shaking him by the arm. “Be silent, sir! I won’t submit to such language!”
“What right have you to tell me what I shall submit to, or not submit to? Because you’re a sort of distant relation, I suppose, and have got into the habit of lording it over the whole tribe—who would lick the heels of your boots for your money—every one of them, except my mother and Katharine and me. Don’t tell me what I’m to submit to—”
“I didn’t say you!” shouted old Lauderdale. “I said that I wouldn’t hear such language from you—you’re drunk, John Ralston—you’re mad drunk.”
“Then you’ll have to listen to my ravings just as long as you force me to stay under your roof,” answered Ralston, almost trembling with rage. “If you keep me here, I shall tell you just what I think of you—”
“By the Eternal—this is too much—you young—puppy! You graceless, ungrateful—”
“I should really like to know what I’m to be grateful to you for,” said Ralston, feeling that his hands were growing icy cold. “You’ve never done anything for me or mine in your life—as you know. You’d much better let me go. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“And you dare to threaten me, too—I tell you—I’ll make you—” His words choked him, and again he shook Ralston’s arm violently.
“You won’t make me forget that you’re three times my age, at all events,” answered the young man. “But unless you’re very careful during the next ten minutes you’ll have a fit of apoplexy. You’d much better let me go away. This sort of thing isn’t good for a man of your age—and it’s not particularly dignified either. You’d realize it if you could see yourself and hear yourself—oh! take care, please! That’s my hat.”
Robert Lauderdale’s fury had boiled over at last and expressed itself in a very violent gesture, not intended for a blow, but very like one, and utterly destructive to Ralston’s hat, which rolled shapeless upon the polished wooden floor. The young man stooped as he spoke the last words, and picked it up.
“Oh, I say, Jack! I didn’t mean to do that, my boy!” said the old gentleman, with that absurdly foolish change of tone which generally comes into the voice when one in anger has accidentally broken something.
“No—I daresay not,” answered Ralston, coldly.
Without so much as a glance at old Lauderdale, he quickly opened the door and left the room, as he would have done some minutes earlier if his uncle had not held him by the arm. The library was downstairs, and he was out of the house before Lauderdale had sufficiently recovered from his surprise to call him back.
That, indeed, would have been quite useless, for Ralston would not have turned his head. He had never been able to understand how a man could be in a passion at one moment and brimming with good nature at the next, for his own moods were enduring, passionate and brooding.
It had all been very serious to him, much more so than to the old gentleman, though the latter had been by far the more noisy of the two in his anger. If he had been able to reflect, he might have soon come to the conclusion that the violent scene had been the result of a misunderstanding, in the first instance, and secondly, of Robert Lauderdale’s lack of wisdom in trying to make him take money for Katharine. In the course of time he would have condoned the latter offence and forgiven the former, but just now both seemed very hard to bear.
After being exceptionally abstemious,—and he alone knew at what a cost in the way of constant self-control,—he had been accused twice within an hour of being drunk. And as though that were not enough, with all the other matters which had combined to affect his temper on that day, Robert Lauderdale had first tried to make him act dishonourably, as Ralston thought, or at least in an unmanly way, and had then tried to make a fool of him with the cheque for a million. He almost wished that he could have kept the latter twenty-four hours for the sake of frightening the old man into his senses. It would have been a fair act of retaliation, he thought, though he would not in reality have stooped to do it.
It was quite dark when he came out upon Fifty-ninth Street, and the weather was foggy and threatening, though it was not cold. He had forgotten his overcoat in his hurry to get away, and did not notice even now that he was without it. Half mechanically he had pushed his high hat into some sort of shape and put it on, and had already forgotten that it was not in its normal condition. His face was very pale, and his eyes were bright. Without thinking of the direction he was taking, he turned into Fifth Avenue by force of habit. As he walked along, several men who knew him passed him, walking up from their clubs to dress for dinner. They most of them nodded, smiled rather oddly and went on. He noticed nothing strange in their behaviour, being very much absorbed in his own unpleasant reflections, but most of them were under the impression, from the glimpse they had of him under the vivid electric light, that he was very much the worse for drink, and that he had lost his overcoat and had his hat smashed in some encounter with a rough or roughs unknown. One or two of his rows had remained famous. But he was well known, too, for his power of walking straight and of taking care of himself, even when he was very far gone, and nobody who met him ventured to offer him any assistance. On the other hand, no one would have believed that he was perfectly sober, and that his hat had been destroyed by no less a person than the great Robert Lauderdale himself.
He certainly deserved much more pity than he got that day. But good and bad luck run in streaks, as the winds blow across land-locked waters, and it is not easy to get across from one to the other. Ralston was drifting in a current of circumstances from which he could not escape, being what he was, a man with an irritable temper, more inclined to resent the present than to prepare the future. Presently he turned eastwards out of Fifth Avenue. He remembered afterwards that it must have been somewhere near Forty-second Street, for he had a definite impression of having lately passed the great black wall of the old reservoir. He did not know why he turned just there, and he was probably impelled to do so by some slight hindrance at the crossing he had reached. At all events, he was sure of having walked at least a mile since he had left Robert Lauderdale’s house.
The cross street was very dark compared with the Avenue he had left. He stopped to light a cigar, in the vague hope that it might help him to think, for he knew very well that he must go home before long and dress for a dinner party, and then go on to the great Assembly ball at which he was to meet Katharine. It struck him as he thought of the meeting that he would have much more to tell her about their uncle Robert than she could possibly have to relate of her own experience. He lit his cigar very carefully. Anger had to some extent the effect of making him deliberate and precise in his small actions. He held the lighted taper to the end of his cigar several seconds, and then dropped it. It had dazzled him, so that for the moment the street seemed to be quite black in front of him. He walked on boldly, suspecting nothing, and a moment later he fell to his full length upon a heap of building material piled upon the pavement.
It is worth remarking, for the sake of those who take an interest in tracing the relations of cause and effect, that this was the first, the last and the only real accident which happened to John Ralston on that day, and it was not a very serious one, nor, unfortunately, a very unfrequent one in the streets of New York. But it happened to him, as small accidents so often do, at an hour which gave it an especial importance.
He lay stunned as he had fallen for more than a minute, and when he came to himself he discovered that he had struck his head. The brim of his already much injured hat had saved him from a wound; but the blow had been a violent one, and though he got upon his feet almost immediately and assured himself that he was not really injured, yet, when he had got beyond the obstacle over which he had stumbled, he found it impossible to recollect which way he should go in order to get home. The slight concussion of the brain had temporarily disturbed the sense of direction, a phenomenon not at all uncommon after receiving a violent blow on the head, as many hard riders and hunting men are well aware. But it was new to Ralston, and he began to think that he was losing his mind. He stopped under a gas-lamp and looked at his watch, by way of testing his sanity. It was half past six, and the watch was going. He immediately began a mental calculation to ascertain whether he had been unconscious for any length of time. He remembered that it had been after five o’clock when he had been called to the telephone at the club. His struggle with Bright had kept him some minutes longer, he had walked to Robert Lauderdale’s, and his interview had lasted nearly half an hour, and on recalling what he had done since then he had that distinct impression of having lately seen the reservoir, of which mention has already been made.
He walked on like a man in a dream, and more than half believing that he was really dreaming. He was going eastwards, as he had been going when he had entered the street, but he found it impossible to understand which way his face was turned. He came to Madison Avenue, and knew it at once, recognizing the houses, but though he stood still several minutes at the corner, he could not distinguish which was up town and which down town. He believed that if he could have seen the stars he could have found his way, but the familiar buildings, recognizable in all their features to his practised eye even in the uncertain gaslight, conveyed to him no idea of direction, and the sky was overcast. In despair, at last, he continued in the direction in which he had been going. If he was crossing the avenue he must surely strike the water, whether he went forwards or backwards, and he was positive that he should know the East River from the North River, even on the darkest night, by the look of the piers. But to all intents and purposes, though he knew where he was, he was lost, being deprived of the sense of direction.
The confusion increased with the darkness of the next street he traversed, and to his surprise the avenue beyond that did not seem familiar. It was Park Avenue where it is tunnelled along its length for the horse-cars which go to the Central Station. It was very dark, but in a moment he again recognized the houses. By sheer instinct he turned to the right, trusting to luck and giving up all hope of finding his way by any process of reasoning. The darkness, the blow he had received when he had fallen and all that had gone before, combined with the cold he felt, deadened his senses still more.
He noticed for the first time that his overcoat was gone, and he wondered vaguely whether it had been stolen from him when he had fallen. In that case he must have been unconscious longer than he had imagined. He felt for his watch, though he had looked at it a few moments previously. It was in his pocket as well as his pocket-book and some small change. He felt comforted at finding that he had money about him, and wished he might come across a stray cab. Several passed him, but he could see by the lamplight that there were people in them, dressed for dinner. It was growing late, since they were already going to their dinner-parties. He felt very cold, and suddenly the flakes of snow began to fall thick and fast in his face. The weather had changed in half an hour, and a blizzard was coming. He shivered and trudged on, not knowing whither. He walked faster and faster, as men generally do when they have lost their way, and he turned in many directions, losing himself more completely at every new attempt, yet walking ever more rapidly, pursued by the nervous consciousness that he should be dressing for dinner and that there was no time to be lost. He did not feel dizzy nor weak, but he was utterly confused, and began to be unconscious of the distance he was traversing and of the time as it passed.
All at once he came upon a vast, dim square full of small trees. At first he thought he was in Gramercy Park, but the size of the place soon told him that he was mistaken. By this time it was snowing heavily and the pavements were already white. He pulled up the collar of his frock coat and hid his right hand in the front of it, between the buttons, blowing into his left at the same time, for both were freezing. He stared up at the first corner gas-lamp he came to, and read without difficulty the name in black letters. He was in Tompkins Square.
He had been there once or twice in his life, and had been struck by the great, quiet, open place, and he understood once more where he was, and looked at his watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. He rubbed his eyes, and then rubbed the snow-flakes off the glass, for they fell so fast that he could not hold it to the light a moment before one of them fell into the open case. He had been wandering for nearly three hours, dinnerless, in the snow, and he suddenly felt numb and hungry and thirsty all at once. But at the same time, as though by magic, the sense of locality and direction returned. He put his watch into his pocket again, stamped the wet snow from his shoes and struck resolutely westward. He knew how hopeless it was to expect to find a carriage of any sort in that poor quarter of the city. Oddly enough, the first thing that struck him was the absurdity of his own conduct in not once asking his way, for he was certain that he had met many hundreds of people during those hours of wandering. He marched on through the snow, perfectly satisfied at having recovered his senses, though he now for the first time felt a severe pain in his head.
Before long he reached a horse-car track and waited for the car to come up, without the least hesitation as to its direction. He got on without difficulty, though he noticed that the conductor looked at him keenly and seemed inclined to help him. He paid his five cents and sat down in the corner away from the door. It was pleasantly warm by contrast with the weather he had been facing for hours, and the straw under his feet seemed deliciously comfortable. He remembered being surprised at finding himself so tired, and at the pain in his head. There was one other man in the car, who stood near the door talking with the conductor. He was a short man, very broad in the shoulders and thick about the neck, but not at all fat, as Ralston noticed, being a judge of athletes. This man wore an overcoat with a superb sable collar, and a gorgeous gold chain was stretched across the broad expanse of his waistcoat. He was perfectly clean shaven, and looked as though he might be a successful prize fighter. At this point in his observation John Ralston fell asleep.
He had two more intervals of consciousness.
He had gone to sleep in the horse-car. He woke to find himself fighting the man with the fur coat and the chain, out under the falling snow, with half a dozen horse-car drivers and conductors making a ring, each with a lantern. He thought he remembered seeing a red streak on the face of his adversary. A moment later he saw a vivid flash of light, and then he was unconscious again.
When he opened his eyes once more he looked into his mother’s face, and he saw an expression there which he never forgot as long as he lived.
CHAPTER XX.
Katharine looked in vain for Ralston near the door of the ball-room that night, as she entered with her mother, passed up to curtsy to one of the ladies whose turn it was to receive and slowly crossed the polished floor to the other side. He was nowhere to be seen, and immediately she felt a little chill of apprehension, as though something had warned her that he was in trouble. The sensation was merely the result of her disappointment. Hitherto, even to that very afternoon, he had always shown himself to be the most scrupulously exact and punctual man of her acquaintance, and it was natural enough that the fact of his not appearing at such an important juncture as the present should seem very strange. Katharine, however, attributed what she felt to a presentiment of evil, and afterwards remembered it as though it had been something like a supernatural warning.
When she had assured herself that he was really not at the ball, her first impulse was to ask every one she met if he had been seen, and as that was impossible, she looked about for some member of the family who might enlighten her and of whom she might ask questions without exciting curiosity. It was not an easy matter, however, to find just such a person as should fulfil the requirements of the case. Hamilton Bright or Frank Miner would have answered her purpose, and it was just possible that one or both of them might appear at a later hour, though neither of them were men who danced. Crowdie would come, of course, with his wife, but she felt that she could not ask him questions about Ralston, and Hester would hardly be likely to know anything of the latter’s movements.
It was quite out of the question for Katharine to sit in a quiet corner under one of the galleries, and watch the door, as a cat watches the hole from which she expects a mouse to appear. She was too much surrounded by the tribe of high-collared, broad-tied, smooth-faced, empty-headed, and very young men who, in an American ball-room, make it more or less their business to inflict their company upon the most beautiful young girl present at any one time. Older men would often be only too glad to talk with her, and she would prefer them to her bevy of half-fledged admirers, but the older man naturally shrinks from intruding himself amongst a circle of very young people, and systematically keeps away. On the whole, too, the young girls enjoy themselves exceedingly well and do not complain of their following.
At last, however, Katharine determined to speak to her mother. She had seen the latter in close conversation with Crowdie. That was natural enough. Crowdie thought more of beauty than of any other gift, and if Mrs. Lauderdale had been a doll, which she was not, he would always have spent half an hour with her if he could, merely for the sake of studying her face. She was very beautiful to-night, and there was no fear of a repetition of the scene which had occurred by the fireplace in Clinton Place on Monday night. It seemed as though she had recalled the dazzling freshness of other days—not long past, it is true—by an act of will, determined to be supreme to the very end. She knew it, too. She was conscious that the lights were exactly what they should be, that the temperature was perfect, that her gown could not fit her better and that she had arrived feeling fresh and rested. Charlotte’s visit had done her good, also, for Charlotte had made herself very charming on that afternoon, as will be remembered by those who have had the patience to follow the minor events of the long day. Even her husband had been more than usually unbending and agreeable at dinner, and it was probably her appearance which had produced that effect on him. Like most very strong and masculine men, whatever be their characters, he was very really affected by woman’s beauty. For some time he had silently regretted the change in his wife’s appearance, and this evening he had noticed the return of that brilliancy which had attracted him long ago. He had even kissed her before his daughter, when he had put on her cloak for her, which was a very rare occurrence. Crowdie had seen Mrs. Lauderdale as soon as he had left Hester to her first partner and had been at liberty to wander after his own devices, and had immediately gone to her. Katharine had observed this, for she had good eyes and few things within her range of vision escaped her. Naturally enough, too, she had glanced at her mother more than once and had seen that the latter was evidently much interested by some story which Crowdie was telling. Her own mind being entirely occupied with Ralston, it was not surprising that she should imagine that they were talking of him.
She watched her opportunity, and when Crowdie at last left her mother’s side, went to her immediately. They were a wonderful pair as they stood together for a few moments, and many people watched them. Mrs. Lauderdale, who was especially conscious of the admiration she was receiving that night, felt so vain of herself that she did not attempt to avoid the comparison, but drew herself up proudly to her great height in the full view of every one, and as though remembering and repenting of the bitter envy she had felt of Katharine’s youth even as lately as the previous day, she looked down calmly and lovingly into the girl’s face. Katharine was not in the least aware that any one was looking at them, nor did she imagine any comparison possible between her mother and herself. Her faults of character certainly did not lie in the direction of personal vanity. Many people, too, thought that she was not looking her best, as the phrase goes, on that evening, while others said that she had never looked as well before. She was transparently pale, with that fresh pallor which is not unbecoming in youth and health when it is natural, or the result of an emotion. The whiteness of her face made her deep grey eyes seem larger and deeper than ever, and the broad, dark eyebrows gave a look of power to the features, which was striking in one so young. Passion, anxiety, the alternations of hope and fear, even the sense of unwonted responsibility, may all enhance beauty when they are of short duration, though in time they must destroy it, or modify its nature, spiritualizing or materializing it, according to the objects and reasons from which they proceed. The beauty of Napoleon’s death mask is very different from that of Goethe’s, yet both, perhaps, at widely different ages, approached as nearly to perfection of feature as humanity ever can.
“Well, child, have you come back to me?” asked Mrs. Lauderdale, with a smile.
There was nothing affected in her manner, for she had too long been first, yet she knew that her smile was not lost on others—she could feel that the eyes of many were on her, and she had a right to be as handsome as she could. Even Katharine was struck by the wonderful return of youth.
“You’re perfectly beautiful to-night, mother!” she exclaimed, in genuine admiration.
There was something in the whole-hearted, spontaneous expression of approval from her own daughter which did more to assure the elder woman of her appearance than all Crowdie’s compliments could have done. Katharine rarely said such things.
“You’re not at all ugly yourself to-night, my dear!” laughed Mrs. Lauderdale. “You’re a little pale—but it’s very becoming. What’s the matter? Are you out of breath? Have you been dancing too long?”
“I didn’t know that I was pale,” answered Katharine. “No, I’m not out of breath—nor anything. I just came over to you because I saw you were alone for a moment. By the bye, mother, have you seen Jack anywhere?”
It was not very well done, and it was quite clear that she had crossed the big ball-room solely for the purpose of asking the question. Mrs. Lauderdale hesitated an instant before giving any answer, and she had a puzzled expression.
“No,” she said, at last. “I’ve not seen him. I don’t believe he’s here. In fact—” she was a truthful woman—“in fact, I’m quite sure he’s not. Did you expect him?”
“Of course,” answered Katharine, in a low voice. “He always comes.”
She knew her mother’s face very well, and was at once convinced that she had been right in supposing that Crowdie had been speaking of Ralston. She saw the painter at some distance, and tried to catch his glance and bring him to her, but he suddenly turned away and went off in the opposite direction. She reflected that Crowdie did not pass for a discreet or reticent person, and that if there were anything especial to be told he had doubtless confided it to his wife before coming to the ball. She looked about for Hester, but could not see her at first, neither could she discover Bright or Miner in the moving crowd. She stood quietly by her mother for a time, glad to escape momentarily from her usual retinue of beardless young dandies. Mrs. Lauderdale still seemed to hesitate as to whether she should say any more. The story Crowdie had told her was a very strange one, she thought, and she herself doubted the accuracy of the details. And he had exacted a sort of promise of secrecy from her, which, in her experience, very generally meant that a part, or the whole of what was told, might be untrue. Nevertheless, she had never thought that the painter was a spiteful person. She was puzzled, therefore, but she very soon resolved that she should tell Katharine nothing, which was, after all, the wisest plan.
Just then a tall, lean man made his way up to her and bowed rather stiffly. He was powerfully made, and moved like a person more accustomed to motion than to rest. He had a weather-beaten, kindly face, clean shaven, thin and bony. His features were decidedly ugly, though by no means repulsive. His hair was thick and iron grey, and he was about fifty years of age. Mrs. Lauderdale gave him her hand, and seemed glad to see him.
“Mr. Griggs—my daughter,” she said, introducing him to Katharine, who had immediately recognized him, for she had seen him at a distance on the previous evening at the Thirlwalls’ dance.
Paul Griggs bowed again in his stiff, rather foreign way, and Katharine smiled and bent her head a little. She had always wished she might meet him, for she had read some of his books and liked them, and he was reported to have led a very strange life, and to have been everywhere.
“I saw you talking to Mrs. Crowdie,” said Mrs. Lauderdale. “She’s charming, isn’t she?”
“Very,” answered Mr. Griggs, in a deep, manly voice, but without any special emphasis. “Very,” he repeated vaguely. “She was a mere girl—not out yet—when I was last at home,” he added, suddenly showing some interest.
“By the bye, where is she?” asked Katharine, in the momentary pause which followed. “I was looking for her.”
“Over there,” replied Mr. Griggs, nodding almost imperceptibly in the direction he meant to indicate. As he was over six feet in height, and could see over the heads of most of the people, Katharine had not gained any very accurate information.
“You can see her,” he continued in explanation. “She’s sitting up among the frumps; she’s looking for her husband, and there’s a man with yellow hair talking to her—it’s her brother—over there between the first and second windows from the end where the music is. Do you make her out?”
“Yes. How can you tell that she is looking for her husband at this distance?” Katharine laughed.
“By her eyes,” answered Mr. Griggs. “She’s in love with him, you know—and she’s anxious about him for some reason or other. But I believe he’s all right now. I used to know him very well in Paris once upon a time. Clever fellow, but he had—oh, well, it’s nobody’s business. What a beautiful ball it is, Mrs. Lauderdale—”
“What did Mr. Crowdie have in Paris?” asked Katharine, with sudden interest, and interrupting him.
“Oh—he was subject to bad colds in winter,” answered Mr. Griggs, coolly. “Lungs affected, I believe—or something of that sort. As I was saying, Mrs. Lauderdale, this is a vast improvement on the dances they used to have in New York when I was young. That was long before your time, though I daresay your husband can remember them.”
And he went on speaking, evidently making conversation of a most unprofitable kind in the most cold-blooded and cynical manner, by sheer force of habit, as people who have the manners of the world without its interests often do, until something strikes them.
A young man, whose small head seemed to have just been squeezed through the cylinder of enamelled linen on which it rested as on a pedestal, came up to Katharine and asked her for a dance. She went away on his arm. After a couple of turns, she made him stop close to Hester Crowdie.
“Thanks,” she said, nodding to her partner. “I want to speak to my cousin. You don’t mind—do you? I’ll give you the rest of the dance some other time.”
And without waiting for his answer, she stepped upon the low platform which ran round the ball-room, and took the vacant seat by Hester’s side. Hamilton Bright, who had only been exchanging a word with his sister when Griggs had caught sight of him, was gone, and she was momentarily alone.
“Hester,” began Katharine, “where is Jack Ralston? I’m perfectly sure your husband knows, and has told you, and I know that he has told my mother, from the way she spoke—”
“How did you guess that?” asked Mrs. Crowdie, starting a little at the first words. “But I’m sorry if he has spoken to your mother about it—” She stopped suddenly, feeling that she had made a mistake.
She was very nervous herself that evening, and as Griggs had said, she was anxious about her husband. There was no real foundation for her anxiety, but since her recent experience, she was very easily frightened. Crowdie had spoken excitedly to her about Ralston’s conduct at the club that afternoon, and she had fancied that there was something unusual in his look.
“Oh, Hester, what is it?” asked Katharine, bending nearer to her and laying a hand on hers.
“Don’t look so awfully frightened, dear!” Hester smiled, but not very naturally. “It’s nothing very serious. In fact, I believe it’s only that Walter saw him at the club late this afternoon and got the idea that he wasn’t—quite well.”