Katharine clasped her hands together, as she lay on her side, and prayed fervently that she might die that day—at that very hour, if possible. It would be so very easy for God to let her die, she thought, since she was already so tired. Her heart had almost stopped beating, her hands were cold, and she felt numb, and weary, and miserable. The step was so short. She wondered whether it would hurt much if she took it herself, without waiting. There were things which made one go to sleep—without waking again. That must be very easy and quite, quite painless, she thought. She felt dizzy, and she closed her eyes again.
How good it would be! All alone, in the old room, while the snow was falling softly outside. She should not mind the snow-glare any more then. It would not tire her eyes. That white smile—it came back to her at last, and she felt it on her own face. It was very strange that she should be smiling now—for she was so near crying—nearer than she thought, indeed, for as the delicate lips parted with the slow, sighing breath, the heavy lids—darkened as though they had been hurt—were softly swelling a little, and then very suddenly and quickly two great tears gathered and dropped and ran and lost themselves upon the pillow.
Ah, how peaceful it would be—never to wake again, when the little step was passed! Perhaps, if she lay quite still, it would come. She had heard strange stories of people in the East, who let themselves die when they were weary. Surely, none of them had ever been as weary as she. Strange—she was always so strong! Every one used to say, ‘as strong as Katharine Lauderdale.’ If they could see her now!
She wanted to open her eyes, but the snow-glare must be still in the room, and she could not bear it—and the shabby furniture. She would breathe more slowly. It seemed as though with each quiet sigh the lingering life might float away into that dear, peaceful beyond—where there would be no snow-glare and the furniture would not be shabby—if there were any furniture at all—beyond—or any John Ralston—no ‘marriage nor giving in marriage’—all alone in the old room—
Two more tears gathered, more slowly this time, though they dropped and lost themselves just where the first had fallen, and then, somehow, it all stopped, for what seemed like one blessed instant, and then there came a loud knocking, with a strange, involved dream of carpenters and boxes and a journey and being late for something, and more knocking, and her mother’s voice calling to her through the door.
“Katharine, child! Wake up! Don’t forget that you’re to dine at the Van De Waters’ at eight! It’s half past six now!”
It was quite dark, save for the flickering light thrown upon the ceiling from the gas-lamp below. Katharine started up from her long sleep, hardly realizing where she was.
“All right, mother—I’m awake!” she answered sleepily.
As she listened to her mother’s departing footsteps, it all came back to her, and she felt faint again. She struggled to her feet in the gloom and groped about till she had found a match, and lit the gas and drew down the old brown shades of the window. The light hurt her eyes for a moment, and as she pressed her hands to them she felt that they were wet.
“I suppose I’ve been crying in my sleep!” she exclaimed aloud. “What a baby I am!”
She looked at herself in the mirror with some curiosity, before beginning to dress.
“I’m an object for men and angels to stare at!” she said, and tried to laugh at her dejected appearance. “However,” she added, “I suppose I must go. I’m Katharine Lauderdale—‘that nice girl who never has headaches and things’—so I have no excuse.”
She stopped for a moment, still looking at herself.
“But I’m not Katharine Lauderdale!” she said presently, whispering the words to herself. “I’m Katharine Ralston—if not, what am I? Ah, dear me!” she sighed. “I wonder how it will all end!”
At all events, Katharine Lauderdale, or Katharine Ralston, she was herself again, as she turned from the mirror and began to think of what she must wear at the Van De Waters’ dinner-party.
Even John Ralston’s tough constitution could not have been expected to shake off in a few hours the fatigue and soreness of such an experience as he had undergone. Even if he had been perfectly well, he would have stayed at home that day in the expectation of receiving an answer from Katharine; and as it was, he needed as much rest as he could get. He had not often been at the trouble of taking care of himself, and the sensation was not altogether disagreeable, as he sat by his own fireside, in the small room which went by the name of ‘Mr. Ralston’s study.’ He stretched out his feet to the fire, drank a little tea from time to time, stared at the logs, smoked, turned over the pages of a magazine without reading half a dozen sentences, and revolved the possibilities of his life without coming to any conclusion.
He was stiff and bruised. When he moved his head, it ached, and when he tried to lean to the right, his neck hurt him on the left side. But if he did not move at all, he felt no pain. There was a sort of perpetual drowsy hum in his ears, partly attributable, he thought, to the singing of a damp log in the fire, and partly to his own imagination. When he tried to think of anything but his own rather complicated affairs, he almost fell asleep. But when his attention was fixed on his present situation, it seemed to him that his life had all at once come to a standstill just as events had been moving most quickly. As for really sleeping in the intervals of thought, his constant anxiety for Katharine’s reply to his letter kept his faculties awake. He knew, however, that it would be quite unreasonable to expect anything from her before twelve o’clock. He tried to be patient.
Between ten and eleven, when he had been sitting before his fire for about an hour, the door opened softly and Mrs. Ralston entered the room. She did not speak, but as John rose to meet her she smiled quietly and made him sit down again. Then she kneeled before the hearth and began to arrange the fire, an operation which she had always liked, and in which she displayed a singular talent. Moreover, at more than one critical moment in her life, she had found it a very good resource in embarrassment. A woman on her knees, making up a fire, has a distinct advantage. She may take as long as she pleases about it, for any amount of worrying about the position of a particular log is admissible. She may change colour twenty times in a minute, and the heat of the flame as well as the effort she makes in moving the wood will account satisfactorily for her blushes or her pallor. She may interrupt herself in speaking, and make effective pauses, which will be attributed to the concentration of her thoughts upon the occupation of her hands. If a man comes too near, she may tell him sharply to keep away, either saying that she can manage what she is doing far better if he leaves her alone, or alleging that the proximity of a second person will keep the air from the chimney and make it smoke. Or if the gods be favourable and she willing, she may at any moment make him kneel beside her and help her to lift a particularly heavy log. And when two young people are kneeling side by side before a pile of roaring logs in winter, the flames have a strange bright magic of their own; and sometimes love that has smouldered long blazes up suddenly and takes the two hearts with it—out of sheer sympathy for the burning oak and hickory and pine.
But Mrs. Ralston really enjoyed making up a fire, and she went to the hearth quite naturally and without reflecting that after what had occurred she felt a little timid in her son’s presence. He obeyed her and resumed his seat, and sat leaning forward, his arms resting on his knees and his hands hanging down idly, while he watched his mother’s skilful hands at work.
“Jack dear—” she paused in her occupation, having the tongs in one hand and a little piece of kindling-wood in the other, but did not turn round—“Jack, I can’t make up to you for what I did last night, can I?”
She was motionless for a moment, listening for his reply. It came quietly enough after a second or two.
“No, mother, you can’t. But I don’t want to remember it, any more than you do.”
Mrs. Ralston did not move for an instant after he had spoken. Then she occupied herself with the fire again.
“You’re quite right,” she said presently. “You wouldn’t be my son, if you said anything else. If I were a man, one of us would be dead by this time.”
She spoke rather intensely, so to say, but she used her hands as gently as ever in what she was doing. John said nothing.
“Men don’t forgive that sort of thing from men,” she continued presently. “There’s no reason why a woman should be forgiven, I suppose, even if the man she has insulted is her own son.”
“No,” John answered thoughtfully. “There is no more reason for forgiving it. But there’s every reason to forget it, if you can.”
“If you can. I don’t wish to forget it.”
“You should, mother. Of course, you brought me up to believe—you and my father—that to doubt a man’s word is an unpardonable offence, because lying is a part of being afraid, which is the only unpardonable sin. I believe it. I can’t help it.”
“I don’t expect you to. We’ve always—in a way—been more like two men, you and I, than like a mother and her son. I don’t want the allowances that are made for women. I despise them. I’ve done you wrong, and I’ll take the consequences. What are they? It’s a bad business, Jack. I’ve run against a rock. I’ll do anything you ask. I’ll give you half my income, and we can live apart. Will you do that?”
“Mother!” John Ralston fairly started in his surprise. “Don’t talk like that!”
“There!” exclaimed Mrs. Ralston, hanging up the hearthbrush on her left, after sweeping the feathery ashes from the shining tiles within the fender. “It will burn now. Nobody understands making a fire as I do.”
She rose to her feet swiftly, drew back from John, and sat down in the other of the two easy chairs which stood before the fireplace. She glanced at John and then looked at the fire she had made, clasping her hands over one knee.
“Smoke, won’t you?” she said presently. “It seems more natural.”
“All right—if you like.”
John lit a cigarette and blew two or three puffs into the air, high above his head, very thoughtfully.
“I’m waiting for your answer, Jack,” said Mrs. Ralston, at last.
“I don’t see what I’m to say,” replied John. “Why do you talk about it?”
“For this reason—or for these reasons,” said Mrs. Ralston, promptly, as though she had prepared a speech beforehand, which was, in a measure, the truth. “I’ve done you a mortal injury, Jack. I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s not. I’ll tell you why. If any one else, man or woman, had deliberately doubted your statement on your word of honour, you would never have spoken to him or her again. Of course, in our country, duelling isn’t fashionable—but if it had been a man—I don’t know, but I think you would have done something to him with your hands. Yes, you can’t deny it. Well, the case isn’t any better because satisfaction is impossible, is it? I’m trying to look at it logically, because I know what you must feel. Don’t you see, dear?”
“Yes. But—”
“No! Let me say all I’ve got to say first, and then you can answer me. I’ve been thinking about it all night, and I know just what I ought to do. I know very well, too, that most women would just make you forgive as much as you could and then pretend to you and to themselves that nothing had ever happened. But we’re not like that, you and I. We’re like two men, and since we’ve begun in that way, it’s not possible to turn round and be different now, in the face of a difficulty. There are people who would think me foolish, and call me quixotic, and say, ‘But it’s your own son—what a fuss you’re making about nothing.’ Wouldn’t they? I know they would. It seems to me that, if anything, it’s much worse to insult one’s own son, as I did you, than somebody else’s son, to whom one owes nothing. I’m not going to put on sackcloth and sit in the ashes and cry. That wouldn’t help me a bit, nor you either. Besides, other people, as a rule, couldn’t understand the thing. You never told me a lie in your life. Last Monday when you came home after that accident, and weren’t quite yourself, you told me the exact truth about everything that had happened. You never even tried to deceive me. Of course you have your life, and I have mine. I have always respected your secrets, haven’t I, Jack?”
“Indeed you have, mother.”
“I know I have, and if I take credit for it, that only makes all this worse. I’ve never asked you questions which I thought you wouldn’t care to answer. I’ve never been inquisitive about all this affair with Katharine. I don’t even know at the present moment whether you’re engaged to her still, or not. I don’t want to know—but I hope you’ll marry her some day, for I’m very fond of her. No—I’ve never interfered with your liberty, and I’ve never been willing to listen to what people wished to tell me about you. I shouldn’t think it honest. And in that way we’ve lived very harmoniously, haven’t we?”
“Mother, you know we have,” answered John, earnestly.
“All that makes this very much worse. One drop of blood will turn a whole bowl of clean water red. It wouldn’t show at all if the water were muddy. If you and I lived together all our lives, we should never forget last night.”
“We could try to,” said John. “I’m willing.”
Mrs. Ralston paused and looked at him a full minute in silence. Then she put out her hand and touched his arm.
“Thank you, Jack,” she said gravely.
John tried to press her hand, but she withdrew it.
“But I’m not willing,” she resumed, after another short pause. “I’ve told you—I don’t want a woman’s privilege to act like a brute and be treated like a spoiled child afterwards. Besides, there are many other things. If what I thought had been true, I should never have allowed myself to act as I did. I ought to have been kind to you, even if you had been perfectly helpless. I know you’re wild, and drink too much sometimes. You have the strength to stop it if you choose, and you’ve been trying to since Monday. You’ve said nothing, and I’ve not watched you, but I’ve been conscious of it. But it’s not your fault if you have the tendency to it. Your father drank very hard sometimes, but he had a different constitution. It shortened his life, but it never seemed to affect him outwardly. I’m conscious—to my shame—that I didn’t discourage him, and that when I was young and foolish I was proud of him because he could take more than all the other officers and never show it. Men drank more in those days. It was not so long after the war. But you’re a nervous man, and your father wasn’t, and you have his taste for it without that sort of quiet, phlegmatic, strong, sailor’s nature that he had. So it’s not your fault. Perhaps I should have frightened you about it when you were a boy. I don’t know. I’ve made mistakes in my life.”
“Not many, mother dear.”
“Well—I’ve made a great one now, at all events. I’m not going back over anything I’ve said already. It’s the future I’m thinking of. I can’t do much, but I can manage a ‘modus vivendi’ for us—”
“But why—”
“Don’t interrupt me, dear! I’ve made up my mind what to do. All I want of you now, is your advice as a man, about the way of doing it. Listen to me, Jack. After what has happened between us—no matter how it turns out afterwards, for we can’t foresee that—it’s impossible that we should go on living as we’ve lived since your father died. I don’t mean that we must part, unless you want to leave me, as you would have a perfect right to do.”
“Mother!”
“Jack—if I were your brother, instead of your mother—still more, if I were any other relation—would you be willing to depend for the rest of your life on him, or on any one who had treated you as I treated you last night?”
She paused for an answer, but John Ralston was silent. With his character, he knew that she was quite right, and that nothing in the world could have induced him to accept such a situation.
“Answer me, please, dear,” she said, and waited again.
“Mother—you know! Why should I say it?”
“You would refuse to be dependent any longer on such a person?”
“Well—yes—since you insist upon my saying it,” answered John, reluctantly. “But with you, it’s—”
“With me, it’s just the same—more so. I have had a longer experience of you than any one else could have had, and you’ve never deceived me. Consequently, it was more unpardonable to doubt you. I don’t wish you to be dependent on me any longer, Jack. It’s an undignified position for you, after this.”
“Mother—I’ve tried—”
“Hush, dear! I’m not talking about that. If there had been any necessity, if you had ever had reason to suppose that it wasn’t my greatest happiness to have you with me—or that there wasn’t quite enough for us both—you’d have just gone to sea before the mast, or done something of the same kind, as all brave boys do who feel that they’re a burden on their mothers. But there’s always been enough for us both, and there is now. I mean to give you your share, and keep what I need myself. That will be yours some day, too, when I’m dead and gone.”
“Please don’t speak of that,” said John, quickly and earnestly. “And as for this idea of your—”
“Oh, I’m in no danger of dying young,” interrupted Mrs. Ralston, with a little dry laugh. “I’m very strong. All the Lauderdales are, you know—we live forever. My father would have been seventy-one this year if he hadn’t been killed. And as long as I live, of course, I must have something to live on. I don’t mean to go begging to uncle Robert for myself, and I shouldn’t care to do it for you, though I would if it were necessary. Now, we’ve got just twelve thousand dollars a year between us, and the house, which is mine, you know. That will give us each six thousand dollars a year. I shall see my lawyer this morning and it can be settled at once. Whenever the house is let, if we’re both abroad, you shall have half of the rent. When we’re both here, half of it is yours to live in—or pull down, if you like. If you marry, you can bring your wife here, and I’ll go away. Now, I think that’s fair. If it isn’t, say so before it’s too late.”
“I won’t listen to anything of the kind,” answered John, calmly.
“You must,” answered his mother.
“I don’t think so, mother.”
“I do. You can’t prevent me from making over half the estate to you, if I choose, and when that’s done, it’s yours. If you don’t like to draw the rents, you needn’t. The money will accumulate, for I won’t touch it. You shall not be in this position of dependence on me—and at your age—after what has happened.”
“It seems to me, mother dear, that it’s very much the same, whether you give me a part of your income, or whether you make over to me the capital it represents. It’s the same transaction in another shape, that’s all.”
“No, it’s not, Jack! I’ve thought of that, because I knew you’d say it. It’s so like you. It’s not at all the same. You might as well say that it was originally intended that you should never have the money at all, even after I died. It was and is mine, for me and my children. As I have only one child, it’s yours and mine jointly. As long as you were a boy, it was my business to look after your share of it for you. As soon as you were a man, I should have given you your share of it. It would have been much better, though there was no provision in either of the wills. If it had been a fortune, I should have done it anyhow, but as it was only enough for us two to live on, I kept it together and was as careful of it as I could be.”
“Mother—I don’t want you to do this,” said John. “I don’t like this sordid financial way of looking at it—I tell you so quite frankly.”
Mrs. Ralston was silent for a few moments, and seemed to be thinking the matter over.
“I don’t like it either, Jack,” she said at last. “It isn’t like us. So I won’t say anything more about it. I’ll just go and do it, and then it will be off my mind.”
“Please don’t!” cried Ralston, bending forward, for she made as though she would rise from her seat.
“I must,” she answered. “It’s the only possible basis of any future existence for us. You shall live with me from choice, if you like. It will—well, never mind—my happiness is not the question! But you shall not live with me as a matter of necessity in a position of dependence. The money is just as much yours as it’s mine. You shall have your share, and—”
“I’d rather go to sea—as you said,” interrupted John.
“And let your income accumulate. Very well. But I—I hope you won’t, dear. It would be lonely. It wouldn’t make any difference so far as this is concerned. I should do it, whatever you did. As long as you like, live here, and pay your half of the expenses. I shall get on very well on my share if I’m all alone. Now I’m going, because there’s nothing more to be said.”
Mrs. Ralston rose this time. John got up and stood beside her, and they both looked at the fire thoughtfully.
“Mother—please—I entreat you not to do this thing!” said John, suddenly. “I’m a brute even to have thought twice of that silly affair last night—and to have said what I said just now, that I couldn’t exactly feel as though anything could undo what had been done. Indeed—if there’s anything to forgive, it’s forgiven with all my heart, and we’ll forget it and live just as we always have. We can, if we choose. How could you help it—the way I looked! I saw myself in the glass. Upon my word, if I’d drunk ever so little, I should have been quite ready to believe that I was tipsy, from my own appearance—it was natural, I’m sure, and—”
“Hush, Jack!” exclaimed Mrs. Ralston. “I don’t want you to find excuses for me. I was blind with anger, if that’s an excuse—but it’s not. And most of all—I don’t want you to imagine for one moment that I’m going to make this settlement of our affairs with the least idea that it is a reparation to you, or anything at all of that sort. Not that you’d ever misunderstand me to that extent. Would you?”
“No. Certainly not. You’re too much like me.”
“Yes. There’s no reparation about it, because that’s more possible. As it is, no particular result will follow unless you wish it. You’ll be free to go away, if you please, that’s all. And if you choose to marry Katharine, and if she is willing to marry you on six thousand a year, you’ll feel that you can, though it’s not much. And for the matter of that, Jack dear—you know, don’t you? If it would make you happy, and if she would—I don’t think I should be any worse than most mothers-in-law—and all I have is yours, Jack, besides your share. But those are your secrets—no, it’s quite natural.”
John had taken her hand gently and kissed it. “I don’t want any gratitude for that,” she continued. “It’s perfectly natural. Besides, there’s no question of gratitude between you and me. It’s always been share and share alike—of everything that was good. Now I’m going. You’ll be in for luncheon? Do take care of yourself to-day. See what weather we’re having! And—well—it’s not for me to lecture you about your health, dear. But what Doctor Routh said is true. You’ve grown thinner again, Jack—you grow thinner every year, though you are so strong.”
“Don’t worry about me, mother dear. I’m all right. And I shan’t go out to-day. But I have a dinner-party this evening, and I shall go to it. I think I told you—the Van De Waters’—didn’t I? Yes. I shall go to that and show myself. I’m sure people have been talking about me, and it was probably in the papers this morning. Wasn’t it?”
“Dear—to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t look to see. It wasn’t very brave of me—but—you understand.”
“I certainly shan’t look for the report of my encounter with the prize-fighter. I’m sure he was one. I shall probably be stared at to-night, and some of them will be rather cold. But I’ll face it out—since I’m in the right for once.”
“Yes. I wouldn’t have you stay at home. People would say you were afraid and were waiting for it to blow over. Is it a big dinner?”
“I don’t know. I got the invitation a week ago, at least, so it isn’t an informal affair. It’s probably to announce Ruth Van De Water’s engagement to that foreigner—you know—I’ve forgotten his name. I know Bright’s going—because they said he wanted to marry her last year—it isn’t true. And there’ll probably be some of the Thirlwalls, and the young Trehearns, and Vanbrugh and his wife—you know, all the Van De Water young set. Katharine’s going, too. She told me when she got the invitation, some time last week. There’ll be sixteen or eighteen at table, and I suppose they’ll amuse themselves somehow or other afterwards. Nobody wants to dance to-night, I fancy—at least none of our set, after the Thirlwalls’, and the Assembly, and I don’t know how many others last week.”
“They’ll probably put you next to Katharine,” said Mrs. Ralston.
“Probably—especially there, for they always do—with Frank Miner on her other side to relieve my gloom. Second cousins don’t count as relations at a dinner-party, and can be put together. Half of the others are own cousins, too.”
“Well, if it’s a big dinner it won’t be so disagreeable for you. But if you’d take my advice, Jack—however—” She stopped.
“What is it, mother?” he asked. “Say it.”
“Well—I was going to say that if any one made any disagreeable remarks, or asked you why you weren’t at the Assembly last night, I should just tell the whole story as it happened. And you can end by saying that I was anxious about you and sent for Doctor Routh, and refer them to him. That ought to silence everybody.”
“Yes.” John paused a moment. “Yes,” he repeated. “I think you’re right. I wish old Routh were going to be there himself.”
“He’d go in a minute if he were asked,” said Mrs. Ralston.
“Would he? With all those young people?”
“Of course he would—only too delighted! Dear old man, it’s just the sort of thing he’d like. But I’m going, Jack, or I shall stay here chattering with you all the morning.”
“That other thing, mother—about the money—don’t do it!” Jack held her a moment by the hand.
“Don’t try to hinder me, dear,” she answered. “It’s the only thing I can do—to please my own conscience a little. Good-bye. I’ll see you at luncheon.”
She left the room quickly, and John found himself alone with his own thoughts again.
“It’s just like her,” he said to himself, as he lighted a cigar and sat down to think over the situation. “She’s just like a man about those things.”
He had perhaps never admired and loved his mother as he did then; not for what she was going to do, but for the spirit in which she was doing it. He was honest in trying to hinder her, because he vaguely feared that the step might cause her some inconvenience hereafter—he did not exactly know how, and he was firmly resolved that he would not under any circumstances take advantage of the arrangement to change his mode of life. Everything was to go on just as before. As a matter of theory, he was to have a fixed, settled income of his own; but as a matter of fact, he would not regard it as his. What he liked about it, and what really appealed to him in it all, was his mother’s man-like respect for his honour, and her frank admission that nothing she could do could possibly wipe out the slight she had put upon him. Then, too, the fact and the theory were at variance and in direct opposition to one another. As a matter of theory, nothing could ever give him back the sensation he had always felt since he had been a boy—that his mother would believe him on his word in the face of any evidence whatsoever which there might be against him. But as a matter of fact, the evil was not only completely undone, but there was a stronger bond between them than there had ever been before.
That certainly was the first good thing which had come to him during the last four and twenty hours, and it had an effect upon his spirits.
He thought over what his mother had said about the evening, too, and was convinced that she was right in advising him to tell the story frankly as it had happened. But he was conscious all the time that his anxiety about Katharine’s silence was increasing. He had roused himself at dawn, in spite of his fatigue, and had sent a servant out to post the letter with the special delivery stamp on it. Katharine must have received it long ago, and her answer might have been in his hands before now. Nevertheless, he told himself that he should not be impatient, that she had doubtless slept late after the ball, and that she would send him an answer as soon as she could. By no process of reasoning or exaggeration of doubting could he have reached the conclusion that she had never received his letter. She had always got everything he sent her, and there had never been any difficulty about their correspondence in all the years during which they had exchanged little notes. He took up the magazine again, and turned over the pages idly. Suddenly Frank Miner’s name caught his eye. The little man had really got a story into one of the great magazines, a genuine novel, it seemed, for this was only a part, and there were the little words at the end of it, in italics and in parenthesis, ‘to be continued,’ which promised at least two more numbers, for as John reflected, when the succeeding number was to be the last, the words were ‘to be concluded.’ He was glad, for Miner’s sake, of this first sign of something like success, and began to read the story with interest.
It began well, in a dashing, amusing style, as fresh as Miner’s conversation, but with more in it, and John was beginning to congratulate himself upon having found something to distract his attention from his bodily ills and his mental embarrassments, when the door opened, and Miner himself appeared.
“May I come in, Ralston?” he enquired, speaking softly, as though he believed that his friend had a headache.
“Oh—hello, Frank! Is that you? Come in! I’m reading your novel. I’d just found it.”
Little Frank Miner beamed with pleasure as he saw that the magazine was really open at his own story, for he recognized that this, at least, could not be a case of premeditated appreciation.
“Why—Jack—” he stammered a moment later, in evident surprise. “You don’t look badly at all!”
“Did they say I was dead?” enquired Ralston, with a grim smile. “Take a cigar. Sit down. Tell me all about my funeral.”
Miner laughed as he carefully cut off the end of the cigar and lit it—a sort of continuous little gurgling laugh, like the purling of a brook.
“My dear boy,” he said, blowing out a quantity of smoke, and curling himself up in the easy chair, “you’re the special edition of the day. The papers are full of you—they’re selling like hot cakes everywhere—your fight with Tom Shelton, the champion light weight—and your turning up in the arms of two policemen—talk of a ‘jag!’ Lord!”
John looked at Miner quietly for a few seconds, without saying anything. The little man was evidently lost in admiration of the magnitude of his friend’s ‘jag,’ as he called it.
“I say, Frank,” said Ralston, at last, “it’s all a mistake, you know. It was a series of accidents from beginning to end.”
“Oh—yes—I suppose so. You managed to accumulate quite a number of accidents, as you say.”
Ralston was silent again. He was well aware of the weight of the evidence against him, and he wished to enter upon his explanation by degrees, in order that it might be quite clear to Miner.
“Look here,” he began, after a while. “I’m not the sort of man who tries to wriggle out of things, when he’s done them, am I? Heaven knows—I’ve been in scrapes enough! But you never knew me to deny it, nor to try and make out that I was steady when I wasn’t. Did you, Frank?”
“No,” answered Miner, thoughtfully. “I never did. That’s a fact. It’s quite true.”
The threefold assent seemed to satisfy Ralston.
“All right,” he said. “Now I want you to listen to me, because this is rather an extraordinary tale. I’ll tell it all, as nearly as I can, but there are one or two gaps, and there’s a matter connected with it about which I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Go ahead,” answered Miner. “I’ve got some perfectly new faith out—and I’m just waiting for you. Produce the mountain, and I’ll take its measure and remove it at a valuation.”
Ralston laughed a little and then began to tell his story. It was, of course, easy for him to omit all mention of Katharine, and he spoke of his interview with Robert Lauderdale as having taken place in connection with an idea he had of trying to get something to do in the West, which was quite true. He omitted also to mention the old gentleman’s amazing manifestation of eccentricity—or folly—in writing the cheque which John had destroyed. For the rest, he gave Miner every detail as well as he could remember it. Miner listened thoughtfully and never interrupted him once.
“This isn’t a joke, is it, Jack?” he asked, when John had finished with a description of Doctor Routh’s midnight visit.
“No,” answered Ralston, emphatically. “It’s the truth. I should be glad if you would tell any one who cares to know.”
“They wouldn’t believe me,” answered Miner, quietly.
“I say, Frank—” John’s quick temper was stirred already, but he checked himself.
“It’s all right, Jack,” answered Miner. “I believe every word you’ve told me, because I know you don’t invent—except about leaving cards on stray acquaintances at the Imperial, when you happen to be thirsty.”
He laughed good-naturedly.
“That’s another of your mistakes,” said Ralston. “I know—you mean last Monday. I did leave cards at the hotel. I also had a cocktail. I didn’t say I wasn’t going to, and I wasn’t obliged to say so, was I? It wasn’t your business, my dear boy, nor Ham Bright’s, either.”
“Well—I’m glad you did, then. I’m glad the cards were real, though it struck me as thin at the time. I apologize, and eat humble pie. You know you’re one of my illusions, Jack. There are two or three to which I cling. You’re a truthful beggar, somehow. You ought to have a little hatchet, like George Washington—but I daresay you’d rather have a little cocktail. It illustrates your nature just as well. Bury the hatchet and pour the cocktail over it as a libation—where was I? Oh—this is what I meant, Jack. Other people won’t believe the story, if I tell it, you know.”
“Well—but there’s old Routh, after all. People will believe him.”
“Yes—if he takes the trouble to write a letter to the papers, over his name, degrees and qualifications. Of course they’ll believe him. And the editors will do something handsome. They won’t apologize, but they’ll say that a zebra got loose in the office and upset the type while they were in Albany attending to the affairs of the Empire State—and that’s just the same as an apology, you know, which is all you care for. You can’t storm Park Row with the gallant Four Hundred at your back. In the first place, Park Row’s insured, and secondly, the Four Hundred would see you—further—before they’d lift one of their four thousand fingers to help you out of a scrape which doesn’t concern them. You’d have to be a parson or a pianist, before they’d do anything for you. It’s ‘meat, drink and pantaloons’ to be one of them, anyhow—and you needn’t expect anything more.”
“Where do you get your similes from, Frank!” laughed Ralston.
“I don’t know. But they’re good ones, anyway. Why don’t you get Routh to write a letter, before the thing cools down? It could be in the evening edition, you know. There have been horrid things this morning—allusions—that sort of thing.”
“Allusions to what?” asked Ralston, quickly and sharply.
“To you, of course—what did you suppose?”
“Oh—to me! As though I cared! All the same, if old Routh would write, it would be a good thing. I wish he were going to be at the Van De Waters’ dinner to-night.”
“Why? Are you going there? So am I.”
“It seems to be a sort of family tea-party,” said Ralston. “Bright’s going, and cousin Katharine, and you and I. It only needs the Crowdies and a few others to make it complete.”
“Well—you see, they’re cousins of mine, and so are you, and that sort of makes us all cousins,” observed Miner, absently. “I say, Jack—tell the story at table, just as you’ve told it to me. Will you? I’ll set you on by asking you questions. Stunning effect—especially if we can get Routh to write the letter. I’ll cut it out of a paper and bring it with me.”
“You know him, don’t you?” asked Ralston.
“Know him? I should think so. Ever since I was a baby. Why?”
“I wish you’d go to him this morning, Frank, and get him to write the letter. Then you could take it to one of the evening papers and get them to put it in. You know all those men in Park Row, don’t you?”
“Much better than some of them want to know me,” sighed the little man. “However,” he added, his bright smile coming back at once, “I ought not to complain. I’m getting on, now. Let me see. You want me to go to Routh and get him to write a formal letter over his name, denying all the statements made about you this morning. Isn’t that taking too much notice of the thing, after all, Jack?”
“It’s going to make a good deal of difference to me in the end,” answered Ralston. “It’s worth taking some trouble for.”
“I’m quite willing,” said Miner. “But—I say! What an extraordinary story it is!”
“Oh, no. It’s only real life. I told you—I only had one accident, which was quite an accident—when I tumbled down in that dark street. Everything else happened just as naturally as unnatural things always do. As for upsetting Ham Bright at the club, I was awfully sorry about that. It seemed such a low thing to do. But then—just remember that I’d been making a point of drinking nothing for several days, just by way of an experiment, and it was irritating, to say the least of it, to be grabbed by the arm and told that I was screwed. Wasn’t it, Frank? And just at that moment, uncle Robert had telephoned for me to come up, and I was in a tremendous hurry. Just look at in that way, and you’ll understand why I did it. It doesn’t excuse it—I shall tell Ham that I’m sorry—but it explains it. Doesn’t it?”
“Rather!” exclaimed Miner, heartily.
“By the bye,” said Ralston, “I wanted to ask you something. Did that fellow Crowdie hold his tongue? I suppose he was at the Assembly last night.”
“Well—since you ask me—” Miner hesitated. “No—he didn’t. Bright gave it to him, though, for telling cousin Emma.”
“Brute! How I hate that man! So he told cousin Emma, did he? And the rest of the family, too, I suppose.”
“I suppose so,” answered Miner, knowing that Ralston meant Katharine. “Everybody knew about the row at the club, before the evening was half over. Teddy Van De Water said he supposed you’d back out of the dinner to-night and keep quiet till this blew over. I told Teddy that perhaps he’d better come round and suggest that to you himself this morning, if he wanted to understand things quickly. He grinned—you know how he grins—like an organ pipe in a white tie. But he said he’d heard Bright leathering into Crowdie—that’s one of Teddy’s expressions—so he supposed that things weren’t as bad as people said—and that Crowdie was only a ‘painter chap,’ anyhow. I didn’t know what that meant, but feebly pointed out that Crowdie was a great man, and that his wife was a sort of cousin of mine, and that she, at least, had a good chance of having some of cousin Robert’s money one of these days. Not that I wanted to defend Crowdie, or that I don’t like Teddy much better—but then, you know what I mean! He’ll be calling me ‘one of those literary chaps,’ next, with just the same air. One’s bound to stand up for art and literature when one’s a professional, you know, Jack. Wasn’t I right?”
“Oh, perfectly!” answered Ralston, with a smile. “But will you do that for me, Frank?”
“Of course I will. You’re one of my illusions, as I told you. I’m willing to do lots of things for my illusions. I’ll go now, and then I’ll come back and tell you what the old chap says. If by any chance he gets into a rage, I’ll tell him that I didn’t come so much to talk about you as to consult him about certain symptoms of nervous prostration I’m beginning to feel. He’s death on nervous prostration—he’s a perfect terror at it—he’ll hypnotise me, and put me into a jar of spirits, and paint my nose with nervine and pickled electricity and things, and sort of wake me up generally.”
“All right—if you can stand it, I can,” said Ralston. “I’d go myself—only only—”
“You’re pretty badly used up,” interrupted Miner, completing the sentence in his own way. “I know. I remember trying to play football once. Those little games aren’t much in my line. Nature meant me for higher things. I tried football, though, and then I said, like Napoleon—you remember?—‘Ces balles ne sont pas pour moi.’ I couldn’t tell where I began and the football ended—I felt that I was a safe under-study for a shuttlecock afterwards. That’s just the way you feel, isn’t it? As though it were Sunday, and you were the frog—and the boys had gone back to afternoon church? I know! Well—I’ll come back as soon as I’ve seen Routh. Good-bye, old man—don’t smoke too much. I do—but that’s no reason.”
The little man nodded cheerfully, knocked the ashes carefully from the end of his cigar—he was neat in everything he did—and returned it to his lips as he left the room. Ralston leaned back in his arm-chair again and rested his feet on the fender. The fire his mother had made so carefully was burning in broad, smoking flames. He felt cold and underfed and weary, so that the warmth was very pleasant; and with all that came to his heart now, as he thought of his mother, there mingled also a little simple, childlike gratitude to her for having made up such a good fire.
The time passed, and still no word came from Katharine. He was willing to find reasons or, at least, excuses, for her silence, but he was conscious that they were of little value. He knew, now, that there had really been paragraphs in the papers about him, as he had expected, and that they had been of a very disagreeable nature. Katharine had probably seen them, or one of them, besides having heard the stories that had been circulated by Crowdie and others during the previous evening. He fancied that he could feel her unbelief, hurting him from a distance, as it were. Her face, cold and contemptuous, rose before him out of the fire, and he took up the magazine again, and tried to hide it. But it could not be hidden.
Surely by this time she must have got his letter. There could be no reasonable doubt of that. He looked at his watch again, as he had done once in every quarter of an hour for some time. It was twelve o’clock. Miner had not stayed long.
John went over the scene on Wednesday evening, at the Thirlwalls’. Katharine had been very sure of herself, at the last—sure that, whatever he did, she should always stand by him. Events had put her to the test soon enough, and this was the result. They had been married twenty-four hours, and she would not even answer his note, because appearances were against him.
And the great, strong sense of real innocence rose in him and defied and despised the woman who could not trust him even a little. If the very least of the accusations had been true, he would have humbled himself honestly and said that she was right, and that she had promised too much, in saying all she had said. At all times he was a man ready to take the full blame of all he had done, to make himself out worse than he really was, to assume at once that he was a failure and could do nothing right. On the slightest ground, he was ready to admit everything that people brought against him. Katharine, if he had even been living as usual, would have been at liberty to reproach him as bitterly as she pleased with his weakness, to turn her back on him and condemn him unheard, if she chose. He would have been patient and would have admitted that he deserved it all, and more also. He was melancholy, he was discouraged with himself, and he was neither vain nor untruthful.
But he had made an effort, and a great one. There was in him something of the ascetic, with all his faults, and something of the enthusiasm which is capable of sudden and great self-denial if once roused. He knew what he had done, for he knew what it had cost him, mentally and physically. Lean as he had been before, he had grown perceptibly thinner since Monday. He knew that, so far, he had succeeded. For the first time, perhaps, he had every point of justice on his side. If he had been inclined to be merciful and humble and submissive towards those who doubted him now, he would not have been human. The two beings whom he loved in the world, his mother and Katharine, were the very two who had doubted him most. As for his mother, he had not persuaded her, for she had persuaded herself—by means of such demonstration as no sane being could have rejected, namely, the authoritative statement of a great doctor, personally known to her. What had followed had produced a strange result, for he felt that he was more closely bound to her than ever before, a fact which showed, at least, that he did not bear malice, however deeply he had been hurt. But he could not go about everywhere for a week with Doctor Routh at his heels to swear to his sobriety. He told himself so with some contempt, and then he thought of Katharine, and his face grew harder as the minutes went by and no answer came to his letter.
It was far more cruel of her than it had been in his mother’s case. Katharine had only heard stories and reports of his doings, and she should be willing to accept his denial of them on her faith in him. He had never lied to her. On Wednesday night, he had gratuitously told her the truth about himself—a truth which she had never suspected—and had insisted upon making it out to be even worse than it was. His wisdom told him that he had made a mistake then, in wilfully lowering himself in her estimation, and that this was the consequence of that; if he had not forced upon her an unnecessary confession of his weakness, she would now have believed in his strength. But his sense of honour rose and shamed his wisdom, and told him that he had done right. It would have been a cowardly thing to accept what Katharine had then been forcing upon him, and had actually made him accept, without telling her all the truth about himself.
He had done wrong to yield at all. That he admitted, and repeated, readily enough. He made no pretence of having a strong character, and he had been wretchedly weak in allowing her to persuade him to the secret marriage. He should have folded his arms and refused, from the first. He had foreseen trouble, though not of the kind which had actually overtaken him, and he should have been firm. Unfortunately, he was not firm, by nature, as he told himself, with a sneer. Not that Katharine had been to blame, either. She had made her reasons seem good, and he should not have blamed her had she been ever so much in the wrong. There his honour spoke again, and loudly.
But for what she was doing now, in keeping silence, leaving him without a word when she must know that he was most in need of her faith and belief—for abandoning him when it seemed as though every man’s hand were turned against him—he could not help despising her. It was so cowardly. Had it all been ten times true, she should have stood by him when every one was abusing him.
It was far more cruel of her than of his mother, for all she knew of the story had reached her by hearsay, whereas his mother had seen him, as he had seen himself, and his appearance might well have deceived any one but Doctor Routh. He did not ask himself whether he could ever forgive her, for he did not wish to hear in his heart the answer which seemed inevitable. As for loving her, or not loving her, he thought nothing about it at that moment. With him, too, as with her, love was in a state of suspended animation. It would have been sufficiently clear to any outsider acquainted with the circumstances that when the two met that evening, something unusual would probably occur. Katharine, indeed, believed that John would not appear at the dinner-party; but John, who firmly intended to be present, knew that Katharine was going, and he expected to be placed beside her. It was perfectly well known that they were in love with one another, and the least their greatest friends could do was to let them enjoy one another’s society. This may have been done partly as a matter of policy, for both were young enough and tactless enough to show their annoyance if they were separated when they chanced to be asked to sit at the same table. John looked forward to the coming evening with some curiosity, and without any timidity, but also without any anticipation of enjoyment.
He was trying to imagine what the conversation would be like, when Frank Miner returned, beaming with enthusiasm, and glowing from his walk in the cold, wet air. He had been gone a long time.
“Well?” asked John, as his friend came up to the fire, and held out his hands to it.
“Very well—very well, indeed, thank you,” answered the latter, with a cheerful laugh. “I’ll bet you twenty-five cents to a gold watch that you can’t guess what’s happened—at Routh’s.”
“Twenty-five cents—to a gold watch? Oh—I see. Thank you—the odds don’t tempt me. What did happen?”
“I say—those were awfully good cigars of yours, Jack!” exclaimed Miner, by way of answer. “Haven’t you got another?”
“There’s the box. Take them all. What happened?”
“No—I’ll only take one—it would look like borrowing if I took two, and I can’t return them. Jack, there’s a lot of good blood knocking about in this family, do you know? I don’t mean about the cigars—I’m naturally a generous man when it comes to taking things I like. But the other thing. Do you know that somebody had been to Routh about making him write the letter, before I got there?”
“What? To make him write it? Not Ham Bright? It would be like him—but how should he have known about Routh?”
“No. It wasn’t Bright. Want to guess? Well—I’ll tell you. It was your mother, Jack. Nice of her, wasn’t it?”
“My mother!”
Ralston leaned forward and began to poke the logs about. He felt a curious sensation of gladness in the eyes, and weakness in the throat.
“Tell me about it, Frank,” he added, in a rather thick voice.
“There’s not much to tell. I marched in and stated my case. He’s between seven and eight feet high, I believe, and he stood up all the time—felt as though I were talking to scaffold poles. He listened in the calmest way till I’d finished, and then took up a letter from his desk and handed it to me to read and to see whether I thought it would do. I asked what it meant, and he said he’d just written it at the request of Mrs. Ralston, who had left him a quarter of an hour ago, and that if I would take it to the proper quarter—as he expressed it—he should be much obliged. He’s a brick—a tower of strength—a tower of bricks—a perfect Babel of a man. You’ll see, when the evening papers come out—”
“Did you take it down town?”
“Of course. And I got hold of one of the big editors. I sent in word that I had a letter from Doctor Routh which must be published in the front page this evening unless the paper wanted Mr. Robert Lauderdale to bring an action against them for libel to-morrow morning. You should have seen things move. What a power cousin Robert is! I suppose I took his name in vain—but I don’t care. Old Routh is not to be sneezed at, either. You’ll see the letter. There’s some good old English in it. Oh, it’s just prickly with epithets—‘unwarrantable liberty,’ ‘impertinent scurrility’—I don’t know what the old doctor had for breakfast. It’s not like him to come out like that, not a bit. He’s a cautious old bird, as a rule, and not given to slinging English all over the ten-acre lot, like that. You see, he takes the ground that you’re his patient, that you had some sort of confustication of the back of your head, and that to say that you were screwed when you were ill was a libel, that the terms in which the editor had allowed the thing to appear proved that it was malicious, and that as the editor was supposed to exercise some control, and to use his own will in the matter of what he published and circulated, it was wilfully published, since the city paid for places in which people who had no control over their wills were kept for the public safety, and that therefore the paragraph in question was a wilfully malicious libel evidently published with the intention of doing harm—and much more of the same kind of thing—all of which the editor would have put into the waste paper basket if it had not been signed, Martin Routh, M.D., with the old gentleman’s address. Moreover, the editor asked me why, in sending in a message, I had made use of threatening language purporting to come from Mr. Robert Lauderdale. But as you had told me the whole story, I knew what to say. I just told him that you had left the house of your uncle, Mr. Robert Lauderdale, after spending some time with him, when you met with the accident in the street which led to all your subsequent adventures. That seemed to settle him. He said the whole thing had been a mistake, and that he should be very sorry to have given Mr. Lauderdale any annoyance, especially at this time. I don’t know what he meant by that, I’m sure—unless uncle Robert is going to buy the paper for a day or two to see what it’s like—you know the proprietor’s dead, and they say the heirs are going to sell. Well—that’s all. Confound it, my cigar’s out. I’m a great deal too good to you, Jack!”
Ralston had listened without comment while the little man told his story, satisfied, as he proceeded from point to point, that everything was going well for him, at last, and mentally reducing Miner’s strong expressions to the lowest key of probability.
“So it was my mother who went first to Doctor Routh,” he said, as though talking with himself, while Miner relighted his cigar.
“Yes,” answered Miner, between two puffs. “I confess to having been impressed.”
“It’s like her,” said John. “It’s just like her. You didn’t happen to see any note for me lying on the hall table, did you?” he asked, rather irrelevantly.
“No—but I’ll go and look, if you like.”
“Oh—it’s no matter. Besides, they know I haven’t been out this morning, and they’d bring anything up. I’m very much obliged to you, Frank, for all this. And I know that you’ll tell anybody who talks about it just what I’ve told you. I should like to feel that there’s a chance of some one’s knowing the truth when I come into the room this evening.”
“Oh, they’ll all know it by that time. Routh’s letter will run along the ground like fire mingled with hail. As for Teddy Van De Water, he lives on the papers. Of course they won’t fly at you and congratulate you all over, and that sort of thing. They’ll just behave as though nothing at all had happened, and afterwards, when we men are by ourselves, smoking, they’ll all begin to ask you how it happened. That is, unless you want to tell the story yourself at table, and in that case I’ll set you on, as I said.”
“I don’t care to talk about it,” answered John. “But—look here, Frank—listen! You’re as quick as anybody to see things. If you notice that a number of the set don’t know about Routh’s letter—that there’s a sort of hostile feeling against me at table—why, then just set me on, as you call it, and I’ll defend myself. You see, I’ve such a bad temper, and my bones ache, and I’m altogether so generally knocked out, that it will be much better to give me my head with for a clear run, than to let people look as though they should like to turn their backs on me, but didn’t dare to. Do you understand?”
“All right, Jack. I won’t make any mistake about it.”
“Very well, then. It’s a bargain. We won’t say anything more about it.”
Miner presently took his departure, and John was left alone again. In the course of time he gave up looking at his watch, and relinquished all hope of hearing from Katharine. Little by little, the certainty formed itself in his mind that the meeting that evening was to be a hostile one.
Not very long after Miner had gone, another hand opened the door, and John sprang to his feet, for even in the slight sound he recognized the touch. Mrs. Ralston entered the room. With more impulsiveness than was usual in him he went quickly to meet her, and threw his arms round her, kissing her through her veil, damp and cold from the snowy air.
“Mother, darling—how good you are!” he exclaimed softly. “There isn’t anybody like you—really.”
“Why—Jack? What is it?” asked Mrs. Ralston, happy, but not understanding.
“Miner was here—he told me about your having been to old Routh to make him write—”
“That? Oh—that’s nothing. Of course I went—the first thing. Didn’t he say last night that he’d give his evidence in a court of law? I thought he might just as well do it. The business is all settled, dear boy. I’ve seen the lawyer, and he’s making out the deed. He’ll bring it here for me to sign when he comes up from his office, and the transfers of the titles will be registered to-morrow morning—just in time before Sunday.”
“Don’t talk about that, mother!” answered John. “I didn’t want you to do it, and it’s never going to make the slightest difference between us.”
“Well—perhaps not. But it makes all the difference to me. Promise me one thing, Jack.”
“Yes, mother—anything you like.”
“Promise me to remember that if you and Katharine choose to get married, in spite of her father and all the Lauderdales, this is your house, and that you have a right to it. You won’t have much to live on, but you won’t starve. Promise me to remember that, Jack. Will you?”
“I’ll promise to remember it, mother. But I’ll not promise to act on it.”
“Well—that’s a matter for your judgment. Go and get ready for luncheon. It must be time.”
Once more John put his arms round her neck, and drew her close to him.
“You’re very good to me, mother—thank you!”
Katharine spent more time than necessary over dressing for dinner on that evening, not because she bestowed more attention than usual upon her appearance, but because there were long pauses of which she was scarcely conscious, although the maid reminded her from time to time that it was growing late. The result, however, was satisfactory in the opinion of her assistant, a sober-minded Scotch person of severe tastes, who preferred black and white to any colours whatsoever, and thought that the trees showed decided frivolity in being green, and that the woods in autumn were positively improper.
It was undoubtedly true that the simple black gown, without ornament and with very little to break its sweeping line, was as becoming to Katharine’s strong beauty as it was appropriate to her frame of mind. It made her look older than she was, perhaps, but being so young, the loss was almost gain. It gave her dignity a background and a reason, as it were. Her face was pale still, but not noticeably so, and her eyes were quiet if not soft. Only a person who knew her very well would have observed the slight but steady contraction of the broad eyebrows, which was unusual. As a rule, if it came at all, it disappeared almost instantly again. She remembered afterwards—as one remembers the absurd details of one’s own thoughts—that when she had looked into the mirror for the last time, she had been glad that her front hair did not curl, and that she had never yielded to the temptation to make it curl, as most girls did. She had been pleased by the simplicity of the two thick, black waves which lay across the clear paleness of her forehead, like dark velvet on cream-white silk. She forgot the thought instantly, but, later, she remembered how severe and straight it had looked, and the consciousness was of some value to her—as the least vain man, taken unexpectedly to meet and address a great assembly, may be momentarily glad if he chances to be wearing a particularly good coat. The gravest of us have some consciousness of our own appearance, and be our strength what it may, when it is appropriate to appear in the wedding garment, it is good for us to be wearing one.
Katharine stopped at her mother’s door as she descended the stairs. Mrs. Lauderdale was dining at home, and the Lauderdales dined at eight o’clock, so that she was still in her room at ten minutes before the hour. Katharine knocked and entered. Her mother was standing before the mirror. The door which led to her father’s dressing-room, by a short passage between two wardrobes built into the house, was wide open. Katharine heard him moving some small objects on his dressing-table.
“You’re late, child,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, not turning, for as Katharine entered, she could see her reflection in the mirror. “Are you going to take Jane with you? If not, I wish you’d tell her to come here, as you go down—I let you have her because I knew you’d be late.”
“No,” answered Katharine, “I don’t want her—she’s only in the way. It’s the Van De Waters’, you know. Good night, mother.”
“Good night, darling—enjoy yourself—you’ll be late, of course—they’ll dance, or something.”
“Yes—but I shan’t stay. I’m tired. Good night again.”
Katharine was going to the door, when her father appeared from his dressing-room, serenely correct, as usual, but wearing his black tie because no one was coming to dinner.
“I want to speak to you, Katharine,” he said.
She turned and stood still in the middle of the room, facing him. He had a letter in his hand.
“Yes, papa,” she answered quietly, not anticipating trouble.
“I’m sorry I could not see you earlier,” said Alexander Junior, coming forward and fixing his steely eyes on his daughter’s face. “But I hadn’t an opportunity, because I was told that you were asleep when I came home. This morning, as I was leaving the house as usual, a messenger put this letter into my hands. It has a special delivery stamp on it, and you will see that the mark on the dial edge stands at eight forty-five A.M. Consequently, the boy who brought it was dilatory in doing his duty. It is addressed to you in John Ralston’s handwriting.”
“Why didn’t you send it up to me, instead of keeping it all day?” enquired Katharine, with cold surprise.
“Because I do not intend that you shall read it,” answered her father, his lips opening and shutting on the words like the shears of a cutting-machine.
Mrs. Lauderdale turned round from the mirror and looked at her husband and daughter. It would have been impossible to tell from her face whether she had been warned of what was to be done or not, but there was an odd little gleam in her eyes, of something which might have been annoyance or satisfaction.
“Why don’t you intend me to read my letters?” asked Katharine in a lower tone.
“I don’t wish you to correspond with John Ralston,” answered Alexander Junior. “You shall never marry him with my consent, especially since he has disgraced himself publicly as he did yesterday. There was an account of his doings in the morning papers. I daresay you’ve not seen it. He was taken home last night in a state of beastly intoxication by two policemen, having been picked up by them out of a drunken brawl with a prize-fighter. To judge from the handwriting of the address on this letter, it appears to have been written while he was still under the influence of liquor. I don’t mean that my daughter shall receive letters written by drunken men, if I can help it.”
“Show me the letter,” said Katharine, quietly.
“I’ll show it to you because, though you’ve never had any reason to doubt my statements, I wish you to have actually seen that it has not been opened by me, nor by any one. My judgment is formed from the handwriting solely, but I may add that it is impossible that a man who was admittedly in a state of unconsciousness from liquor at one o’clock in the morning, should be fit to write a letter to Katharine Lauderdale, or to any lady, within six hours. The postmark on the envelope is seven-thirty. Am I right?” He turned deliberately to Mrs. Lauderdale.
“Perfectly,” she answered, with sincere conviction.
And it must be allowed that, from his point of view, he was not wrong. He beckoned Katharine to the gas-light beside the mirror and held up the letter, holding it at the two sides of the square envelope in the firm grip of his big, thin fingers, as though he feared lest she should try to take it. But Katharine did not raise her hands, as she bent forward and inspected the address. It was assuredly not written in John’s ordinary hand, though the writing was recognizable as his, beyond doubt. There was an evident attempt at regularity, but a too evident failure. It looked a little as though he had attempted to write with his left hand. At one corner there was a very small stain of blood, which, as every one knows, retains its colour on writing paper, even under gas-light, for a considerable time. It will be remembered that John had hurt his right hand.
Katharine’s brows contracted more heavily. She was disgusted, but she was also pained. She looked long and steadily at the writing, and her lips curled slightly. Alexander Lauderdale turned the letter over to show her that it was sealed. Again, where the finger had hurriedly pressed the gummed edge of the envelope, there was a little mark of blood. Katharine drew back very proudly, as from something at once repulsive and beneath her woman’s dignity. Her father looked at her keenly and coldly.
“Have you satisfied yourself?” he enquired. “You see that it has not been opened, do you?”
“Yes.”
“I will burn it,” said Alexander Lauderdale, still watching her.
“Yes.”
He seemed surprised, for he had expected resistance, and perhaps some attempt on her part to get possession of the letter and read it. But she stood upright, silent, and evidently disgusted. He lifted his hand and held the letter over the flame of the gas-light until it had caught fire thoroughly. Then he laid it in the fireless grate—the room, like all the rest of the house, was heated by the furnace,—and with his usual precise interpretation of his own conscience’s promptings, he turned his back on it, lest by any chance he should see and accidentally read any word of the contents as the paper curled and flared and blackened and fell to ashes. Katharine, however, was well aware that a folded letter within its envelope will rarely burn through and through if left to itself. She went to the hearth and watched it. It had fallen flat upon the tiles, and one thickness after another flamed, rose from one end and curled away as the one beneath it took fire. She would not attempt to read one of the indistinct words, but she could not help seeing that it had been a long letter, scrawled in a handwriting even more irregular than that on the envelope. The leaves turned black, one by one, rising and remaining upright like black funeral feathers, till at last there was only a little blue light far down in the heart of them. That, too, went out, and a small, final puff of smoke rose and vanished. Katharine turned the heap over with the tongs. Only one little yellow bit of paper remained unconsumed at the bottom. It was almost round, and as she turned it over, she read on it the number of the house. That was all that had not been burned.