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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a1e86e3 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #50886 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50886) diff --git a/old/50886-0.txt b/old/50886-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index a0b4e08..0000000 --- a/old/50886-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8844 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Katherine Lauderdale; Vol. 2 of 2, by F. Marion Crawford - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Katherine Lauderdale; Vol. 2 of 2 - -Author: F. Marion Crawford - -Release Date: January 10, 2016 [EBook #50886] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KATHERINE LAUDERDALE; VOL. 2 OF 2 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - KATHARINE LAUDERDALE - - [Illustration: colophone] - -[Illustration: “She was very white as she turned her face to him.”--Vol. - II., p. 314.] - - - - - KATHARINE LAUDERDALE - - BY - - F. MARION CRAWFORD - AUTHOR OF “SARACINESCA,” “PIETRO GHISLERI,” ETC. - - VOL. II - - WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALFRED BRENNAN - - New York - MACMILLAN AND CO. - AND LONDON - 1894 - - _All rights reserved_ - - - COPYRIGHT, 1893, - BY F. MARION CRAWFORD. - - - Norwood Press: - J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith. - Boston, Mass., U.S.A. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - -CHAPTER XVI. 1 - -CHAPTER XVII. 23 - -CHAPTER XVIII. 45 - -CHAPTER XIX. 67 - -CHAPTER XX. 89 - -CHAPTER XXI. 114 - -CHAPTER XXII. 135 - -CHAPTER XXIII. 157 - -CHAPTER XXIV. 178 - -CHAPTER XXV. 202 - -CHAPTER XXVI. 225 - -CHAPTER XXVII. 247 - -CHAPTER XXVIII. 269 - -CHAPTER XXIX. 291 - -CHAPTER XXX. 315 - - - - -LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. - -VOL. II. - - -PAGE - -“‘I’m glad to see you, my dear child!’ he said warmly” 3 - -“Before he could even raise his head, Ralston was out of -the door and in the street” 57 - -“She knew that life could never be the same again, if she -could not believe her son” 142 - -“‘That’s good, Crowdie,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It’s -distinctly good’” 189 - -“She was very white as she turned her face to him” 314 - - - - -KATHARINE LAUDERDALE. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -Katharine let Ralston accompany her within a block of Robert -Lauderdale’s house and then sent him away. - -“It’s getting late,” she said. “It must be nearly ten o’clock, isn’t it? -Yes. People are all going out at this hour in the morning, and it’s of -no especial use to be seen about together. There’s the Assembly ball -to-night, and of course you’ll come and talk to me, but I shall see -you--or no--I’ll write you a note, with a special delivery stamp, and -post it at the District Post-Office. You’ll get it in less than an hour, -and then you’ll know what uncle Robert says.” - -“I know already what he’ll say,” answered Ralston. “But why mayn’t I -wait for you here?” - -“Now, Jack! Don’t be so ridiculously hopeless about things. And I don’t -want you to wait, for I haven’t the least idea how long it may last, and -as I said, there’s no object in our being seen to meet, away up here by -the Park, at this hour. Good-bye. - -“I hate to leave you,” said Ralston, holding out one hand, with a -resigned air, and raising his hat with the other. - -“I like that in you!” exclaimed Katharine, noticing the action. “I like -you to take off your hat to me just the same--though you are my -husband.” She looked at him a moment. “I’m so glad we’ve done it!” she -added with much emphasis, and a faint colour rose in her face. - -Then she turned away and walked quickly in the direction of Robert -Lauderdale’s house, which was at the next corner. As she went she -glanced at the big polished windows which face the Park, to see whether -any one had noticed her. She knew the people who lived in one of the -houses, and she had an idea that others might know her by sight, as the -niece of the great man who had built the whole block. But there were -only two children at one of the windows, flattening their rosy faces -against the pane and drumming on it with fat hands; very smartly dressed -children, with bright eyes and gayly-coloured ribbons. - -As Katharine had expected, Robert Lauderdale was at home, had finished -his breakfast and was in his library attending to his morning letters. -She was ushered in almost immediately, and as she entered the room the -rich man’s secretary stood aside - -[Illustration: “‘I’m glad to see you, my dear child!’ he said -warmly.”--Vol. II., p. 3.] - -to let her pass through the door and then went out--a quiet, faultlessly -dressed young man who had the air of a gentleman. He wore gold-rimmed -spectacles, which looked oddly on his young face. - -Robert Lauderdale did not rise to meet Katharine, as he sat sideways by -a broad table, in an easy position, with one leg crossed over the other -and leaning back in his deep chair. But a bright smile came into his -cheerful old face, and stretching out one long arm he took her hand and -drew her down and gave her a hearty kiss. Still holding her by the hand, -he made her sit in the chair beside him, left vacant by the secretary. - -“I’m glad to see you, my dear child!” he said warmly. “What brings you -so early?” - -He was a big old man and was dressed in a rough tweed of a light colour, -which was very becoming to his fresh complexion. His thick hair had once -been red, but had turned to a bright sandy grey, something like the -sands at Newport. His face was laid out in broad surfaces, rich in -healthy colour and deeply freckled where the skin was white. His keen -blue eyes were small, but very clear and honest, and the eyebrows were -red still, and bushy, with a few white hairs. Two deep, clean furrows -extended from beside the nostrils into the carefully brushed beard, and -there were four wrinkles, and no more, across the broad forehead. No one -would have supposed that Robert Lauderdale was much over sixty, but in -reality he was ten years older. His elder brother, the philanthropist, -looked almost as though he might have been his father. It was clear -that, like many of the Lauderdales, the old man had possessed great -physical strength, and that he had preserved his splendid constitutional -vitality even in his old age. - -Katharine did not answer his question immediately. She was by no means -timid, as has been seen, but she felt a little less brave and sure of -herself in the presence of the head of her family than when she had been -with Ralston a few minutes earlier. She was not aware of the fact that -in many ways she dominated the man who was now her husband, and she -would very probably not have wished to believe she did; but she was very -distinctly conscious that she could never, under any imaginable -circumstances, exert any direct influence over her uncle Robert, though -she might persuade him to do much for her. He was by nature himself of -the dominant tribe, and during forty years he had been accustomed to -command with that absolute certainty of being obeyed which few positions -insure as completely as very great wealth does. As she looked at him for -a moment before speaking, the little opening speech she had framed began -to seem absolutely inadequate, and she could not find words wherewith to -compose another at such short notice. Being courageous, however, she -did not hesitate long, but characteristically plunged into the very -heart of the matter by telling him just what she felt. - -“I’ve done something very unusual, uncle Robert,” she began. “And I’ve -come to tell you all about it, and I prepared a speech for you. But it -won’t do. Somehow, though I’m not a bit afraid of you--” she smiled as -she met his eyes--“you seem ever so much bigger and stronger than I -thought you were, now that I’ve got here.” - -Uncle Robert laughed and patted her hand as it lay on the desk. - -“Out with it, child!” he exclaimed. “I suppose you’re in trouble, in -some way or other, and you want me to help you. Is that it?” - -“You must help me,” answered Katharine. “Nobody else can. Uncle -Robert--” She paused, though a pause was certainly not necessary in -order to give the plain statement more force. “I’ve just been married to -Jack Ralston.” - -“Good--gracious--heavens!” - -The old man half rose from his seat as he uttered the words, one by one, -in his deep voice. Then he dropped into his chair again and stared at -the young girl in downright amazement. - -“What in the name of common sense induced you to do such a mad thing?” -he asked very quietly, as soon as he had drawn breath. - -Katharine had expected that he would be surprised, as was rather -natural, and regained her coolness and decision at once. - -“We’ve loved each other ever since we were children,” she said, speaking -calmly and distinctly. “You know all about it, for I’ve told you before -now just how I felt. Everybody opposed it--even my mother, at -last--except you, and you certainly never gave us any encouragement.” - -“I should think not, indeed!” exclaimed old Lauderdale, shaking his -great head and beating a tattoo on the table with his heavy fingers. - -“I don’t know why not, I’m sure,” Katharine answered, with rising -energy. “There’s no reason in the world why we shouldn’t love each -other, and it wouldn’t make the slightest difference to me if there -were. I should love him just the same, and he would love me. He went to -my father last year, as you know, and papa treated him -outrageously--wanted to forbid him to come to the house, but of course -that was absurd. Jack behaved splendidly through it all--even papa had -to acknowledge that, though he didn’t wish to in the least. And I hoped -and hoped, and waited and waited, but things went no better. You know -when papa makes up his mind to a thing, no matter how unreasonable it -is, one might just as well talk to a stone wall. But I hadn’t the -smallest intention of being made miserable for the rest of my life, so I -persuaded Jack to marry me--” - -“I suppose he didn’t need much persuasion,” observed the old gentleman, -angrily. - -“You’re quite wrong, uncle Robert! He didn’t want to do it at all. He -had an idea that it wasn’t all right--” - -“Then why in the world did he do it? Oh, I hate that sort of young -fellow, who pretends that he doesn’t want to do a thing because he means -to do it all the time--and knows perfectly well that it’s a low thing to -do!” - -“I won’t let you say that of Jack!” Katharine’s grey eyes began to -flash. “If you knew how hard it was to persuade him! He only consented -at last--and so did the clergyman--because I promised to come and tell -you at once--” - -“That’s just like the young good-for-nothing, too!” muttered the old -man. “Besides--how do I know that you’re really married? How do I know -that you’re not--” - -“Stop, please! There’s the certificate. Please persuade yourself, before -you accuse me of telling falsehoods.” - -Katharine was suddenly very angry, and Robert Lauderdale realized that -he had gone too far in his excitement. But he looked at the certificate -carefully, then took out his note-book and wrote down the main facts -with great care. - -“I didn’t mean to doubt what you told me, child,” he said, while he was -writing. “You’ve rather startled me with this piece of news. Human life -is very uncertain,” he added, using the clergyman’s own words, “and it -may be just as well that there should be a note made of this. Hadn’t you -better let me keep the certificate itself? It will be quite safe with my -papers.” - -“I wish you would,” answered Katharine, after a moment’s thought. - -The production of the certificate had produced a momentary cessation of -hostilities, so to speak, but the old gentleman had by no means said his -last word yet, nor Katharine either. - -“Go on, my dear,” he resumed gravely. “If I’m to know anything, I should -know everything, I suppose.” - -“There’s not very much more to tell,” Katharine replied. “I repeat that -it was all I could do to persuade Jack to take the step. He resisted to -the very last--” - -“Hm! He seems to have taken an active part in the proceedings in spite -of his resistance--” - -“Of course he did, after I had persuaded him to. It was up to that point -that he resisted--and even after everything was ready--even this -morning, when I met him, he told me that I ought not to have come.” - -“His spirit seems to have been willing to have some sense--but the flesh -was weak,” observed the old gentleman, without a smile. - -“I insist upon taking the whole responsibility,” said Katharine. “It was -I who proposed it, and it was I who made him do it.” - -“You’re evidently the strong-minded member, my dear.” - -“In this--yes. I love him, and I made up my mind that it was right to -love him and that I would marry him. Now I have.” - -“It is impossible to make a more direct statement of an unpleasant -truth. And now that you’ve done it, you mean that your family shall take -the consequences--which shows a strong sense of that responsibility you -mentioned--and so you’ve come to me. Why didn’t you come to me -yesterday? It would have been far more sensible.” - -“I did think of coming yesterday afternoon--and then it rained, and -Charlotte came--” - -“Yes--it rained--I remember.” Robert Lauderdale’s mouth quivered, as -though he should have liked to smile at the utter insignificance of the -shower as compared with the importance of Katharine’s action. “You might -have taken a cab. There’s a stand close by your house, at the Brevoort.” - -“Oh, yes--of course--though I should have had to ask mamma for some -money, and that would have been very awkward, you know. And if I had -really and truly meant to come, I suppose I shouldn’t have minded the -rain.” - -“Well--never mind the rain now!” Uncle Robert spoke a little -impatiently. “You didn’t come--and you’ve come to-day, when it’s too -late to do anything--except regret what you’ve done.” - -“I don’t regret it at all--and I don’t intend to,” Katharine answered -firmly. - -“And what do you mean to do in the future? Live with Ralston’s mother? -Is that your idea?” - -“Certainly not. I want you to give Jack something to do, and we’ll live -together, wherever you make him go--if it’s to Alaska.” - -“Oh--that’s it, is it? I begin to understand. I suppose Jack would think -it would simplify matters very much if I gave him a hundred thousand -dollars, wouldn’t he? That would be an even shorter way of giving him -the means to support his family.” - -“Jack wouldn’t take money from you,” answered Katharine, quickly. - -“Wouldn’t he? If it were not such a risk, I’d try it, just to convince -you. You seem to have a very exalted idea of Jack Ralston, altogether. -I’ve not. Do you know anything about his life?” - -“Of course I do. I know how you all talk about the chances you’ve given -him--between you. And I know just what they were--to try his hand at -being a lawyer’s clerk first, and a banker’s clerk afterwards, with no -salary and--” - -“If he had stuck to either for a year he would have had a very -different sort of chance,” interrupted the old gentleman. “I told him -so. There was little enough expected of him, I’m sure--just to go to an -office every day, as most people do, and write what he was told to -write. It wasn’t much to ask. Take the whole thing to pieces and look at -it. What can he do? What do most men do who must make their way in the -world? He has no exceptional talent, so he can’t go in for art or -literature or that sort of thing. His father wouldn’t educate him for -the navy, where he would have found his level, or where the Admiral’s -name would have helped him. He didn’t get a technical education, which -would have given him a chance to try engineering. There were only two -things left--the law or business. I explained all that to him at the -time. He shook his head and said he wanted something active. That’s just -the way all young men talk who merely don’t want to stay in-doors and -work decently hard, like other people. An active life! What is an active -life? Ranching, I suppose he means, and he thinks he should do well on a -ranch merely because he can ride fairly well. Riding fairly well doesn’t -mean much on a ranch. The men out there can all ride better than he ever -could, and he knows nothing about horses, nor cattle, nor about anything -useful. Besides, with his temper, he’d be shot before he’d been out -there a year--” - -“But there are all sorts of other things, and you forget Hamilton -Bright, who began on a ranch--” - -“Ham Bright is made of different stuff. He had been brought up in the -country, too, and his father was a Western man--from Cincinnati, at all -events, though that isn’t West nowadays. No. Jack Ralston could never -succeed at that--and I haven’t a ranch to give him, and I certainly -won’t go and buy land out there now. I repeat that his only chance lay -in law or business. Law would have done better. He had the advantage of -having a degree to begin with, and I would have found him a partner, and -there’s a lot of law connected with real estate which doesn’t need a -genius to work it, and which is fairly profitable. But no! He wanted -something active! That’s exactly what a kitten wants when it runs round -after its own tail--and there’s about as much sense in it. Upon my word, -there is!” - -“You’re very hard on him, uncle Robert. And I don’t think you’re quite -reasonable. It was a good deal the old Admiral’s fault--” - -“I’m not examining the cause, I’m going over the facts,” said old -Lauderdale, impatiently. “I tried him, and I very soon got to the end of -him. He meant to do nothing. It was quite clear from the first. If he’d -been a starving relation it would have been different. I should have -made him work whether he liked it or not. As it was, I gave it up as a -bad job. He wants to be idle, and he has the means to be idle if he’s -willing to live on his mother. She has ten thousand dollars a year, and -a house of her own, and they can live very well on that--just as well as -they want to. When his mother dies that’s what Jack will have, and if he -chooses to marry on it--” - -“You seem to forget that he’s married already--” - -“By Jove! I did! But it doesn’t change things in the least. My position -is just the same as it was before. With ten thousand a year Katharine -Ralston couldn’t support a family--” - -“Indeed, I could! I’m Katharine Ralston, and I should be--” - -“Nonsense! You’re Katharine Lauderdale. I’m speaking of Jack’s mother. I -suppose you’ll admit that she’s not able to support her son’s wife out -of what she has. It would mean a great change in her way of living. At -present she doesn’t need more. She’s often told me so. If she wanted -money for herself, just to spend on herself, mind you--I’d give -her--well, I won’t say how much. But she doesn’t. It’s for Jack that she -wants it. She’s perfectly honest. She’s just like a man in her way of -talking, anyhow. And I don’t want Jack to be throwing my money into the -streets. I can do more good with it in other ways, and she gives him -more than is good for him, as it is. People seem to think that if a man -has more than a certain amount of money, he’s under a sort of moral -obligation to society to throw it out of the window. That’s a point of -view I never could understand, though it comes quite naturally to Jack, -I daresay. But I go back. I want to insist on that circumstance, and I -want you to see the facts just as they are. If I were to settle another -hundred thousand dollars on Jack’s mother, it would be precisely the -same thing, at present, as though I’d settled it on him, or on you. Now -you say he wouldn’t take any money if I offered it to him.” - -“No. He wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t let him if he wanted to.” - -“You needn’t be afraid, my dear. I’ve no intention of doing anything so -good-natured and foolish. If anything could complete Jack’s ruin for all -practical purposes, that would. No, no! I won’t do it. I’ve given Kate -Ralston a good many valuable jewels at one time and another since she -married the Admiral--she’s fond of good stones, you know. If Jack -chooses to go to her and tell her the truth, and if she chooses to sell -them and give him the money, it will keep you very comfortably for a -long time--” - -“How can you suggest such a thing!” cried Katharine, indignantly. “As -though he would ever stoop to think of it!” - -“Well--I hope he wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be pretty, if he did. But I’m a -practical man, my dear, and I’m an old fellow and I’ve seen the world -on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean for over seventy years. So I look at -the case from all possible points of view, fair and unfair, as most -people would. But I don’t mean to be unfair to Jack.” - -“I think you are, uncle Robert. If you’ve proved anything, you’ve proved -that he isn’t fit for a ranch--and so you say there’s nothing left but -the law or business. It seems to me that there are ever so many -things--” - -“If you’ll name them, you’ll help me,” said old Lauderdale, seriously. - -“I mean active things--to do with railroads, and all that--” Katharine -stopped, feeling that her knowledge was rather vague. - -“Oh! You mean to talk about railroading. I don’t own any railroads -myself, as I daresay you know, but I’ve picked up some information about -them. Apart from the financing of them--and that’s banking, which Jack -objects to--there’s the law part, which he doesn’t like either, and the -building of them, which he’s too old to learn, and the mechanical part -of them, such as locomotives and rolling stock, which he can’t learn -either--and then there are two places which men covet and for which -there’s an enormous competition amongst the best men for such matters in -the country--I mean the freight agent’s place and the passenger agent’s. -They are two big men, and they understand their business practically, -because they’ve learned it practically. To understand freight, a man -must begin by putting on rough clothes and going down to the shed and -handling freight himself, with the common freight men. There are -gentlemen who have done that sort of thing--just as fine gentlemen as -Jack Ralston, but made of quite different stuff. And it takes a very -long time to reach a high position in that way, though it’s worth having -when you get it. Do you understand?” - -“Yes--I suppose I do. But one always hears of men going off and -succeeding in some out-of-the-way place--” - -“But you hear very little about the ones who fail, and they’re the -majority. And you hear, still more often, people saying, as they do of -Jack Ralston, that he ought to go away, and show some enterprise, and -get something to do in the West. It’s always the West, because most of -the people who talk know nothing whatever about it. I tell you, -Katharine, my dear, it’s just as hard to start in this country as it is -anywhere else, though men get on faster after they’re once started--and -all this talk about something active and an out-of-door existence is -pure nonsense. It’s nothing else. A man may have luck soon or late or -never, but the safest plan for city-bred men is to begin at a bank. I -did, and I’ve not regretted it. Just as soon as a fellow shows that he -has something in him, he’s wanted, and if he has friends, as Jack has, -they’ll help him. But as long as a man hangs about the clubs all day -with a cigarette in his mouth, sensible people, who want workers, will -fight shy of him. Just tell Jack that, the next time you see him. It’s -all I’ve got to say, and if it doesn’t satisfy him nothing can.” - -The old gentleman’s anger had quite disappeared while he was speaking, -though it was ready to burst out again on very small provocation. He -spoke so earnestly, and put matters so plainly, that Katharine began to -feel a blank disappointment closing in between her and her visions of -the future in regard to an occupation for John. For the rest, she would -have been just as determined to marry him after hearing all that her -uncle had to say as she had been before. But she could not help showing -what she felt, in her face and in the tone of her voice. - -“Still--men do succeed, uncle Robert,” she said, clinging rather -desperately to the hope that he had only been lecturing her and had some -pleasant surprise in store. - -“Of course they do, my dear,” he answered. “And it’s possible for Jack -to succeed, too, if he’ll go about it in the right way.” - -“How?” asked Katharine, eagerly, and immediately her face brightened -again. - -“Just as I said. If he’ll show that he can stick to any sort of -occupation for a year, I’ll see what can be done.” - -“But that sticking, as you call it--all day at a desk--is just what he -can’t do. He wasn’t made for it, he--” - -“Well then, what is he made for? I wish you would get him to make a -statement explaining his peculiar gifts--” - -“Now don’t be angry again, uncle Robert! This is rather a serious matter -for Jack and me. Do you tell me, in real earnest, quite, quite honestly, -that as far as you know the only way for Jack to earn his living is to -go into an office for a year, to begin with? Is that what you mean?” - -“Yes, child. Upon my word--there, you’ll believe me now, won’t you? -That’s the only way I can see, if he really means to work. My dear--I’m -not a boy, and I’m very fond of you--I’ve no reason for deceiving you, -have I?” - -“No, uncle dear--but you were angry at first, you know.” - -“No doubt. But I’m not angry now, nor are you. We’ve discussed the -matter calmly. And we’re putting out of the question the fact that if I -chose to give Jack anything in the way of money, my cheque-book is in -this drawer, and I have the power to do it--without any inconvenience,” -added the very rich man, thoughtfully. “But you tell me that he would -not accept it. It’s hard to believe, but you know him better than I do, -and I accept your statement. I may as well tell you that for the honour -of the family and to get rid of all this nonsense about a secret -marriage I’m perfectly willing to do this. Listen. I’ll invite you -all--the whole family--to my place on the river, and I’ll tell them all -what has happened and we’ll have a sort of ‘post facto’ wedding there, -very quietly, and then announce it to the world. And I’ll settle enough -on you, personally--not on your husband--to give you an income you can -manage to live on comfortably--” - -“Oh!” cried Katharine. “You’re too kind, uncle Robert--and I thank you -with all my heart--just as though we could take it from you--I do, -indeed--” - -“Never mind that, child. But you say you can’t take it. You mean, I -suppose, that if it were your money--if I made it so--Jack would refuse -to live on it. Let’s be quite clear.” - -“That’s exactly it. He would never consent to live on it. He would -feel--he’d be quite right, too--that we had got married first in order -to force money out of you, for the honour of the family, as you said -yourself.” - -“Yes. And it’s particularly hard to force money out of me, too, though -I’m not stingy, my dear. But I must say, if you had meant to do it, you -couldn’t have invented anything more ingenious, or more successful. I -couldn’t allow a couple of young Lauderdales to go begging. They’d have -pictures of me in the evening papers, you know. And apart from that, I’m -devilish fond of you--I mean I’m very fond of you--you must excuse an -old bachelor’s English, sometimes. But you won’t take the money, so that -settles it. Then there’s no other way but for Jack to go to work like a -man and stick to it. To give him a salary for doing no work would be -just the same as to give him money without making any pretence about it. -He can have a desk at my lawyer’s, or he can go back to Beman -Brothers’,--just as he prefers. If he’ll do that, and honestly try to -understand what he’s doing, he shan’t regret it. If he’ll do what there -is to be done, I’ll make him succeed. I could make him succeed if he had -‘failure’ written all over him in letters a foot high--because it’s -within the bounds of possibility. But it’s of no use to ask me to do -what’s not possible. I can’t make this country over again. I can’t -create a convenient, active, out-of-door career at a good salary, when -the thing doesn’t exist. In other words, I can’t work miracles, and he -won’t take money, so he must content himself to run on lines of -possibility. My lawyer would do most things for me, and so would Beman -Brothers. Beman, to please me, would make Jack a partner, as he has done -for Ham Bright. But Jack must either work or put in capital, and he has -no capital to put in, and won’t take any from me. And to be a partner in -a law firm, a man must have some little experience--something beyond his -bare degree. Do you see it all now, Katharine?” - -“Indeed, I do,” she answered, with a little sigh. “And meanwhile--uncle -Robert--meanwhile--” - -“Yes--I know--you’re married. That’s the very devil, that marriage -business.” - -He seemed to be thinking it over. There was something so innocently -sincere in his strong way of putting it that Katharine could not help -smiling, even in her distress. But she waited for him to speak, -foreseeing what he would say, and did. - -“There’s nothing for it,” he said, at last. “You won’t take money, and -you can’t live with your mother, and as for telling your father at this -stage--well, you know him! It really wouldn’t be safe. So there’s -nothing for it but--I hate to say it, my dear,” he added kindly. - -“But to keep it a secret, you mean,” she said sadly. - -“You see,” he answered, in a tone that was almost apologetic, “it would -be a mistake, socially, to say you were married, and to go on living -each with your own family--besides, your father would know it like -everybody else. He’d make your life very--unbearable, I should think.” - -“Yes--he would. I know that.” - -“Well--come and see me again soon, and we’ll talk it over. You’ll have -to consider it just as a--I don’t know exactly how to put it--a sort of -formal betrothal between yourselves, such as they used to have in old -times. And I suppose I’m the head of the family, though your grandfather -is older than I am. Anyhow, you must consider it as though you were -solemnly engaged, with the approval of the head of the family, and as -though you were to be married, say, next year. Can you do that? Can you -make him look at it in that light, child?” - -“I’ll try, since there’s really nothing else to be done. But oh, uncle -Robert, I wish I’d come before. You’ve been so kind! Why did it rain -yesterday--oh, why did it rain?” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -When Katharine left Robert Lauderdale’s house that morning, she felt -that trouble had begun and was not to cease for a long time. She had -entered her uncle’s library full of hope, sure of success and believing -that John Ralston’s future depended only upon the rich man’s good will -and good word. She went out fully convinced at last that he must take -one or the other of the much-despised chances he had neglected and -forthwith do the best he could with it. She thought it was very hard, -but she understood old Lauderdale’s clear statement and she saw that -there was no other way. - -She sympathized deeply with John in his dislike of the daily drudgery, -for which it was quite true that he was little fitted by nature or -training. But she did her best to analyze that unfitness, so as to try -and discover some gift or quality to balance it and neutralize it. And -her first impulse was not to find him at once and tell him what had -happened, but rather to put off the evil moment in which she must tell -him the truth. This was the first sign of weakness which she had -exhibited since that Monday afternoon on which she had persuaded him to -take the decisive step. - -She turned into Madison Avenue as soon as she could, for the sake of the -quiet. The morning sun shone full in her eyes as she began to make her -way southwards, and she was glad of the warmth, for she felt cold and -inwardly chilled in mind and body. She had walked far, but she still -walked on, disliking the thought of being penned in with a dozen or more -of unsympathizing individuals for twenty minutes in a horse-car. -Moreover, she instinctively wished to tire herself, as though to bring -down her bodily energy to the low ebb at which her mental activity -seemed to be stagnating. Strong people will understand that desire to -balance mind and body. - -She was quite convinced that her uncle was right. The more she turned -the whole situation over, the clearer what he had said became to her. -The only escape was to accept the money which he was willing to give -her--for the honour of the family. But if neither she nor John would -take that, there was no alternative but for John to go to work in the -ordinary way, and show that he could be steady for at least a year. That -seemed a very long time--as long as a year can seem to a girl of -nineteen, which is saying much. - -Katharine had seen such glorious visions for that year, too, that the -darkness of the future was a tangible horror now that they were fading -away. The memory of a dream can be as vivid as the recollection of a -reality. The something which John was to find to do had presented itself -to her mind as a sort of idyllic existence somewhere out of the world, -in which there should be woods and brooks and breezes, and a convenient -town not far away, where things could be got, and a cottage quite unlike -other cottages, and a good deal of shooting and fishing and riding, with -an amount of responsibility for all these things equal in money to six -or seven thousand dollars a year, out of which Katharine was sure that -she could save a small fortune in a few years. It had not been quite -clear to her why the responsibility was to be worth so much in actual -coin of the Republic, but people certainly succeeded very quickly in the -West. Besides, she was quite ready to give up all the luxuries and -amusements of social existence--much more ready to do so than John -Ralston, if she had known the truth. - -It must not be believed that she was utterly visionary and unpractical, -because she had taken this rose-coloured view of the life uncle Robert -was to provide for her and her husband. There are probably a great many -young women in the Eastern cities who imagine just such things to be -quite possible, and quite within the power and gift of a millionaire, in -the American sense of that word, which implies the possession of more -than one million, and more often refers in actual use to income than -merely to capital. In Paris, a man who has twenty thousand dollars a -year is called a millionaire. In New York a man with that income is but -just beyond the level of the estimable society poor, and within the -ranks of the ‘fairly well-off.’ The great fortunes being really as -fabulous as those in fairy tales, it is not surprising that the -possession of them should be supposed to bring with it an almost -fabulous power in all directions. Men like Robert Lauderdale, the -administration of whose estates requires a machinery not unlike that of -a small nation’s treasury, are thought to have in their gift all sorts -of remunerative positions, for which the principal qualifications are an -unlimited capacity for enjoying the fresh air and some talent for -fishing. As a matter of fact, though so much richer than ordinary men, -they are so much poorer than all except the very small nations that they -cannot support so many idlers. - -Katharine knew a good deal about life in New York and its possibilities, -but very little of what could be done elsewhere. She was perfectly well -aware of the truth of all that her uncle had told her concerning the -requirements for business or the law, for she had heard such matters -discussed often enough. In her own city she was practical, for she -understood her surroundings as well as any young girl could. It was -because she understood them that she dreamed of getting out of them as -soon as practicable, and of beginning that vaguely active and -remunerative existence which, for her, lay west of Illinois and anywhere -beyond that, even to the shores of the Pacific Ocean. John Ralston -himself knew very little about it, but he had rightly judged its -mythical nature when he had told her that Robert Lauderdale would do -nothing for him. - -The sun warmed Katharine as she walked down Madison Avenue, but -everything was black--felt black, she would have said, had she thought -aloud. Ralston would not turn upon her and say, ‘I told you so,’ because -he loved her, but she could see the expression of his face as she looked -forward to the interview. He would nod his head slowly and say nothing. -The corners of his mouth would be drawn down for a moment and his -eyelids would contract a little while he looked away from her. He would -think the matter over during about half a minute, and then, with a look -of determination, he would say that he would try what uncle Robert -proposed. He would not say anything against the plan of keeping the -marriage a secret, now that old Lauderdale knew of it, for he would see -at once that there was absolutely nothing else to be done. They had gone -over the possibilities so often--there was not one which they had not -carefully considered. It was all so hopelessly against them still, in -spite of the one great effort Katharine had made that morning. - -She walked more slowly after she had passed the high level above the -railway, where it runs out of the city under ground from the central -station. As she came nearer to the neighbourhood in which John lived, -she felt for the first time in her life that she did not wish to meet -him. Though she did not admit to herself that she feared to tell him the -result of her conversation with her uncle, and though she had no -intention of going to his mother’s house and asking for him, her pace -slackened at the mere idea of being nearer to him. - -Then she realized what she was doing, and with a bitter little smile of -contempt at her own weakness she walked on more briskly. She had often -read in books of that sudden change in the aspect of the outer world -which disappointment brings, but she had never quite believed in it -before. She realized it now. There was no light in anything. The faces -of the people who passed her looked dead and uninteresting. Every house -looked as though a funeral procession might at any moment file out of -its door. The very pavement, drying in patches in the sunshine, felt -cold and unsympathetic under her feet. - -She began to wonder what she had better do,--whether she should write -John Ralston a long letter, explaining everything, or whether she -should write him a short one, merely saying that the news was -unfavourable--‘unfavourable’ sounded better than ‘bad’ or -‘disappointing,’ she thought--and asking him to come and see her in the -afternoon. The latter course seemed preferable, and had, moreover, the -advantage of involving fewer practical difficulties, for her command -over her mother tongue was by no means very great when subjected to the -test of black and white, though in conversation it was quite equal to -her requirements on most occasions. She could even entirely avoid the -use of slang, by making a determined effort, for her father detested it, -and her mother’s conversational weaknesses were Southern and of a -different type. But on paper she was never sure of being quite right. -Punctuation was a department which she affected to despise, but which -she inwardly feared, and when alone she admitted that there were words -which she seemed to spell not as they were spelled in books--‘parallel,’ -for instance, ‘psychology’ and ‘responsibility.’ She avoided those -words, which were not very necessary to her, but with a disagreeable -suspicion that there might be others. Had ‘develop’ an ‘e’ at the end of -it, or had it not? She could never remember, and the dictionary lived in -her grandfather’s den, at some distance from her own room. The -difficulties of writing a long letter to John Ralston, whose mother had -taught him his English before it could be taught him all wrong at a -fashionable school, rose before her eyes with absurd force, and she -decided forthwith to send for Ralston in the afternoon. - -Having come to a preliminary conclusion, life seemed momentarily a -little easier. She turned out of her way into Fourth Avenue, took a -horse-car, got transferred to a Christopher Street one, and in the -course of time got out at the corner of Clinton Place. She wrote the -shortest possible note to John Ralston, went out again, bought a special -delivery stamp and took the letter up to the Thirteenth Street -Post-Office--instead of dropping it into an ordinary letter-box. She did -everything, in short, to make the message reach its destination as -quickly as possible without employing a messenger. - -Charlotte Slayback appeared at luncheon. She preferred that meal when -she invited herself, because her father was never present, and a certain -amount of peaceful conversation was possible in his absence. It was some -time since she had been in New York, and the glimpse of her old room on -the previous afternoon irresistibly attracted her again. Katharine -hoped, however, that she would not stay long, as Ralston was to come at -three o’clock, this being usually the safest hour for his visits. Mrs. -Lauderdale would then be either at work or out of the house, the -philanthropist would be dozing upstairs in a cloud of smoke before a -table covered with reports, and Alexander Junior would be still down -town. In consideration of the importance of getting Charlotte out of the -way, Katharine was more than usually cordial to her--a mistake often -made by young people, who do not seem to understand the very simple fact -that the best way to make people go away is generally to be as -disagreeable as possible. - -The consequence was that Charlotte enjoyed herself immensely, and it -required the sight of her father’s photograph, which stood upon Mrs. -Lauderdale’s writing-table in the library, to keep her from proposing to -spend two or three days in the house after her husband should have gone -back to Washington. But the photograph was there, and it was one taken -by the platinum process, which made the handsome, steely face look more -metallic than ever. Charlotte gazed at it thoughtfully, and could almost -hear the maxims of virtue and economy with which those even lips had -preached her down since she had been a child, and she decided that she -would not stay. Her husband was not to her taste, but he never preached. - -Mrs. Lauderdale had for her eldest daughter that sentiment which is -generally described as a mother’s love, and which, as Frank Miner had -once rather coarsely put it, will stand more knocking about than old -boots. Charlotte was spoiled, capricious, frivolous in the extreme, -ungrateful beyond description, weak where she should have been strong -and strong where she should have been tender. And Mrs. Lauderdale knew -it all, and loved her in spite of it all, though she disapproved of her -almost at every point. Charlotte had one of those characters of which -people are apt to say that they might have turned out splendidly, if -properly trained, than which no more foolish expression falls from the -lips of commonplace, virtuous humanity. Charlotte, like many women who -resemble her, had received an excellent training. The proof was that, -when she chose to behave herself, no one could seem to be more docile, -more thoughtful and considerate of others or more charming in -conversation. She had only to wish to appear well, as the phrase goes, -and the minutest details necessary to success were absolutely under her -control. What people meant when they said that she might have turned out -splendidly--though they did not at all understand the fact--was that a -woman possessing Charlotte Slayback’s natural gifts and acquired -accomplishments might have been a different person if she had been born -with a very different character--a statement quite startling in its -great simplicity. As it was, there was nothing to be done. Charlotte had -been admirably ‘trained’ in every way--so well that she could exhibit -the finest qualities, on occasion, without any perceptible effort, even -when she felt the utmost reluctance to do so. But the occasions were -few, and were determined by questions of personal advantage, and even -more often by mere caprice. - -On that particular day, when she lunched quietly in her old home, her -conduct was little short of angelic, and Katharine found it hard to -realize that she was the same woman who on the previous afternoon had -made such an exhibition of contemptible pettiness and unreasoning -discontent. Katharine, had she known her sister less well, would almost -have been inclined to believe that Benjamin Slayback of Nevada was a -person with whom no wife of ordinary sensibility would possibly live. -But she knew Charlotte very well indeed. - -And as the hands of the clock went round towards three, Charlotte showed -no intention of going away, to Katharine’s infinite annoyance, for she -knew that Ralston would be punctual, and would probably come even a -little before the time she had named. It would not do to let him walk -into the library, after the late scene between him and her mother. The -latter had said nothing more about the matter, but only one day had -intervened since Mrs. Lauderdale had so unexpectedly expressed her total -disapproval of Katharine’s relations with John. It was not probable -that Mrs. Lauderdale, who was not a changeable woman, would go back to -her original position in the course of a few hours, and there would -certainly be trouble if John appeared with no particular excuse. - -Katharine, as may be imagined, was by no means in a normal mood, and if -she made herself agreeable to her sister, it was not at first without a -certain effort, which did not decrease, in spite of Charlotte’s own -exceptionally good temper, because as the latter grew more and more -amiable, she also seemed more and more inclined to spend the whole -afternoon where she was. - -Hints about going out, about going upstairs to the room in which Mrs. -Lauderdale painted, about possible visitors, had no effect whatever. -Charlotte was enjoying herself and her mother was delighted to keep her -and listen to her conversation. Katharine thought at last that she -should be reduced to the necessity of waiting in the entry until Ralston -came, in order to send him away again before he could get into the -library by mistake. She hated the plan, which certainly lacked dignity, -and she watched the hands of the clock, growing nervous and absent in -what she said, as she saw that the fatal hour was approaching. - -At twenty minutes to three Charlotte was describing to her mother the -gown worn by the English ambassadress at the last official dinner at -the White House. At a quarter to three she was giving an amusing account -of the last filibustering affray in the House, which she had -witnessed--it having been arranged beforehand to take place at a given -point in the proceedings--from the gallery reserved for members’ -families. Five minutes later she was telling anecdotes about a -deputation from the South Sea Islands. Katharine could hardly sit still -as she watched the inexorable hands. At five minutes to three Charlotte -struck the subject of painting, and Katharine felt that it was all over. -Suddenly Charlotte herself glanced at the clock and sprang up. - -“I had forgotten all about poor little Crowdie!” she exclaimed. “He was -coming at three to take me to the Loan Exhibition,” she added, looking -about her for her hat and gloves. - -“Here?” asked Katharine, aghast. - -“Oh, no--at the hotel, of course. I must run as fast as I can. There are -still cabs at the Brevoort House corner, aren’t there? Thank you, my -dear--” Katharine had found all her things and was already tying on the -little veil. “I do hope he’ll wait.” - -“Of course he will!” answered Katharine, with amazing certainty. “You’re -all right, dear--now run!” she added, pushing her sister towards the -door. - -“Do come to dinner, Charlie!” cried Mrs. Lauderdale, following her. -“It’s so nice to see something of you!” - -“Oh, yes--she’ll come--but you mustn’t keep her, mamma--she’s awfully -late as it is!” - -From a condition of apparently hopeless apathy, Katharine was suddenly -roused to exert all her energies. It was two minutes to three as she -closed the glass door behind her sister. Fortunately Ralston had not -come before his time. - -“I suppose you’re going to work now, mamma?” Katharine suggested, doing -her best to speak calmly, as she turned to her mother, who was standing -in the door of the library. - -She had never before wished that Ralston were an unpunctual man, nor -that her mother, to whom she was devotedly attached, were at the bottom -of the sea. - -“Oh, yes! I suppose so,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale. “How delightful -Charlotte was to-day, wasn’t she?” - -Her face was fresh and rested. She leaned against the doorpost as though -deciding whether to go upstairs at once or to go back into the library. -With a movement natural to her she raised her graceful arms, folding her -hands together behind her head, and leaning back against the woodwork, -looking lazily at Katharine as she did so. She felt that small -difficulty, at the moment, of going back to the daily occupation after -spending an exceptionally pleasant hour in some one’s company, which is -familiar to all hard workers. Katharine stood still, trying to hide her -anxiety. The clock must be just going to strike, she thought. - -“What’s the matter, child? You seem nervous and worried about -something.” She asked the question with a certain curiosity. - -“Do I?” asked Katharine, trying to affect indifference. - -Mrs. Lauderdale did not move. In the half light of the doorway she was -still very beautiful, as she stood there trying to make up her mind to -go to her work. Katharine was in despair, and turned over the cards that -lay in a deep dish on the table, reading the names mechanically. - -“Yes,” continued her mother. “You look as though you were expecting -something--or somebody.” - -The clock struck, and almost at the same instant Katharine heard -Ralston’s quick, light tread on the stone steps outside the house. She -had a sudden inspiration. - -“There’s a visitor coming, mother!” she whispered quickly. “Run away, -and I’ll tell Annie not to let him in.” - -Mrs. Lauderdale, fortunately, did not care to receive any one, but -instead of going upstairs she merely nodded, just as the bell rang, and -retired into the library again, shutting the door behind her. Katharine -was left alone in the entry, and she could see the dark, indistinct -shape of John Ralston through the ground-glass pane of the front door. -She hesitated an instant, doubting whether it would not be wisest to -open the door herself, send him away, and then, slipping on her things, -to follow him a moment later into the street. But in the same instant -she reflected that her mother had very possibly gone to the window to -see who the visitor had been when he should descend the steps again. -Most women do that in houses where it is possible. Then, too, her mother -would expect to hear Annie’s footsteps passing the library, as the girl -went to the front door. - -There was the dining-room, and it could be reached from the entry by -passing through the pantry. Annie was devoted to Katharine, and at a -whispered word would lead Ralston silently thither. The closed room -between the dining-room and the library would effectually cut off the -sound of voices. But that, too, struck Katharine as being beneath -her--to confide in a servant! She could not do it, and was further -justified by the reflection that even if she followed that course, her -mother, who was doubtless at the window, would not see Ralston go away, -and would naturally conclude that the visitor had remained in the house, -whoever he might be. - -Katharine stood irresolute, watching Ralston’s shadow on the pane, and -listening to Annie’s rapidly approaching tread from the regions of the -pantry at the end of the entry. A moment later and the girl was by her -side. - -“If it’s Mr. Ralston, don’t shut the door again till I’ve spoken to -him,” she said, in a low voice. “My mother isn’t receiving, if it’s a -visitor.” - -She stood behind Annie as the latter opened the door. John was there, as -she had expected, and Annie stepped back. Katharine raised her finger to -her lips, warning him not to speak. He looked surprised, but stood -bareheaded on the threshold. - -“You must go away at once, Jack,” she whispered. “My mother is in the -library, looking out of the window, and I can’t possibly see you alone. -Wait for me near the door at the Assembly to-night. Go, dear--it’s -impossible now. I’ll tell you afterwards.” - -In her anxiety not to rouse her mother’s suspicions, she shut the door -almost before he had nodded his assent. She scarcely saw the blank look -that came into his face, and the utter disappointment in his eyes. - -Seeing that the door was shut, Annie turned and went away. Katharine -hesitated a moment, passed her hand over her brow, glanced mechanically -once more at the cards in the china dish on the table and then went into -the library. To her surprise her mother was not there, but the folding -door which led to the dark drawing-room was half rolled back, and it -was clear that Mrs. Lauderdale had gone through the dining-room, and had -probably reached her own apartment by the back staircase of the house. -Katharine was on the point of running into the street and calling -Ralston back. She hesitated a moment, and then going hastily to the -window threw up the sash and looked out, hoping that he might be still -within hearing. But looking eastward, towards Fifth Avenue, he was not -to be seen amongst the moving pedestrians, of whom there were many just -then. She turned to see whether he had taken the other direction, and -saw him at once, but already far down the street, walking fast, with his -head bent low and his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He was -evidently going to take the elevated road up town. - -“Oh, Jack--I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed softly to herself, still looking -after him as he disappeared in the distance. - -Then she drew down the window again, and went and sat in her accustomed -place in the small armchair opposite to her mother’s sofa. She thought -very uncharitably of Charlotte during the next quarter of an hour, but -she promised herself to get into a corner with Ralston that evening, at -the great ball, and to explain all the circumstances to him as minutely -as they have been explained here. She was angry with her mother, too, -for not having gone up the front staircase, as she might just as well -have done, but she was very glad she had not condescended to the -manœuvre of introducing John into the dining-room by the back way, as -she would have probably just met Mrs. Lauderdale as the latter passed -through. On the whole, it seemed to Katharine that she had done as -wisely as the peculiarly difficult circumstances had allowed, and that -although there was much to regret, she had done nothing of which she -needed to repent. - -It seemed to her, too, as she began to recover from the immediate -annoyance of failure, that she had gained several hours more than she -had expected, in which to think over what she should say to Ralston when -they met. And she at once set herself the task of recalling everything -that Robert Lauderdale had said to her, with the intention of repeating -it as accurately as possible, since she could not expect to say it any -better than he had said it himself. It was necessary that Ralston should -understand it, as she had understood it, and should see that although -uncle Robert was quite ready to be generous he could not undertake to -perform miracles. Those had been the old gentleman’s own words. - -Then she began to wonder whether, after all, it would not be better to -accept what he offered--the small, settled income which was so good to -think of--and to get rid of all this secrecy, which oppressed her much -more since she had been told that it must last, than when she had -expected that it would involve at most the delay of a week. The deep -depression which she began to feel at her heart, now that she was alone -again, made the simple means of escape from all her anxieties look very -tempting to her, and she dwelt on it. If she begged Ralston to forget -his pride for her sake, as she was willing to forget her own for his, -and to let her take the money, he would surely yield. Once together, -openly married before the world, things would be so much easier. He and -she could talk all day, unhindered and unobserved, and plan the future -at their leisure, and it was not possible that with all the joint -intelligence they could bring to bear upon the problem, it should still -remain unsolved. - -Meanwhile, Ralston had gone up town, very much more disappointed than -Katharine knew. Strange to say, their marriage seemed far more important -in his eyes than in hers, and he had lived all day, since they had -parted at ten o’clock in the morning, in nervous anticipation of seeing -her again before night. He had gone home at once, and had spent the -hours alone, for his mother had gone out to luncheon. Until the -messenger with Katharine’s specially stamped letter rang at the door, he -would not have gone out of the house for any consideration, and after -he had read it he sat counting the minutes until he could reasonably -expect to use up the remaining time in walking to Clinton Place. As it -was, he had reached the corner a quarter of an hour before the time, and -his extreme punctuality was to be accounted for by the fact that he had -set his watch with the Lauderdales’ library clock,--as he always did -nowadays,--and that he looked at it every thirty seconds, as he walked -up and down the street, timing himself so exactly that the hands were -precisely at the hour of three when he took hold of the bell. - -There are few small disappointments in the world comparable with that of -a man who has been told by the woman he loves to come at a certain hour, -who appears at her door with military punctuality and who is told to go -away again instantly, no adequate excuse being given for the summary -dismissal. Men all know that, but few women realize it. - -“Considering the rather unusual situation,” thought Ralston, angrily, -“she might have managed to get her mother out of the way for half an -hour. Besides, her mother wouldn’t have stoned me to death, if she had -let me come in--and, after last night, I shouldn’t think she would care -very much for the sort of privacy one has in a ball-room.” - -He had waited all day to see her, and he had nothing to do until the -evening, when he had to go to a dinner-party before the Assembly ball. -He naturally thought of his club, as a quiet place where he could be -alone with his annoyances and disappointments between three and four -o’clock, and he took the elevated road as the shortest way of getting -there. - - - - -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 - -[Illustration: “Before he could even raise his head, Ralston was out of -the door and in the street.”--Vol. II., p. 57.] - -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.” - -“Not well? Is he ill? Where is he? At home?” Katharine asked the -questions all in a breath, with no suspicion that Hester had softened -the truth almost altogether into something else. - -“I suppose he’s at home, since he’s not here,” answered Mrs. Crowdie, -wishing that she had said so at first and had said nothing more. - -“Oh, Hester! What is it? I know it’s something dreadful!” cried -Katharine. “I shall go and ask Mr. Crowdie if you won’t tell me.” - -“Don’t!” exclaimed Mrs. Crowdie, so quickly and so loudly that the -people near her turned to see what was the matter. - -“You’ve told me, now--he must be very ill, or you wouldn’t speak like -that!” Katharine’s lips began to turn white, and she half rose from her -seat. - -Mrs. Crowdie drew her back again very gently. - -“No, dear--no, I assure--I give you my word it’s not that, dear--oh, I’m -so sorry I said anything!” Katharine yielded, and resumed her seat. - -“Hester, what is it?” she asked very gravely for the third time. “You’re -my best friend--the only friend I have besides him. If it’s anything -bad, I’d much rather hear it from you. But I can’t stand this suspense. -I shall ask everybody until somebody tells me the truth.” - -Mrs. Crowdie seemed to reflect for a moment before answering, but even -while she was thinking of what she should say, her passionate eyes -sought for her husband’s pale face in the crowd--the pale face and the -red lips that so many women thought repulsive. - -“Dear,” she said at last, “it’s foolish to make such a fuss and to -frighten you. That sort of thing has happened to almost all men at one -time or another--really, you know! You mustn’t blame Jack too much--” - -“For what? For what? Speak, Hester! Don’t try to--” - -“Katharine darling, Walter says that Jack was--well--you know--just a -little far gone--and they had some trouble with him at the club. I don’t -know--it seems that my brother tried to hold him for some reason or -other--it’s not quite clear--and Jack threw Ham down, there in the hall -of the club, before a lot of people--Katharine dearest, I’m so sorry I -spoke!” - -Katharine was leaning back against the cushion, her hands folded -together, and her face set like a mask; but she said nothing, and -scarcely seemed to be listening, though she heard every word. - -“Of course, dear,” continued Mrs. Crowdie, “I know how you love him--but -you mustn’t think any the worse of him for this. Ham just told me it -wasn’t--well--it wasn’t as bad as Walter made out, and he was very angry -with Walter for telling me--as though he would keep anything from me!” - -She stopped again, being much more inclined to talk of Crowdie than of -Ralston, and to defend his indiscretion. Katharine did not move nor -change her position, and her eyes looked straight before her, though it -was clear that they saw nothing. - -“I’m glad it was you who told me,” she said in a low, monotonous tone. - -“So am I,” answered her friend, sympathetically. “And I’m sure it’s not -half as bad as they--” - -“They all know it,” continued Katharine, not heeding her. “I can see it -in their eyes when they look at me.” - -“Nonsense, Katharine--nobody but Walter and Ham--” - -“Your husband told my mother, too. She spoke very oddly. He’s been -telling every one. Why does he want to make trouble? Does he hate Jack -so?” - -“Hate him? No, indeed! I think he’s rather fond of him--” - -“It’s a very treacherous sort of fondness, then,” answered Katharine, -with a bitter little laugh, and changing her position at last, so that -she looked into her friend’s face. - -“Katharine!” exclaimed Hester. “How can you talk like that--telling me -that Walter is treacherous--” - -“Oh--you mustn’t mind what I say--I’m a little upset--I didn’t mean to -hurt you, dear.” - -Katharine rose, and without another word she left her friend and began -to go up the side of the room alone, looking for some one as she went. -In a moment one of her numerous young adorers was by her side. He had -seen her talking to Mrs. Crowdie, and had watched his opportunity. - -“No,” said Katharine, absently, and without looking at him. “I don’t -want to dance, thanks. I want to find my cousin, Hamilton Bright. Have -you seen him?” - -“Oh--ah--yes!” answered the young man, with an imitation of the advanced -English manner of twenty years ago, which seems to have become the ideal -of our gilded youth of to-day. “He’s in the corner under the -balcony--he’s been--er--rather leathering into Crowdie--you -know--er--for talking about Jack Ralston’s last, all over the place--I -daresay you’ve heard of it, Miss Lauderdale--being--er--a cousin of your -own, too. No end game, that Ralston chap!” - -Katharine lost her temper suddenly. She stopped and looked the young -dandy in the eyes. He never forgot the look of hers, nor the paleness of -her lips as she spoke. - -“You’re rather young to speak like that of older men, Mr. Van De Water,” -she said. - -She coolly turned her back on the annihilated youth and walked away from -him alone, almost as surprised at what she had done as he was. He, poor -boy, got very red in the face, stood still, helped himself into -countenance by sticking a single glass in his eye and then went in -search of his dearest friend, the man who had just discovered that -extraordinary tailor in New Burlington Street, you know. - -Katharine had been half stunned by what Hester Crowdie had told her, -which she felt instinctively was not more than a moiety of the truth. -She had barely recovered her self-possession when she was met by what -rang like an insult in her ears. It was no wonder that her blood boiled. -Without looking to the right or to the left, she went forward till she -was under the great balcony, and there, by one of the pillars, she came -upon Bright and Crowdie talking together in low, excited tones. - -Bright’s big shoulders slowly heaved as in his anger he took about twice -as much breath as he needed into his lungs at every sentence. His fresh, -pink face was red, and his bright blue eyes flashed visibly. What the -young dandy had said was evidently true. He was still ‘leathering into’ -Crowdie with all his might, which was considerable. - -Crowdie, perfectly cool and collected, leaned against the wooden pillar -with a disagreeable sneer on his red mouth. One hand was in his pocket; -the other hung by his side, and his fingers quietly tapped a little -measure upon the fluted column. Almost every one has that trick of -tapping upon something in moments of anxiety or uncertainty, but the -way in which it is done is very characteristic of the individual. -Crowdie’s pointed white fingers did it delicately, drawing back lightly -from contact with the wood, as a woman’s might, or as though he were -playing upon a fine instrument. - -“It’s just like you, Walter,” Bright was saying, to go about telling the -thing to all the women. Didn’t I tell you this afternoon that I was the -principal person concerned, that it was my business and not yours and -that if I wished it kept quiet, nobody need tell? And you said yourself -that you hoped Hester might not hear it, and then the very first thing I -find is that you’ve told her and cousin Emma and probably Katharine -herself--” - -“No, I’ve not told Katharine,” said Crowdie, calmly. “I shan’t, because -she loves him. The Lord knows why! Drunken beast! I shall leave the club -myself, since he’s not to be turned out--” - -Crowdie stopped suddenly, for he was more timid than most men, and his -face plainly expressed fear at that moment--but not of Hamilton Bright. -Katharine Lauderdale was looking at him over Bright’s shoulder and had -plainly heard what he had said. A man’s fear of woman under certain -circumstances exceeds his utmost possible fear of man. The painter knew -at once that he had accidentally done Katharine something like a mortal -injury. He felt as a man must feel who has accidentally shot some one -while playing with a loaded pistol. - -As for Katharine, this was the third blow she had received within five -minutes. The fact that she was in a measure prepared for it had not -diminished its force. It had the effect, however, of quenching her -rising anger instead of further inflaming it, as young Van De Water’s -foolish remarks had done. She begun to feel that she had a real calamity -to face--something against which mere anger would have no effect. She -heard every word Crowdie said, and each struck her with cruel precision -in the same aching spot. But she drew herself up proudly as she came -between the two men. There was something almost queenly in the quiet -dignity with which she affected to ignore what she had heard, even -trying to give her white lips the shadow of a civil smile as she spoke. - -“Mr. Crowdie, I wish to speak to Hamilton a moment--you don’t mind, do -you?” - -Crowdie looked at her with undisguised amazement and admiration. He -uttered some polite but half inaudible words and moved away, glad, -perhaps, to get out of the sphere of Bright’s invective. Bright -understood very well that Katharine had heard, and admired her calmness -almost as much as Crowdie did, though he did not know as much as the -latter concerning Katharine’s relations with Ralston. Hester Crowdie, -who told her husband everything, had told him most of what Katharine had -confided to her, not considering it a betrayal of confidence, because -she trusted him implicitly. No day of disenchantment had yet come for -her. - -“Won’t you come and sit down?” asked Bright, rather anxiously. “There’s -a corner there.” - -“Yes,” said Katharine, moving in the direction of the vacant seats. - -“I’m afraid you heard what that brute said,” Bright remarked before they -had reached the place. “If I’d seen you coming--” - -“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” Katharine answered. Then they -sat down side by side. “It’s much too serious a matter to be angry -about,” she continued, settling herself and looking at his face, and -feeling that it was a relief to see a pair of honest blue eyes at last. -“That’s why I come to you. It happened to you, it seems. Everybody is -talking about it, and I have some right to know--” She hesitated and -then continued. “He’s a near relation and all that, of course, and -whatever he does makes a difference to us all--my mother has heard, -too--I’m sure Mr. Crowdie told her. Didn’t he?” - -“I believe so,” answered Bright. “He’s just like a--oh, well! I’ll swear -at him when I’m alone.” - -“I’m glad you’re angry with him,” said Katharine, and her eyes flashed -a little. “It’s so mean! But that’s not the question. I want to know -from your own lips what happened--and why he’s not here. I have a right -to know because--because we were going to dance the cotillion -together--and besides--” - -She hesitated again, and stopped altogether this time. - -“It’s very natural, I’m sure,” said Bright, who was not the type of men -who seek confidences. “Crowdie has made it all out much worse than it -was. He’s a--I mean--I wish I’d met him when I was driving cattle in the -Nacimiento Valley!” - -Katharine had never seen Bright so angry before, and the sight was very -soothing and comforting to her. She fully concurred in Bright’s -last-expressed wish. - -“You’re Jack’s best friend, aren’t you?” she asked. - -“Oh, well--a friend--he always says he hasn’t any. But I daresay I’d do -as much for him as most of them, though, if I had to. I always liked the -fellow for his dash, and we generally get on very well together. He’s -just a trifle lively sometimes, and he doesn’t go well on the curb when -he’s had--when he’s too lively--” - -“Why don’t you say when he drinks?” asked Katharine, biting on the -words, as it were, though she forced herself to say them. - -“Well, he doesn’t drink exactly,” said Bright. “He’s got an awfully -strong head and a cast-iron constitution, but he’s a queer chap. He gets -melancholy, and thinks he’s a failure and tries to cheer himself with -cocktails. And then, you see, having such a nerve, he doesn’t know -exactly how many he takes; and there’s a limit, of course--and the last -one does the trick. Then he won’t take anything to speak of for days -together. He got a little too much on board last Monday--but that was -excusable, and I hadn’t seen him that way for a long time. I daresay you -heard of it? He saved a boy’s life between a lot of carts and -horse-cars, and got a bad fall; and then, quite naturally--just as I -should have done myself--he swallowed a big dose of something, and it -went to his head. But he went straight home in a cab, so I suppose it -was all right. It was a pretty brave thing he did--talk of baseball! It -was one of the smartest bits of fielding I ever saw--the way he caught -up the little chap, and the dog and the perambulator--forgot nothing, -though it was a close shave. Oh--he’s brave enough! It’s a pity he can’t -find anything to do.” - -“Monday,” repeated Katharine, thoughtfully. “Yes--I heard about it. Go -on, please, Ham--about to-day. I want to hear everything there is.” - -“Oh--Crowdie talks like a fool about it. I suppose Jack was a little -depressed, or something, and had been trying to screw himself up a bit. -Anyway, he looked rather wild, and I tried to persuade him to stay a -little while before going out of the club--it was in the hall, you know. -I behaved like an ass myself--you know I’m awfully obstinate. He really -did look a little wild, though! I held his arm--just like that, you -know--” he laid his broad hand upon Katharine’s glove--“and then, -somehow, we got fooling together--there in the hall--and he tripped me -up on my back, and ran out. It was all over in a minute; and I was -rather angry at the time, because Crowdie and little Frank Miner were -there, and a couple of servants. But I give you my word, I didn’t say -anything beyond making them all four swear that they wouldn’t tell--” - -“And this is the result!” said Katharine, with a sigh. “What was that he -said about being turned out of the club?” - -“Crowdie? Oh--some nonsense or other! He felt his ladyship offended -because there had been a bit of a wrestling match in the hall of his -club, that’s all, and said he meant to leave it--” - -“No--but about Jack being turned out--” - -“It’s all nonsense of Crowdie’s. Men are turned out of a club for -cheating at cards, and that sort of thing. Besides, Jack’s popular with -most of the men. I don’t believe you could get a committee to sit on his -offences--not if he locked the oldest member up in the ice-chest, and -threw the billiard-table out of the window. He says he has no -friends--but it’s all bosh, you know--everybody likes him, except that -doughy brother-in-law of mine!” - -Katharine was momentarily comforted by Bright’s account of the matter, -delivered in his familiar, uncompromising fashion. But she was very far -from regaining her composure. She saw that Bright was purposely making -light of the matter; and in the course of the silence, which lasted -several minutes after he had finished speaking, it all looked worse than -it had looked before she had known the exact truth. - -She felt, too, an instinct of repulsion from Ralston, which she had -never known, nor dreamed possible. Could he not have controlled himself -a few hours longer? It was their wedding day. Twelve hours had not -passed from the time when they had left the church together until he had -been drunk--positively drunk, to the point of knocking down his best -friend in such a place as a club. She could not deny the facts. Even -Hamilton Bright, kind--more than kind, devoted--did not attempt to -conceal the fact that Ralston had been what he called ‘lively.’ And if -Bright could not try to make him out to have been sober, who could? - -And they had been married that morning! If he had been sober--the word -cut her like a whip--if he had been sober, they would at that very -moment have been sitting together--planning their future--perhaps in -that very corner. - -She did not know all yet, either. The clock was striking twelve. It was -about at that time that John Ralston was brought into his mother’s house -by a couple of policemen, who had found his card-case in his pocket, and -had the sense--with the hope of a handsome fee--to bring him home, -insensible, stunned almost to death with the blow he had received. - -They had waked him roughly, the conductor and the other man, who was -really a prize fighter, at the end of the run, in front of the horse-car -stables, and John had struck out before he was awake, as some excitable -men do. The fight had followed as a matter of course, out in the snow. -The professional had not meant to hurt him, but had lost his temper when -John had reached him and cut his lip, and a right-handed counter had -settled the matter--a heavy right-hander just under John’s left ear. - -The policemen said they had picked him up out of a drunken brawl. -According to them, everybody was drunk--Ralston, the prize fighter,--who -had paid five dollars to be left in peace after the adventure,--the -conductor, the driver and every living thing on the scene of action, -including the wretched horses of the car. - -There was a short account of the affair in the morning papers, but only -one or two of them mentioned Ralston’s name. - -Katharine had yet much to learn about the doings on her wedding day, -when she suddenly announced her intention of going home before the ball -was half over. Hester Crowdie took her, in her own carriage; and Mrs. -Lauderdale and Crowdie stayed till the end. - -Now against all this chain of evidence, including that of several men -who had met John in Fifth Avenue about six o’clock, with no overcoat and -his hat badly smashed, against evidence that would have hanged a man ten -times over in a murder case, stood the plain fact, which nobody but -Ralston knew, and which no one would ever believe--the plain fact that -he had drunk nothing at all. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -In the grey dawn of Friday morning Katharine woke from broken sleep to -face the reality of what she had done twenty-four hours earlier. It had -snowed very heavily during the night, and her first conscious perception -was of that strange, cold glare which the snow reflects, and which makes -even a bedroom feel like a chilly outer hall into which the daylight -penetrates through thick panes of ground glass. - -She had slept very little, and against her will, losing consciousness -from time to time out of sheer exhaustion, and roused again by the cruel -reuniting of the train of thought. Those who have received a wound by -which a principal nerve has been divided, know how intense is the -suffering when the severed cords begin to grow together, with agonizing -slowness, day by day and week by week, convulsing the whole frame of the -man in their meeting. Katharine felt something like that each time that -the merciful curtains of sleep were suddenly torn asunder between -herself and the truth of the present. - -The pain was combined of many elements, too, and each hurt her in its -own way. There was the shame of the thing, first, the burning, scarlet -shame--the thought of it had a colour for her. John Ralston was -disgraced in the eyes of all the world. Even the smooth-faced dandy, -fresh from college, young Van De Water, might sneer at him and welcome, -and feel superior to him, for never having gone so far in folly. Now if -such men as Van De Water knew the story, it was but a question of hours, -and all society must know it, too. Society would set down John Ralston -as a hopeless case. Katharine wondered, with a sickening chill, whether -the virtuous--like her father--would turn their backs on Ralston and -refuse to know him. She did not know. But Ralston was her husband. - -The thought almost drove her mad. There was that condition of the -inevitable in her position which gives fate its hold over men’s minds. -She could not escape. She could not go back to the point where she had -been yesterday morning, and begin her life again. As she had begun it, -so it must go on to the very end, ‘until death them should part’--the -life of a spotless girl married to a man who was the very incarnation of -a disgusting vice. In those first moments it would have been a human -satisfaction to have been free to blame some one besides herself for -what she had done. - -But even now, when every bitter thought seemed to rise up against John -Ralston, she could not say that the fault had been his if she had bound -herself to him. To the very last he had resisted. This was Friday -morning, and on the Wednesday night at the Thirlwalls’ he had told her -that he could not be sure of himself. By and by, perhaps, that brave act -of his might begin to tell in his favour with her, but not yet. The -faces, the expressions, the words, of those from whom she had learned -the story of his doings were before her eyes and present in her hearing -now, as she lay wide awake in the early morning, staring with hot eyes -at the cold grey ceiling of her room. - -It was only yesterday that her sister Charlotte had sat there, lamenting -her imaginary woes. How Katharine had despised her! Had she not -deliberately chosen, of her own free will, and was she not bound to -stand by her choice, out of mere self-respect? And Katharine had felt -then that, come what might, for good or ill, better or worse, honour or -dishonour, she was glad that she had married John Ralston and that she -would face all imaginable deaths to help him, even a little. But -now--now, it was different. He had failed her at the very outset. It was -not that others had turned upon him, despising him wholly for a partial -fault. The public disgrace made it all worse than it might have been, -but it was only secondary, after all. The keenest pain was from the -thrust that had entered Katharine’s own heart. It had been with him as -though she had not existed. He had not been strong enough, for her sake, -on their wedding day--the day of days to her--to keep himself sober from -three o’clock in the afternoon until ten o’clock at night. Only seven -hours, Katharine repeated to herself in the cold snow-glare of the early -morning--seven little hours; her lips were hot and dry with anger, and -her hands were cold, as she thought of it. It was not only the weakness -of him, contemptible as that was--if it had at least been weakness for -something less brutal, less beastly, less degrading. Katharine chose the -strongest words she could think of, and smote him with them in her -heart. Was he not her husband, and had she not the right to hate and -despise what he had done? It was bad enough, as she said it, and as it -appeared to most people that morning. There was not a link missing in -the evidence, from the moment when John had begun to lose his temper -with Miner at the club, until he had been brought home insensible to his -mother’s house by a couple of policemen. His relations and his best -friends were all convinced that he had been very drunk, and there was no -reason why society in general should be more merciful than his own -people. Robert Lauderdale said nothing, but when he saw the paragraph -in a morning paper describing ‘Mr. John R----’s drunken encounter with -a professional pugilist,’ he regarded the statement as an elucidatory -comment on his interview with his great-nephew. No one spoke of the -matter in Robert Lauderdale’s presence, but the old gentleman felt that -it was a distinct shame to the whole family, and he inwardly expressed -himself strongly. The only one who tried to make matters look a little -better than every one believed they were, was Hamilton Bright. He could -not deny the facts, but he put on a cheerful countenance and made the -best of them, laughing good-humouredly at John’s misfortune, and asking -every one who ventured an unfavourable comment whether John was the only -man alive on that day in the city of New York who had once been a little -lively, recommending the beardless critics of his friend’s conduct to go -out and drive cattle in the Nacimiento Valley if they wished to -understand the real properties of alcohol, and making the older ones -feel uncomfortable by reminding them vividly of the errors of their -youth. But no one else said anything in Ralston’s favour. He was down -just then, and it was as well to hit him when everybody was doing the -same thing. - -Katharine tried to make up her mind as to what she should do, and she -did not find it an easy matter. It would be useless to deny the fact -that what she felt for Ralston on that morning bore little resemblance -to love. She remembered vaguely, and with wonder, how she had promised -to stand by him and help him to her utmost to overcome his weakness. How -was she to help him now? How could she play a part and conceal the -anger, the pain, the shame that boiled and burned in her? If he should -come to her, what should she say? She had promised that she would never -refer to the matter in any way, when it had seemed but the shadow of a -possibility. But it had turned into the reality so soon, and into such a -reality--far more repulsive than anything of which she had dreamed. -Besides, she added in her heart, it was unpardonable on that day of all -days. Married she was, but forgive she could not and would not. Wounded -love is less merciful than any hatred, and Katharine could not help -deepening the wound by recalling every circumstance of the previous -evening, from the moment when she had looked in vain for John’s face in -the crowded room, until she had broken down and asked Hester Crowdie to -bring her home. - -She rose at last to face the day, undecided, worn out with fatigue, and -scared, had she been willing to admit the fact, by the possibilities of -the next twelve hours. Half dressed, she paused and sat down to think it -all over again--all she knew, for she had yet to learn the end of the -story. - -She had been married just four and twenty hours. Yesterday, at that -very time, life had been before her, joyous, hopeful, merry. All that -was to be had glistened with gold and gleamed with silver, with the -silver of dreamland and the gold of hope, having love set as a jewel in -the midst. To-day the precious things were but dross and tinsel and -cheap glass. For it was all over, and there was no returning. Real life -was beginning, began, had begun--the reality of an existence not defined -except in the extent of its suffering, but desperately limited in the -possibilities of its happiness. - -Katharine tried to think it over in some other way. The snow-glare was -more grey than ever, and her eyes ached with it, whichever way she -turned. The room was cold, and her teeth chattered as she sat there, -half dressed. Then, when she let in the hot air from the furnace, it was -dry and unbearable. And she tried hard to find some other way in which -to save her breaking heart--if so be that she might look at it so as not -to see the break, and so, perhaps--if there were mercy in heaven, beyond -that aching snow-glare--that by not seeing she might feel a little less, -only a little less. It was hard that she should have to feel so much and -so very bitterly, and all at once. But there was no other way. Instead -of facing life with John Ralston, she had now to face life and John -Ralston. How could she guess what he might do next? A drunken man has -little control of his faculties--John might suddenly publish in the club -the fact that he was her husband. - -He was not the same John Ralston whom she had married yesterday morning, -and whom she had seen yesterday afternoon for one moment at her door. -The hours had changed him. Instead of his face there was a horrible -mask; instead of his straight, elastic figure there was the reeling, -delapidated body of the drunken wretch her father had once shown her in -the streets. How could she love that thing? It was not even a man. She -loathed it and hated it, for it had broken her life. She remembered -having once broken a thermometer when she had been a little girl. She -remembered the jagged edge of glass, and how the bright mercury had all -run out and lost itself in tiny drops in the carpet. She recalled it -vividly, and she felt that she was like the broken thermometer, and the -idea was not ridiculous to her, as it must be to any one else, because -she was badly hurt. - -Vague ideas of a long and painful sacrifice rose before her--of -something which must inevitably be begun and ended, like an execution. -She had never understood what the inevitable meant until to-day. - -Then, all at once, the great question presented itself clearly, the -great query, the enormous interrogation of which we are all aware, more -or less dimly, more or less clearly--the question which is like the -death-rattle in the throat of the dying nineteenth century,--‘What is it -all for?’ - -It came in a rush of passionate disappointment and anger and pain. It -had come to Katharine before then, and she had faced it with the easy -answer, that it was for love--that it was all for love of John -Ralston--life, its thoughts, its deeds, its hopes, its many fears--all -for him, so far as Katharine Lauderdale was concerned. Love made God -true, and heaven a fact, the angels her guardians now and her companions -hereafter. And her love had been so great that it had seemed to demand a -wider wealth of heavenly things wherewith to frame it. God was hardly -good enough nor heaven broad enough. - -But if this were to be the end, what had it all meant? She stood before -the window and looked at the grey sky till the reflection from the dead -white snow beneath her window and on the opposite roof was painful. Yet -the little physical pain was a relief. She turned, quite suddenly, and -fell upon her knees beside the corner of the toilet table, and buried -her face in her hands and became conscious of prayer. - -That seems to be the only way of describing what she felt. The wave of -pain beat upon her agonized heart, and though the wave could not speak -words, yet the surging and the moaning, and the forward rushing, and -the backward, whispering ebb, were as the sounds of many prayers. - -Was God good? How could she tell? Was He kind? She did not know. -Merciful? What would be mercy to her? God was there--somewhere beyond -the snow-glare that hurt so, and the girl’s breaking heart cried to Him, -quite incoherently, and expecting nothing, but consciously, though it -knew more of its own bitterness than of God’s goodness, just then. - -Momentarily the great question sank back into the outer darkness with -which it was concerned, and little by little the religious idea of a -sacrifice to be made was restored with greater stability than before. -She had chosen her own burden, her own way of suffering, and she must -bear all as well as she could. The waves of pain beat and crashed -against her heart--she wondered, childishly, whether it were broken yet. -She knew it was breaking, because it hurt her so. - -There was no connected thread of thought in the torn tissue of her mind, -any more than there was any coherence in the few words which from time -to time tried to form themselves on her lips without her knowledge. So -long as she had been lying still and staring at the grey ceiling, the -storm had been brooding. It had burst now, and she was as helpless in it -as though it had been a real storm on a real sea, and she alone on a -driving wreck. - -She lifted her face and wrung her hands together. It was as though some -one from behind had taken a turn of rough rope round her breast--some -one who was very strong--and as though the rope were tightening fast. -Soon she should not be able to draw breath against it. As she felt it -crushing her, she knew that the hideous picture her mind had made of -John was coming before her eyes again. In a moment it must be there. -This time she felt as though she must scream when she saw it. But when -it came she made no sound. She only dropped her head again, and her -forehead beat upon the back of her hands and her fingers scratched and -drew the cover of the toilet table. Then the picture was drowned in the -tide of pain--as though it had fallen flat upon the dark sands between -her and the cruel surf of her immense suffering that roared up to crash -against her heart again. It must break this time, she thought. It could -not last forever--nor even all day long. God was there--somewhere. - -A lull came, and she said something aloud. It seemed to her that she had -forgotten words and had to make new ones--although those she spoke were -old and good. With the sound of her own voice came a little courage, and -enough determination to make her rise from her knees and face daylight -again. - -Mechanically, as she continued to dress, she looked at herself in the -mirror. Her features did not seem to be her own. She remembered to have -seen a plaster cast from a death mask, in a museum, and her face made -her think of that. There were no lines in it, but there were shadows -where the lines would be some day. The grey eyes had no light in them, -and scarcely seemed alive. Her colour was that of wax, and there was -something unnatural in the strong black brows and lashes. - -The door opened at that moment, and Mrs. Lauderdale entered the room. -She seemed none the worse for having danced till morning, and the -freshness which had come back to her had not disappeared again. She -stood still for a moment, looking at Katharine’s face as the latter -turned towards her with an enquiring glance, in which there was -something of fear and something of shyness. A nervous thoroughbred has -the same look, if some one unexpectedly enters its box. Mrs. Lauderdale -had a newspaper in her hand. - -“How you look, child!” she exclaimed, as she came forward. “Haven’t you -slept? Or what is the matter?” - -She kissed Katharine affectionately, without waiting for an answer. - -“Well, I don’t wonder,” she added, a moment later, as though speaking to -herself. “I’ve been reading this--” - -She paused and hesitated, as though not sure whether she should give -Katharine the paper or not, and she glanced once more at the paragraph -before deciding. - -“What is it about?” Katharine asked, in a tired voice. “Read it.” - -“Yes--but I ought to tell you first. You know, last night--you asked me -about Jack Ralston, and I wouldn’t tell you what I had heard. Then I saw -that somebody else had told you--you really ought to be more careful, -dear! Everybody was noticing it.” - -“What?” - -“Why--your face! It’s of no use to advertise the fact that you are -interested in Jack’s doings. They don’t seem to have been very -creditable--it’s just as well that he didn’t try to come to the ball in -his condition. Do you know what he was doing, late last night, just -about supper-time? I’m so glad I spoke to you both the other day. -Imagine the mere idea of marrying a man who gets into drunken brawls -with prize fighters and is taken home by the police--” - -“Stop--please! Don’t talk like that!” Katharine was trembling visibly. - -“My dear child! It’s far better that I should tell you--it’s in the -papers this morning. That sort of thing can’t be concealed, you know. -The first person you meet will talk to you about it.” - -Katharine had turned from her and was facing the mirror, steadying -herself with her hands upon the dressing table. - -“And as for behaving as you did last night--he’s not worth it. One might -forgive him for being idle and all that--but men who get tipsy in the -streets and fight horse-car conductors and pugilists are not exactly the -kind of people one wants to meet in society--to dance with, for -instance. Just listen to this--” - -“Mother!” - -“No--I want you to hear it. You can judge for yourself. ‘Mr. John R----, -a well-known young gentleman about town and a near relation of--’” - -“Mother--please don’t!” cried Katharine, bending over the table as -though she could not hold up her head. - -“‘--one of our financial magnates,’” continued Mrs. Lauderdale, -inexorably, “and the hero of more than one midnight adventure, has at -last met his match in the person of Tam Shelton, the famous light-weight -pugilist. An entirety unadvertised and scantily attended encounter took -place between these two gentlemen last night between eleven and twelve -o’clock, in consequence of a dispute which had arisen in a horse-car. It -appears that the representative of the four hundred had mistaken the -public conveyance for his own comfortable quarters, and suddenly feeling -very tired had naturally proceeded to go to bed--’” - -With a very quick motion Katharine turned, took the paper from her -mother’s hands and tore the doubled fourfold sheet through twice, almost -without any apparent effort, before Mrs. Lauderdale could interfere. She -said nothing as she tossed the torn bits under the table, but her eyes -had suddenly got life in them again. - -“Katharine!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale, in great annoyance. “How can you -be so rude?” - -“And how can you be so unkind, mother?” asked Katharine, facing her. -“Don’t you know what I’m suffering?” - -“It’s better to know everything, and have it over,” answered Mrs. -Lauderdale, with astonishing indifference. “It only seemed to me that as -every one would be discussing this abominable affair, you should know -beforehand just what the facts were. I don’t in the least wish to hurt -your feelings--but now that it’s all over with Jack, you may as well -know.” - -“What may I as well know? That you hate him? That you have suddenly -changed your mind--” - -“My dear, I’ll merely ask you whether a man who does such things is -respectable. Yes, or no?” - -“That’s not the question,” answered Katharine, with rising anger. -“Something strange has happened to you. Until last Tuesday you never -said anything against him. Then you changed, all in a moment--just as -you would take off one pair of gloves and put on another. You used to -understand me--and now--oh, mother!” - -Her voice shook, and she turned away again. The little momentary flame -of her anger was swept out of existence by the returning tide of pain. - -Mrs. Lauderdale’s whole character seemed to have changed, as her -daughter said that it had, between one day and the next. A strong new -passion had risen up in the very midst of it and had torn it to shreds, -as it were. Even now, as she gazed at Katharine, she was conscious that -she envied the girl for being able to suffer without looking old. She -hated herself for it, but she could not resist it, any more than she -could help glancing at her own reflection in the mirror that morning to -see whether her face showed any fatigue after the long ball. This at -least was satisfactory, for she was as brilliantly fresh as ever. She -could hardly understand how she could have seemed so utterly broken down -and weary on Monday night and all day on Tuesday, but she could never -forget how she had then looked, and the fear of it was continually upon -her. Nevertheless she loved Katharine still. The conflict between her -love and her envy made her seem oddly inconsequent and almost frivolous. -Katharine fancied that her mother was growing to be like Charlotte. The -appealing tone of the girl’s last words rang in Mrs. Lauderdale’s ears -and accused her. She stretched out her hand and tried to draw Katharine -towards her, affectionately, as she often did when she was seated and -the girl was standing. - -“Katharine, dear child,” she began, “I’m not changed to you--it’s -only--” - -“Yes--it’s only Jack!” answered Katharine, bitterly. - -“We won’t talk of him, darling,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, softly, and -trying to soothe her. “You see, I didn’t know how badly you felt about -it--” - -“You might have guessed. You know that I love him--you never knew how -much!” - -“Yes, sweetheart, but now--” - -“There is no ‘but’--it’s the passion of my life--the first, the last, -and the only one!” - -“You’re so young, my darling, that it seems to you as though there could -never be anything else--” - -“Seems! I know.” - -Though Mrs. Lauderdale had already repented of what she had done and -really wished to be sympathetic, she could not help smiling faintly at -the absolute conviction with which Katharine spoke. There was something -so young and whole-hearted in the tone as well as in those words that -only found an echo far back in the forgotten fields of the older -woman’s understanding. She hardly knew what to answer, and patted -Katharine’s head gently while she sought for something to say. But -Katharine resented the affectionate manner, being in no humour to -appreciate anything which had a savour of artificiality about it. She -withdrew her hand and faced her mother again. - -“I know all that you can tell me,” she said. “I know all there is to be -known, without reading that vile thing. But I don’t know what I shall -do--I shall decide. And, please--mother--if you care for me at -all--don’t talk about it. It’s hard enough, as it is--just the thing, -without any words.” - -She spoke with an effort, almost forcing the syllables from her lips, -for she was suffering terribly just then. She wished that her mother -would go away, and leave her to herself, if only for half an hour. She -had so much more to think of than any one could know, or guess--except -old Robert Lauderdale and Jack himself. - -“Well, child--as you like,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, feeling that she had -made a series of mistakes. “I’m sure I don’t care to talk about it in -the least, but I can’t prevent your father from saying what he pleases. -Of course he began to make remarks about your not coming to breakfast -this morning. I didn’t go down myself until he had nearly finished, and -he seemed hurt at our neglecting him. And then, he had been reading the -paper, and so the question came up. But, dearest, don’t think I’m unkind -and heartless and all that sort of thing. I love you dearly, child. -Don’t you believe me?” - -She put her arm round Katharine’s neck and kissed her. - -“Oh, yes!” Katharine answered wearily. “I’m sure you do.” - -Mrs. Lauderdale looked into her face long and earnestly. - -“It’s quite wonderful!” she exclaimed at last. “You’re a little -pale--but, after all, you’re just as pretty as ever this morning.” - -“Am I?” asked Katharine, indifferently. “I don’t feel pretty.” - -“Oh, well--that will all go away,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, withdrawing -her arm and turning towards the door. “Yes,” she repeated thoughtfully, -as though to herself, “that will all go away. You’re so young--still--so -young!” - -Her head sank forward a little as she went out and she did not look back -at her daughter. - -Katharine drew a long breath of relief when she found herself alone. The -interview had not lasted many minutes, but it had seemed endless. She -looked at the torn pieces of the newspaper which lay on the floor, and -she shuddered a little and turned from them uneasily, half afraid that -some supernatural power might force her to stoop down and pick them up, -and fit them together and read the paragraph to the end. She sat down to -try and collect her thoughts. - -But she grew more and more confused as she reviewed the past and tried -to call up the future. For instance, if John Ralston came to the house -that afternoon, to explain, to defend himself, to ask forgiveness of -her, what should she say to him? Could she send him away without a word -of hope? And if not, what hope should she give him? And hope of what? He -was her husband. He had a right to claim her if he pleased--before every -one. - -The words all seemed to be gradually losing their meaning for her. The -bells of the horse-cars as they passed through Clinton Place sang queer -little songs to her, and the snow-glare made her eyes ache. There was no -longer any apparent reason why the day should go on, nor why it should -end. She did not know what time it was, and she did not care to look. -What difference did it make? - -Her ball gown was lying on the sofa, as she had laid it when she had -come home. She looked at it and wondered vaguely whether she should ever -again take the trouble to put on such a thing, and to go and show -herself amongst a crowd of people who were perfectly indifferent to her. - -On reflection, for she seriously tried to reflect, it seemed more -probable that John would write before coming, and this would give her -an opportunity of answering. It would be easier to write than to speak. -But if she wrote, what should she say? It was just as hard to decide, -and the words would look more unkind on paper, perhaps, than she could -possibly make them sound. - -Was it her duty to speak harshly? She asked herself the question quite -suddenly, and it startled her. If her heart were really broken, she -thought, there could be nothing for her to do but to say once what she -thought and then begin the weary life that lay before her--an endless -stretch of glaring snow, and endless jingling of horse-car bells. - -She rose suddenly and roused herself, conscious that she was almost -losing her senses. The monstrous incongruity of the thoughts that -crossed her brain frightened her. She pressed her hand to her forehead -and with characteristic strength determined there and then to occupy -herself in some way or other during the day. To sit there in her room -much longer would either drive her mad or make her break down -completely. She feared the mere thought of those tears in which some -women find relief, almost as much as the idea of becoming insane, which -presented itself vividly as a possibility just then. Whatever was to -happen during the day, she must at any cost have control over her -outward actions. She stood for one moment with her hands clasped to her -brows, and then turned and left the room. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -On the present occasion John Ralston deserved very much more sympathy -than he got from the world at large, which would have found it very hard -to believe the truth about his doings on the afternoon and night of -Thursday. He was still unconscious when he was carried into the house by -the two policemen and deposited upon his own bed. When he opened his -eyes, they met his mother’s, staring down upon him with an expression in -which grief, fear and disgust were all struggling for the mastery. She -was standing by his bedside, bending over him, and rubbing something on -his temples from time to time. He was but just conscious that he was at -home at last, and that she was with him, and he smiled faintly at her -and closed his eyes again. - -He had hardly done so, however, when he realized what a look was in her -face. He was not really injured in any way, he was perfectly sober, and -he was very hungry. As soon as the effect of the last blow began to wear -off, his brain worked clearly enough. He understood at once that his -mother must suppose him to be intoxicated. It was no wonder if she did, -as he knew. He was in a far worse plight now than he had been on Monday -afternoon, as far as appearances were concerned. His clothes were -drenched with the wet snow, his hat had altogether disappeared in the -fight, his head was bruised, and his face was ghastly pale. He kept his -eyes shut for a while and tried to recall what had happened last. But it -was not at all clear to him why he had been fighting with the man who -wore the fur collar and the chain, nor why he had wandered to Tompkins -Square. Those were the two facts which recalled themselves most vividly -at first, in a quite disconnected fashion. Next came the vision of -Robert Lauderdale and the recollection of the violent gesture with which -the latter had accidentally knocked John’s hat out of his hand; and -after that he recalled the scene at the club. It seemed to him that he -had been through a series of violent struggles which had no connection -with each other. His head ached terribly and he should have liked to be -left in the dark to try and go to sleep. Then, as he lay there, he knew -that his mother was still looking at him with that expression in which -disgust seemed to him to be uppermost. It flashed across his mind -instantly that she must naturally think he had been drinking. But though -his memory of what had happened was very imperfect, and though he was -dizzy and faint, he knew very well that he was sober, and he realized -that he must impress the fact upon his mother at any cost, immediately, -both for his own sake and for hers. He opened his eyes once more and -looked at her, wondering how his voice would sound when he should speak. - -“Mother dear--” he began. Then he paused, watching her face. - -But her expression did not unbend. It was quite clear now that she -believed the very worst of him, and he wondered whether the mere fact of -his speaking connectedly would persuade her that he was telling the -truth. - -“Don’t try to talk,” she said in a low, hard voice. “I don’t want to -know anything about your doings.” - -“Mother--I’m perfectly sober,” said John Ralston, quietly. “I want you -to listen to me, please, and persuade yourself.” - -Mrs. Ralston drew herself up to her full height as she stood beside him. -Her even lips curled scornfully, and the lines of temper deepened into -soft, straight furrows in her keen face. - -“You may be half sober now,” she answered with profound contempt. -“You’re so strong--it’s impossible to tell.” - -“So you don’t believe me,” said John, who was prepared for her -incredulity. “But you must--somehow. My head aches badly, and I can’t -talk very well, but I must make you believe me. It’s--it’s very -important that you should, mother.” - -This time she said nothing. She left the bedside and moved about the -room, stopping before the dressing table and mechanically putting the -brushes and other small objects quite straight. If she had felt that it -were safe to leave him alone she would have left him at once and would -have locked herself into her own room. For she was very angry, and she -believed that her anger was justified. So long as he had been -unconscious, she had felt a certain fear for his safety which made a -link with the love she bore him. But, as usual, his iron constitution -seemed to have triumphed. She remembered clearly how, on Monday -afternoon, he had evidently been the worse for drink when he had entered -her room, and yet how, in less than an hour, he had reappeared -apparently quite sober. He was very strong, and there was no knowing -what he could do. She had forgiven him that once, but it was not in her -nature to forgive easily, and she told herself that this time it would -be impossible. He had disgraced himself and her. - -She continued to turn away from him. He watched her, and saw how -desperate the situation was growing. He knew well enough that there -would be some talk about him on the morrow and that it would come to -Katharine’s ears, in explanation of his absence from the Assembly ball. -His mind worked rapidly and energetically now, for it was quite clear to -him that he had no time to lose. If he should fall asleep without having -persuaded his mother that he was quite himself, he could never, in all -his life, succeed in destroying the fatal impression she must carry with -her. While she was turning from him he made a great effort, and putting -his feet to the ground, sat upon the edge of his bed. His head swam for -a moment, but he steadied himself with both hands and faced the light, -thinking that the brilliant glare might help him. - -“You must believe me, now,” he said, “or you never will. I’ve had rather -a bad day of it, and another accident, and a fight with a better man -than myself, so that I’m rather battered. But I haven’t been drinking.” - -“Look at yourself!” answered Mrs. Ralston, scornfully. “Look at yourself -in the glass and see whether you have any chance of convincing me of -that. Since you’re not killed, and not injured, I shall leave you to -yourself. I hope you won’t talk about it to-morrow. This is the second -time within four days. It’s just a little more than I can bear. If you -can’t live like a gentleman, you had better go away and live in the way -you prefer--somewhere else.” - -As she spoke, her anger began to take hold of her, and her voice fell -to a lower pitch, growing concentrated and cruel. - -“You’re unjust, though you don’t mean to be,” said John. “But, as I -said, it’s very important that you should recognize the truth. All sorts -of things have happened to me, and many people will say that I had been -drinking. And now that it’s over I want you to establish the fact that I -have not. It’s quite natural that you should think as you do, of course. -But--” - -“I’m glad you admit that, at least,” interrupted Mrs. Ralston. “Nothing -you can possibly say or do can convince me that you’ve been sober. You -may be now--you’re such a curiously organized man. But you’ve not been -all day.” - -“Mother, I swear to you that I have!” - -“Stop, John!” cried Mrs. Ralston, crossing the room suddenly and -standing before him. “I won’t let you--you shan’t! We’ve not all been -good in the family, but we’ve told the truth. If you were sober you -wouldn’t--” - -John Ralston was accustomed to be believed when he made a statement, -even if he did not swear to it. His virtues were not many, and were not -very serviceable, on the whole; but he was a truthful man, and his anger -rose, even against his own mother, when he saw that she refused to -believe him. He forgot his bruises and his mortal weariness, and sprang -to his feet before her. Their eyes met steadily, as he spoke. - -“I give you my sacred word of honour, mother.” - -He saw a startled look come into his mother’s eyes, and they seemed to -waver for a moment and then grow steady again. Then, without warning, -she turned from him once more, and went and seated herself in a small -arm-chair by the fire. She sat with her elbow resting on her knee, while -her hand supported her chin, and she stared at the smouldering embers as -though in deep thought. - -Her principal belief was in the code of honour, and in the absolute -sanctity of everything connected with it, and she had brought up her son -in that belief, and in the practice of what it meant. He did not give -his word lightly. She did not at that moment recall any occasion upon -which he had given it in her hearing, and she knew what value he set -upon it. - -The evidence of her senses, on the other hand, was strong, and that of -her reason was stronger still. It did not seem conceivable that he could -be telling the truth. It was not possible that as his sober, natural -self he should have got into the condition in which he had been brought -home to her. But it was quite within the bounds of possibility, she -thought, that he should have succeeded in steadying himself so far as to -be able to speak connectedly. In that case he had lied to her, when he -had given his word of honour, a moment ago. - -She tried to look at it fairly, for it was a question quite as grave in -her estimation as one of life or death. She would far rather have known -him dead than dishonourable, and his honour was arraigned at her -tribunal in that moment. Her impulse was to believe him, to go back to -him, and kiss him, and ask his forgiveness for having accused him -wrongly. But the evidence stood between him and her as a wall of ice. -The physical impression of horror and disgust was too strong. The -outward tokens were too clear. Even the honesty of his whole life from -his childhood could not face and overcome them. - -And so he must have lied to her. It was a conviction, and she could not -help it. And then she, too, felt that iron hands were tightening a band -round her breast, and that she could not bear much more. There was but -one small, pitiful excuse for him. In spite of his quiet tones, he might -be so far gone as not to know what he was saying when he spoke. It was a -forlorn hope, a mere straw, a poor little chance of life for her -mother’s love. She knew that life could never be the same again, if she -could not believe her son. - -The struggle went on in silence. She did not move from her seat nor -change her position. Her eyelids scarcely quivered as she gazed steadily -at the coals of the dying wood fire. Behind her, - -[Illustration: “She knew that life could never be the same again, if she -could not believe her son.”--Vol. II., p. 142.] - -John Ralston slowly paced the room, following the pattern of the carpet, -and glancing at her from time to time, unconscious of pain or fatigue, -for he knew as well as she herself that his soul was in the balance of -her soul’s justice. But the silence was becoming intolerable to him. As -for her, she could not have told whether minutes or hours had passed -since he had spoken. The trial was going against him, and she almost -wished that she might never hear his voice again. - -The questions and the arguments and the evidence chased each other -through her brain faster and faster, and ever in the same vicious -circle, till she was almost distracted, though she sat there quite -motionless and outwardly calm. At last she dropped both hands upon her -knees; her head fell forward upon her breast, and a short, quick sound, -neither a sigh nor a groan, escaped her lips. It was finished. The last -argument had failed; the last hope was gone. Her son had disgraced -himself--that was little; he had lied on his word of honour--that was -greater and worse than death. - -“Mother, you’ve always believed me,” said John, standing still behind -her and looking down at her bent head. - -“Until now,” she answered, in a low, heart-broken voice. - -John turned away sharply, and began to pace the floor again with -quickening steps. He knew as well as she what it must mean if he did -not convince her then and there. In a few hours it would be too late. -All sorts of mad and foolish ideas crossed his mind, but he rejected -them one after the other. They were all ridiculous before the magnitude -of her conviction. He had never seen her as she was now, not even when -his father had died. He grew more and more desperate as the minutes -passed. If his voice, his manner, his calm asseveration of the truth -could not convince her, he asked himself if anything could. And if not, -what could convince Katharine to-morrow? His recollections were all -coming back vividly to him now. He remembered everything that had -happened since the early morning. Strange to say,--and it is a -well-known peculiarity of such cases,--he recalled distinctly the -circumstances of his fall in the dark, and the absence of all knowledge -of the direction he was taking afterwards. He knew, now, how he had -wandered for hours in the great city, and he remembered many things he -had seen, all of which were perfectly familiar, and each of which, at -any other time, would have told him well enough whither he was going. He -reconstructed every detail without effort. He even knew that when he had -fallen over the heap of building material he had hurt one of his -fingers, a fact which he had not noticed at the time. He looked at his -hand now to convince himself. The finger was badly scratched, and the -nail was torn to the quick. - -“Will nothing make you change your mind?” he asked, stopping in the -middle of the room. “Will nothing I can do convince you?” - -“It would be hard,” answered Mrs. Ralston, shaking her head. - -“I’ve done all I can, then,” said John. “There’s nothing more to be -said. You believe that I can lie to you and give you my word for a lie. -Is that it?” - -“Don’t say it, please--it’s bad enough without any more words.” She -rested her chin upon her hand once more and stared at the fire. - -“There is one thing more,” answered John, suddenly. “I think I can make -you believe me still.” - -A bitter smile twisted Mrs. Ralston’s even lips, but she did not move -nor speak. - -“Will you believe the statement of a good doctor on his oath?” asked -John, quietly. - -Mrs. Ralston looked up at him suddenly. There was a strange expression -in her eyes, something like hope, but with a little distrust. - -“Yes,” she said, after a moment’s thought. “I would believe that.” - -“Most people would,” answered John, with sudden coldness. “Will you send -for a doctor? Or shall I go myself?” - -“Are you in earnest?” asked Mrs. Ralston, rising slowly from her seat -and looking at him. - -“I’m in earnest--yes. You seem to be. It’s rather a serious matter to -doubt my word of honour--even for my mother.” - -Being quite sure of himself, he spoke very bitterly and coldly. The time -for appealing to her kindness, her love, or her belief in him was over, -and the sense of approaching triumph was thrilling, after the -humiliation he had suffered in silence. Mrs. Ralston, strange to say, -hesitated. - -“It’s very late to send for any one now,” she said. - -“Very well; I’ll go myself,” answered John. “The man should come, if it -were within five minutes of the Last Judgment. Will you go to your room -for a moment, mother, while I dress? I can’t go as I am.” - -“No. I’ll send some one.” She stood still, watching his face. “I’ll ring -for a messenger,” she said, and left the room. - -By this time her conviction was so deep seated that she had many reasons -for not letting him leave the house, nor even change his clothes. He was -very strong. It was evident, too, that he had completely regained -possession of his faculties, and she believed that he was capable, at -short notice, of so restoring his appearance as to deceive the keenest -doctor. She remembered what had happened on Monday, and resolved that -the physician should see him just as he was. It did not strike her, in -her experience, that a doctor does not judge such matters as a woman -does. - -During her brief absence from the room, John was thinking of very -different matters. It did not even strike him that he might smooth his -hair or wash his soiled and blood-stained hands, and he continued to -pace the room under strong excitement. - -“Doctor Routh will come, I think,” said Mrs. Ralston, as she came in. - -She sat down where she had been sitting before, in the small easy chair -before the fire. She leaned back and folded her hands, in the attitude -of a person resigned to await events. John merely nodded as she spoke, -and did not stop walking up and down. He was thinking of the future now, -for he knew that he had made sure of the present. He was weighing the -chances of discretion on the part of the two men who had been witnesses -of his struggle with Bright in the hall of the club. As for Bright -himself, though he was the injured party, John knew that he could be -trusted to be silent. He might never forgive John, but he could not -gossip about what had happened. Frank Miner would probably follow -Bright’s lead. The dangerous man was Crowdie, who would tell what he had -seen, most probably to Katharine herself, and that very night. He might -account for his absence from the dinner-party to which he had been -engaged, and from the ball, on the ground of an accident. People might -say what they pleased about that, but it would be hard to make any one -believe that he had been sober when he had so suddenly lost his temper -and tripped up the pacific Hamilton Bright in the afternoon. - -He knew, of course, that his mother’s testimony would have counted for -nothing, even if she had believed him, and bitterly as he resented her -unbelief, he recognized that it was bringing about a good result. No one -could doubt the evidence of such a man as Doctor Routh, and the latter -would of course be ready at any time to repeat his statement, if it were -necessary to clear John’s reputation. - -But when he thought of Katharine, his instinct told him that matters -could not be so easily settled. It was quite true that he was in no way -to blame for having fallen over a heap of stones in a dark street, but -he knew how anxiously she must have waited for him at the ball, and what -she must have felt if, as he suspected, Crowdie had given her his own -version of what had taken place in the afternoon. It was not yet so late -but that he might have found her still at the Assembly rooms, and so far -as his strength was concerned, he would have gone there even at that -hour. Tough as he was, a few hours, more or less, of fatigue and effort -would make little difference to him, though he had scarcely touched food -that day. He was one of those men who are not dependent for their -strength on the last meal they happen to have eaten, as the majority -are, and who break down under a fast of twenty-four hours. In spite of -all he had been through, moreover, his determined abstinence during the -last days was beginning to tell favourably on him, for he was young, and -his nerves had a boundless recuperative elasticity. Hungry and tired and -bruised as he was, and accustomed as he had always been to swallow a -stimulant when the machinery was slackened, he did not now feel that -craving at all as he had felt it on the previous night, when he had -stood in the corner at the Thirlwalls’ dance. That seemed to have been a -turning-point with him. He had thought so at the time, and he was sure -of it now. He felt that just as he was he could dress himself, and go to -the Assembly if he pleased, and that he should not break down. - -But his appearance was against him, as he was obliged to admit when he -looked at himself in the mirror. His face was swollen and bruised, his -eyes were sunken and haggard, and his skin was almost livid in its -sallow whiteness. Others would judge him as his mother had judged, and -Katharine might be the first to do so. On the whole, it seemed wisest to -write to her early in the morning, and to explain exactly what had -happened. In the course of the day he could go and see her. - -He had reached this conclusion, when the sound of wheels, grating out of -the snow against the curb-stone of the pavement, interrupted his -meditations, and he stopped in his walk. At the same moment Mrs. Ralston -rose from her seat. - -“I’ll let him in,” she said briefly, as John advanced towards the door. - -“Let me go,” he said. “Why not?” he asked, as she pushed past him. - -“Because--I’d rather not. Stay here!” In a moment she was descending the -stairs. - -John listened at the open door, and heard the latch turned, and -immediately afterwards the sound of a man’s voice, which he recognized -as that of Doctor Routh. The doctor had been one of the Admiral’s -firmest friends, and was, moreover, a man of very great reputation in -New York. It was improbable that, except for some matter of life and -death, any one but Mrs. Ralston could have got him to leave his fireside -at midnight and in such weather. - -“It’s an awful night, Mrs. Ralston,” John heard him say, and the words -were accompanied by a stamping of feet, followed by the unmistakable -soft noise of india-rubber overshoes kicked off, one after the other, -upon the marble floor of the entry. - -John retired into his room again, leaving the door open, and waited -before the fireplace. Far down below he could hear the voices of his -mother and Doctor Routh. They were evidently talking the matter over -before coming up. Then their soft tread upon the carpeted stairs told -him that they were on their way to his room. - -Mrs. Ralston entered first, and stood aside to let the doctor pass her -before she closed the door. Doctor Routh was enormously tall. He wore a -long white beard, and carried his head very much bent forward. His eyes -were of the very dark blue which is sometimes called violet, and when he -was looking directly in front of him, the white was visible below the -iris. He had delicate hands, but was otherwise rough in appearance, and -walked with a heavy tread and a long stride, as a strong man marches -with a load on his back. - -He stopped before John, looked keenly at him, and smiled. He had known -him since he had been a boy. - -“Well, young man,” he said, “you look pretty badly used up. What’s the -matter with you?” - -“Have I been drinking, doctor? That’s the question.” John did not smile -as he shook hands. - -“I don’t know,” answered the physician. “Let me look at you.” - -He was holding the young man’s hand, and pressing it gently, as though -to judge of its temperature. He made him sit down under the bright -gas-light by the dressing table, and began to examine him carefully. - -Mrs. Ralston turned her back to them both, and leaned against the -mantelpiece. There was something horrible to her in the idea of such an -examination for such a purpose. There was something far more horrible -still in the verdict which she knew must fall from the doctor’s lips -within the next five minutes--the words which must assure her that John -had lied to her on his word of honour. She had no hope now. She had -watched the doctor nervously when he had entered the room, and when he -had spoken to John she had seen the smile on his face. There had been no -doubt in his mind from the first, and he was amused--probably at the -bare idea that any one could look as John looked who had not been very -drunk indeed within the last few hours. Presently he would look grave -and shake his head, and probably give John a bit of good advice about -his habits. She turned her face to the wall above the mantelpiece and -waited. It could not take long, she thought. Then it came. - -“If you’re not careful, my boy--” the doctor began, and stopped. - -“What?” asked John, rather anxiously. - -Mrs. Ralston felt as though she must stop her ears to keep out the sound -of the next words. Yet she knew that she must hear them before it was -all over. - -“You’ll injure yourself,” said Doctor Routh, completing his sentence -very slowly and thoughtfully. - -“That’s of no consequence,” answered John. “What I want to know is, -whether I have been drinking or not. Yes or no?” - -“Drinking?” Doctor Routh laughed contemptuously. “You know as well as I -do that you haven’t had a drop of anything like drink all day. But -you’ve had nothing to eat, either, for some reason or other--and -starvation’s a precious deal worse than drinking any day. Drinking be -damned! You’re starving--that’s what’s the matter with you. Excuse me, -Mrs. Ralston, forgot you were there--” - -Mrs. Ralston had heard every word. Her hands dropped together inertly -upon the mantelpiece, and she turned her head slowly toward the two men. -Her face had a dazed expression, as though she were waking from a dream. - -“Never mind the starvation, doctor,” said John, with a hard laugh. -“There’s a Bible somewhere in the room. Perhaps you won’t mind swearing -on it that I’m sober--before my mother, please.” - -“I shouldn’t think any sane person would need any swearing to convince -them!” Doctor Routh seemed to be growing suddenly angry. “You’ve been -badly knocked about, and you’ve been starving yourself for days--or -weeks, very likely. You’ve had a concussion of the brain that would -have laid up most people for a week, and would have killed some that I -know. You’re as thin as razor edges all over--there’s nothing to you but -bone and muscle and nerve. You ought to be fed and put to bed and looked -after, and then you ought to be sent out West to drive cattle, or go to -sea before the mast for two or three years. Your lungs are your weak -point. That’s apt to be the trouble with thoroughbreds in this country. -Oh--they’re sound enough--enough for the present, but you can’t go on -like this. You’ll give out when you don’t expect it. Drinking? No! I -should think a little whiskey and water would do you good!” - -While he was speaking, Mrs. Ralston came slowly forward, listening to -every word he said, in wide-eyed wonder. At last she laid her hand upon -his arm. He felt the slight pressure and looked down into her eyes. - -“Doctor Routh--on your word of honour?” she asked in a low voice. - -John laughed very bitterly, rose from his chair, and crossed the room. -The old man’s eyes flashed suddenly, and he drew himself up. - -“My dear Mrs. Ralston, I don’t know what has happened to you, nor what -you have got into your head. But if you’re not satisfied that I’m enough -of a doctor to tell whether a man is drunk or sober, send for some one -in whom you’ve more confidence. I’m not used to going about swearing my -professional opinion on Bibles and things, nor to giving my word of -honour that I’m in earnest when I’ve said what I think about a patient. -But I’ll tell you--if I had fifty words of honour and the whole Bible -House to swear on--well, I’ll say more--if it were a case of a trial, -I’d give my solemn evidence in court that Master John Ralston has had -nothing to drink. Upon my word, Mrs. Ralston! Talk of making mountains -of mole-hills! You’re making a dozen Himalayas out of nothing at all, it -seems to me. Your boy’s starving, Mrs. Ralston, and I daresay he takes -too much champagne and too many cocktails occasionally. But he’s not -been doing it to-day, nor yesterday, nor the day before. That is my -opinion as a doctor. Want my word of honour and the Bible again? Go to -bed! Getting your old friend away from his books and his pipe and his -fire at this hour, on such a night as this! You ought to be ashamed of -yourself, young lady! Well--if I’ve done you any good, I’m not -sorry--but don’t do it again. Good night--and get that young fellow out -of this as soon as you can. He’s not fit for this sort of life, anyhow. -Don’t take thoroughbreds for cart horses--they stand it for a bit, and -then they go crack! Good night--no, I know my way all right--don’t come -down.” - -John followed him, however, but before he left the room he glanced at -his mother’s face. Her eyes were cast down, and her lips seemed to -tremble a little. She did not even say good night to Doctor Routh. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -It was nearly one o’clock when John Ralston let Doctor Routh out of the -house and returned to his own room. He found his mother standing there, -opposite the door, as he entered, and her eyes had met his even before -he had passed the threshold. She came forward to meet him, and without a -word laid her two hands upon his shoulders and hid her face against his -torn coat. He put one arm around her and gently stroked her head with -the other hand, but he looked straight before him at the bright globe of -the gas-light, and said nothing. - -There was an unsettled expression on his pale face. He did not wish to -seem triumphant, and he did wish that his anger against her might -subside immediately and be altogether forgotten. But although he had -enough control of his outward self to say nothing and to touch her -tenderly, the part of him that had been so deeply wounded was not to be -healed in a moment. Her doubt--more, her openly and scornfully outspoken -disbelief had been the very last straw that day. It had been hard, just -when he had been doing his best to reform, to be accused by every one, -from Hamilton Bright, his friend, to the people on the horse-car; but -it had been hardest of all to be accused by his mother, and not to be -believed even on his pledged word. That was a very different matter. - -To a man of a naturally melancholic and brooding temper, as John Ralston -was, illusions have a very great value. Such men have few of them, as a -rule, and regard them as possessions with which no one has any right to -interfere. They ask little or nothing of the world at large, except to -be allowed to follow their own inclinations and worship their own idols -in their own way. But of their idols they ask much, and often give them -little in return except acts of idolatry. And the first thing they ask, -whether they express the demand openly or not, is that their idols -should believe in them in spite of every one and everything. They are -not, as a rule, capricious men. They cannot replace one object of -adoration by another, at short notice. Perhaps the foundation of such -characters is a sort of honourable selfishness, a desire to keep what -they care for to themselves, beyond the reach of every one else, -together with an inward conviction that their love is eminently worth -having from the mere fact that they do not bestow it lightly. When the -idol expresses a human and pardonable doubt in their sincerity, an -illusion is injured, if not destroyed--even when that doubt is well -founded. But when the doubt is groundless, it makes a bad wound which -leaves an ugly scar, if it ever heals at all. - -John Ralston was very like his mother, and she knew it and understood -instinctively that words could be of no use. There was nothing to be -done but to throw herself upon his mercy, as it were, and to trust that -he would forgive an injury which nothing could repair. And John -understood this, and did his best to meet her half way, for he loved her -very much. But he could not help the expression on his face, not being -good at masking nor at playing any part. She, womanly, could have done -that better than he. - -She wished to act no comedy, however. The thing was real and true, and -she was distressed beyond measure. She looked up at his face and saw -what was in his mind, and she knew that for the present she could do -nothing. Then she gently kissed the sleeve of his coat, and withdrew her -hands from him. - -“You’re wet, Jack,” she said, trying to speak naturally. “Go to bed, and -I’ll bring you something to eat and something hot to drink.” - -“No, mother--thank you. I don’t want anything. But I think I’ll go to -bed. Good night.” - -“Let me bring you something--” - -“No, thank you. I’d rather not. It’s all right, mother. Don’t worry.” - -It was hard to say even that little, just then, but he did as well as he -could. Then he kissed her on the forehead and opened the door for her. -She bent her head low as she passed him, but she did not look up. - -Half an hour later, when John was about to put out his light, he heard -the little clinking of glasses and silver on a tray outside his door. -Then there was a knock. - -“I’ve brought you something to eat, Jack,” said his mother’s voice. -“Just what I could find--” - -John turned as he was crossing the room--a gaunt figure in his loose, -striped flannels--and hesitated a moment before he spoke. - -“Oh--thank you, very much,” he answered. “Would you kindly set it down? -I’ll take it in presently. It’s very good of you, mother--thank -you--good night again.” - -He heard her set down the tray, and the things rattled and clinked. - -“It’s here, when you want it,” said the voice. - -He fancied there was a sigh after the words, and two or three seconds -passed before the sound of softly departing footsteps followed. He -listened, with a weary look in his eyes, then went to the fireplace and -leaned against the mantelpiece for a moment. As though making an effort, -he turned again and went to the door and opened it and brought in the -tray. There were dainty things on it, daintily arranged. There was also -a small decanter of whiskey, a pint of claret and a little jug of hot -water. John set the tray upon one end of his writing table and looked at -it, with an odd, sour smile. He was really so tired that he wanted -neither food nor drink, and the sight of both in abundance was almost -nauseous to him. He reflected that the servant would take away the -things in the morning, and that his mother would never know whether he -had taken what she had brought him or not, unless she asked him, which -was impossible. He took up the tray again, set it down on the floor, in -a corner, and instead of going to bed seated himself at his writing -table. - -It seemed best to write to Katharine and send his letter early in the -morning. It was hard work, and he could scarcely see the words he wrote, -for the pain in his head was becoming excruciating. It was necessarily a -long letter, too, and a complicated one, and his command of the English -language seemed gone from him. Nevertheless, he plodded on diligently, -telling as nearly as he could remember what had happened to him since he -had left Katharine’s door at three o’clock in the afternoon, up to the -moment when Doctor Routh had pronounced his verdict. It was not well -written, but on the whole it was a thoroughly clear account of events, -so far as he himself could be said to know what had happened to him. He -addressed the letter and put a special delivery stamp upon it, thinking -that this would be a means of sending it to its destination quickly -without attracting so much attention to it as though he should send a -messenger himself. Then he put out the gas, drew up the shades, so that -the morning light should wake him early, in spite of his exhaustion, and -at last went to bed. - -It was unfortunate that the messenger who took the specially stamped -letter to Clinton Place on the following morning should have rung the -bell exactly when he did, that is to say, at the precise moment when -Alexander Junior was putting on his overcoat and overshoes in the entry. -It was natural enough that Mr. Lauderdale should open the door himself -and confront the boy, who held up the letter to him with the little book -in which the receipt was to be signed. It was the worse for the boy, -because Katharine would have given him five or ten cents for himself, -whereas Alexander Junior signed the receipt, handed it back and shut the -door in the boy’s face. And it was very much the worse for John Ralston, -since Mr. Lauderdale, having looked at the handwriting and recognized -it, put the letter into his pocket without a word to any one and went -down town for the day. - -Now it was his intention to do the thing which was right according to -his point of view. He was as honourable a man, in his own unprejudiced -opinion, as any living, and he would no more have forfeited his right -to congratulate himself upon his uprightness than he would have given -ten cents to the messenger boy, or a holiday to a clerk, or a -subscription for anything except his pew in church. The latter was -really a subscription to his own character, and therefore not an -extravagance. It would never have entered into his mind that he could -possibly break the seal of Ralston’s specially stamped envelope. The -letter was as safe in his pocket as though it had been put away in his -own box at the Safe Deposit--where there were so many curious things of -which no one but Alexander Junior knew anything. But he did not intend -that his daughter should ever read it either. He disapproved of John -from the very bottom of his heart, partly because he did, which was an -excellent reason, partly because there could be no question as to John’s -mode of life, and partly because he had once lost his temper when John -had managed to keep his own. So far as he allowed himself to swear, he -had sworn that John should never marry Katharine--unless, indeed, John -should inherit a much larger share of Robert Lauderdale’s money than was -just, in which case justice itself would make it right to enter into a -matrimonial alliance with the millions. Meanwhile, however, Robert the -Rich was an exceedingly healthy old man. - -Under present circumstances, therefore, if accident threw into his -hands one of Ralston’s letters to Katharine, it was clearly the duty of -such a perfectly upright and well-conducted father as Alexander Junior -to hinder it from reaching its destination. Only one question as to his -conduct presented itself to his mind, and he occupied the day in solving -it. Should he quietly destroy the letter and say nothing about it to any -one, or should he tell Katharine that he had it, and burn it in her -presence after showing her that it was unopened? His conscience played -an important part in his life, though Robert Lauderdale secretly -believed that he had none at all; and his conscience bade him be quite -frank about what he had done, and destroy the letter under Katharine’s -own eyes. He took it from his pocket as he sat in his brilliantly -polished chair before his shiny table, under the vivid snow-glare which -fell upon him through his magnificent plate-glass windows. He looked at -it again, turned it over thoughtfully, and returned it at last to his -pocket, where it remained until he came home late in the afternoon. -While he sipped his glass of iced water at luncheon time, he prepared a -little speech, which he repeated to himself several times in the course -of the day. - -In the meantime Katharine, not suspecting that John had written to her, -and of course utterly ignorant of the truth about his doings on the -preceding day, felt that she must find some occupation, no matter how -trivial, to take her mind out of the strong current of painful thought -which must at last draw her down into the very vortex of despair’s own -whirlpool. It seemed to her that she had never before even faintly -guessed the meaning of pain nor the unknown extent of possible mental -suffering. As for forming any resolution, or even distinguishing the -direction of her probable course in the immediate future, she was -utterly incapable of any such effort or thought. The longing for total -annihilation was perhaps uppermost among her instincts just then, as it -often is with men and women who have been at once bitterly disappointed -and deeply wounded, and who find themselves in a position from which no -escape seems possible. Katharine wished with all her young heart that -the world were a lighted candle and that she could blow it out. - -It must not be believed, however, that her love for John Ralston had -disappeared as suddenly and totally as she should have liked to -extinguish the universe. It had not been of sudden growth nor of -capricious blooming. Its roots were deep, its stem was strong, its -flowers were sweet--and the blight which had fallen upon it was the more -cruel. A frostbitten rose-tree is a sadder sight than a withered -mushroom or a blade of dried grass. It was real, honest, unsuspecting, -strong, maidenly love, and it stood there still in the midst of her -heart, hanging its head in the cold, while she gazed at it and -wondered, and choked with anguish. But she could not lift her hand to -prop it, nor to cover it and warm it again, still less to root it up and -burn it. - -She could only try to escape from seeing it, and she resolutely set -about making the attempt. She left her room and went downstairs, -treading more softly as she passed the door of the room in which her -mother worked during the morning hours. She did not wish to see her -again at present, and as she descended she could not help thinking with -wonder of the sudden and unaccountable change in their relations. - -She entered the library, but though it was warm, it had that chilly look -about it which rooms principally used in the evening generally have when -there is no fire in them. The snow-glare was on everything, too, and -made it worse. She stood a moment in hesitation before the writing -table, and laid her hand uncertainly upon a sheet of writing paper. But -she realized that she could not write to John, and she turned away -almost immediately. - -What could she have written? It was easy to talk to herself of a letter; -it was quite another matter to find words, or even to discover the -meaning of her own thoughts. She did not wish to see him. If she wished -anything, it was that she might never see him again. Nothing could have -been much worse than to meet him just then, and talking on paper was -next to talking in fact. It all rushed back upon her as she moved away, -and she paused a moment and steadied herself against her favourite chair -by the empty fireplace. Then she raised her head again, proudly, and -left the room, looking straight before her. - -There was nothing to be done but to go out. The loneliness of the house -was absolutely intolerable, and she could not wander about in such an -aimless fashion all day long. Again she went upstairs to her room to put -on her hat and things. Mechanically she took the hat she had worn on the -previous day, but as she stood before the mirror and caught sight of it, -she suddenly took it from her head again and threw it behind her with a -passionate gesture, stared at herself a moment and then buried her face -in her hands. She had unconsciously put on the same frock as -yesterday--the frock in which she had been married--it was the rough -grey woollen one she had been wearing every day. And there were the same -simple little ornaments, the small silver pin at her throat, the tiny -gold bar of her thin watch chain at the third button from the top--the -hat had made it complete--just as she had been married. She could not -bear that. - -A few moments later she rose, and without looking at herself in the -glass, began to change her clothes. She dressed herself entirely in -black, put on a black hat and a gold pin, and took a new pair of brown -gloves from a drawer. There was a relief, now, in her altered -appearance, as she fastened her veil. She felt that she could behave -differently if she could get rid of the outward things which reminded -her of yesterday. It is not wise to reflect contemptuously upon the -smallness of things which influence passionate people at great moments -in their lives. It needs less to send a fast express off the track, if -the obstacle be just so placed as to cause an accident, than it does to -upset a freight train going at twelve miles an hour. - -Katharine descended the stairs again with a firm step, holding her head -higher than before, and with quite a different look in her eyes. She had -put on a sort of shell with her black clothes. It seemed to conceal her -real self from the outer world, the self that had worn rough grey -woollen and a silver pin and had been married to John Ralston yesterday -morning. She did not even take the trouble to tread softly as she passed -her mother’s studio, for she felt able to face any one, all at once. If -John himself had been standing in the entry below, and if she had come -upon him suddenly, she should have known how to meet him, and what to -say. She would have hurt him, and she would have been glad of it, with -all of her. What right had John Ralston to ruin her life? - -But John was not there, nor was there any possibility of her meeting -him that morning. He had shut himself up in his room and was waiting for -her answer to the letter which Alexander Lauderdale had taken down town -in his pocket, and which he meant to burn before her eyes that evening -after delivering his little speech. It was not probable that John would -go out of the house until he was convinced that no answer was to be -expected. - -Katharine went out into the street and paused on the last step. The snow -was deep everywhere, and wet and clinging. No attempt had as yet been -made to clear it away, though the horse-cars had ploughed their black -channel through, and it had been shovelled off the pavements before some -of the houses. There was a slushy muddiness about it where it was not -still white, which promised ill for a walk. Katharine knew exactly what -Washington Square would be like on such a morning. The little birds -would all be draggled and cold, the leafless twigs would be dripping, -the paths would be impracticable, and all the American boys would be -snowballing the Italian and French boys from South Fifth Avenue. The -University Building would look more than usual like a sepulchre to let, -and Waverley Place would be more savagely respectable than ever, as its -quiet red brick houses fronted the snow. Overhead the sky was of a -uniform grey. It was impossible to tell from any increase of light where -the sun ought to be. The air was damp and cold, and all the noises of -the street were muffled. Far away and out of sight, a hand-organ was -playing ‘Ah quell’ amore ond’ardo’--an air which Katharine most -especially and heartily detested. There was something ghostly in the -sound, as though the wretched instrument were grinding itself to death -out of sheer weariness. Katharine thought that if the world were making -music in its orbit that morning, the noise must be as melancholy and as -jarring as that of the miserable hurdy-gurdy. She thought vaguely, too, -of the poor old man who has stood every day for years with his back to -the railings on the south side of West Fourteenth Street, before you -come to Sixth Avenue, feebly turning the handle of a little box which -seems to be full of broken strings, which something stirs up into a -scarcely audible jangle at every sixth or seventh revolution. He has -yellowish grey hair, long and thick, and is generally bareheaded. She -felt inclined to go and see whether he were there now, in the wet snow, -with his torn shoes and his blind eyes, that could not feel the glare. -She found herself thinking of all the many familiar figures of distress, -just below the surface of the golden stream as it were, looking up out -of it with pitiful appealing faces, and without which New York could not -be itself. Her father said they made a good living out of their starving -appearance, and firmly refused to encourage what he called pauperism by -what other people called charity. Even if they were really poor, he -said, they probably deserved to be, and were only reaping the fruit of -their own improvidence, a deduction which did not appeal to Katharine. - -She turned eastwards and would have walked up to Fourteenth Street in -order to give the hurdy-gurdy beggar something, had she not remembered -almost immediately that she had no money with her. She never had any -except what her mother gave her for her small expenses, and during the -last few days she had not cared to ask for any. In very economically -conducted families the reluctance to ask for small sums is generally -either the sign of a quarrel or the highest expression of sympathetic -consideration. Every family has its private barometer in which money -takes the place of mercury. - -Katharine suddenly remembered that she had promised Crowdie another -sitting at eleven o’clock on Friday. It was the day and it was the hour, -and though by no means sure that she would enter the house when she -reached Lafayette Place, she turned in that direction and walked on, -picking her way across the streets as well as she could. The last time -she had gone to Crowdie’s she had gone with John, who had left her at -the door in order to go in search of a clergyman. She remembered that, -as she went along, and she chose the side of the street opposite to the -one on which she had gone with Ralston. - -At the door of Crowdie’s house, she hesitated again. Crowdie was one of -the gossips. It was he who had told the story of John’s quarrel with -Bright. It seemed as though he must be more repulsive to her than ever. -On the other hand, she realized that if she failed to appear as she had -promised, he would naturally connect her absence with what had happened -to Ralston. He could hardly be blamed for that, she thought, but she -would not have such a story repeated if she could help it. She felt very -brave, and very unlike the Katharine Lauderdale of two hours earlier, -and after a moment’s thought, she rang the bell and was admitted -immediately. - -Hester Crowdie was just coming down the stairs, and greeted Katharine -before reaching her. She seemed annoyed about something, Katharine -thought. There was a little bright colour in her pale cheeks, and her -dark eyes gleamed angrily. - -“I’m so glad you’ve come!” she exclaimed, helping her friend to take off -her heavy coat. “Come in with me for a minute, won’t you?” - -“What’s the matter?” asked Katharine, going with her into the little -front room. “You look angry.” - -“Oh--it’s nothing! I’m so foolish, you know. It’s silly of me. Sit -down.” - -“What is it, dear?” asked Katharine, affectionately, as she sat down -beside Hester upon a little sofa. “Have you and he been quarrelling?” - -“Quarrelling!” Hester laughed gaily. “No, indeed. That’s impossible! -No--we were all by ourselves--Walter was singing over his work, and I -was just lying amongst the cushions and listening and thinking how -heavenly it was--and that stupid Mr. Griggs came in and spoiled it all. -So I came away in disgust. I was so angry, just for a minute--I could -have killed him!” - -“Poor dear!” Katharine could not help smiling at the story. - -“Oh, of course, you laugh at me. Everybody does. But what do I care? I -love him--and I love his voice, and I love to be all alone with him up -there under the sky--and at night, too, when there’s a full moon--you -have no idea how beautiful it is. And then I always think that the snowy -days, when I can’t go out on foot, belong especially to me. You’re -different--I knew you were coming at eleven--but that horrid Mr. -Griggs!” - -“Poor Mr. Griggs! If he could only hear you!” - -“Walter pretends to like him. That’s one of the few points on which we -shall never agree. There’s nothing against him, I know, and he’s rather -modest, considering how he has been talked about--and all that. But one -doesn’t like one’s husband’s old friends to come--bothering--you know, -and getting in the way when one wants to be alone with him. Oh, no! I’ve -nothing against the poor man--only that I hate him! How are you, -dearest, after the ball, last night? You seemed awfully tired when I -brought you home. As for me, I’m worn out. I never closed my eyes till -Walter came home--he danced the cotillion with your mother. Didn’t you -think he was looking ill? I did. There was one moment when I was just a -little afraid that--you know--that something might happen to him--as it -did the other day--did you notice anything?” - -“No,” answered Katharine, thoughtfully. “He’s naturally pale. Don’t you -think that just happened once, and isn’t likely to occur again? He’s -been perfectly well ever since Monday, hasn’t he?” - -“Oh, yes--perfectly. But you know it’s always on my mind, now. I want to -be with him more than ever. I suppose that accounts for my being so -angry with poor Mr. Griggs. I think I’d ask him to stay to luncheon if I -were sure he’d go away the minute it’s over. Shouldn’t you like to stay, -dear? Shall I ask him? That will just make four. Do! I shall feel that -I’ve atoned for being so horrid about him. I wish you would!” - -Katharine did not answer at once. The vision of her luncheon at home -rose disagreeably before her--there would be her mother and her -grandfather, and probably Charlotte. The latter was quite sure to have -heard something about John, and would, of course, seize the occasion to -make unpleasant remarks. This consideration was a decisive argument. - -“Dear,” she said at last, “if you really want me, I think I will stay. -Only--I don’t want to be in the way, like Mr. Griggs. You must send me -away when you’ve had enough of me.” - -“Katharine! What an idea! I only wish you would stay forever.” - -“Oh, no, you don’t!” answered Katharine, with a smile. - -Hester rang the bell, and the immaculate and magnificent Fletcher -appeared to receive her orders about the luncheon. Katharine meanwhile -began to wonder at herself. She was so unlike what she had been a few -hours earlier, in the early morning, alone in her room. She wondered -whether, after all, she were not heartless, or whether the memory of all -that had lately happened to her might not be softened, like that of a -bad dream, which is horrible while it lasts, and at which one laughs at -breakfast, knowing that it has had no reality. Had her marriage any -reality? Last night, before the ball, the question would have seemed -blasphemous. It presented itself quite naturally just now. What value -had that contract? What power had the words of any man, priest or -layman, to tie her forever to one who had not the common decency to -behave like a gentleman, and to keep his appointment with her on the -same evening--on the evening of their wedding day? Was there a -mysterious magic in the mere words, which made them like a witch’s spell -in a fairy story? She had not seen him since. What was he doing? Had he -not even enough respect for her to send her a line of apology? Merely -what any man would have sent who had missed an appointment? Had she sold -her soul into bondage for the term of her natural life by uttering two -words--‘I will’? It was only her soul, after all. She had not seen his -face save for a moment at her own door in the afternoon. Did he think -that since they had been married he need not have even the most common -consideration for her? It seemed so. What had she dreamed, what had she -imagined during all those weeks and months before last Monday, while she -had been making up her mind that she would sacrifice anything and -everything for the sake of making him happy? She could not be mistaken, -now, for she was thinking it all over quite coldly during these two -minutes, while Hester was speaking to the butler. She was more than -cold. She was indifferent. She could have gone back to her room and put -on her grey frock, and the little silver pin again, and could have -looked at herself in the mirror for an hour without any sensation but -that of wonder--amazement at her own folly. - -Talk of love! There was love between Walter Crowdie and his wife. Hester -could not be with any one for five minutes without speaking of him, and -as for Crowdie himself, he was infatuated. Everybody said so. Katharine -pardoned him his pale face, his red lips, and the incomprehensible -repulsion she felt for him, because he loved his wife. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -Katharine and Hester went up to the studio together, and Hester opened -the door. - -“I’ve brought your sitter, Walter,” she said, announcing Katharine. -“I’ve come back with a reinforcement.” - -“Oh, Miss Lauderdale, how do you do?” Crowdie came forward. “Do you know -Mr. Griggs?” he asked in a low voice. - -“Yes, he was introduced to me last night,” explained Katharine in an -undertone, and bending her head graciously as the elderly man bowed from -a distance. - -“Oh! that’s very nice,” observed Crowdie. “I didn’t know whether you had -met. I hate introducing people. They’re apt to remember it against one. -Griggs is an old friend, Miss Lauderdale.” - -Katharine looked at the painter and thought he was less repulsive than -usual. - -“I know,” she answered. “Do you really want me to sit this morning, Mr. -Crowdie? You know, we said Friday--” - -“Of course I do! There’s your chair, all ready for you--just where it -was last time. And the thing--it isn’t a picture yet--is in the corner -here. Hester, dear, just help Miss Lauderdale to take off her hat, won’t -you?” - -He crossed the room as he spoke, and began to wheel up the easel on -which Katharine’s portrait stood. Griggs said nothing, but watched the -two women as they stood together, trying to understand the very opposite -impressions they made upon him, and wondering with an excess of cynicism -which Crowdie thought the more beautiful. For his own part, he fancied -that he should prefer Hester’s face and Katharine’s character, as he -judged it from her appearance. - -Presently Katharine seated herself, trying to assume the pose she had -taken at the first sitting. Crowdie disappeared behind the curtain in -search of paint and brushes, and Hester sat down on the edge of a huge -divan. As there was no chair except Katharine’s, Griggs seated himself -on the divan beside Mrs. Crowdie. - -“There’s never more than one chair here,” she explained. “It’s for the -sitter, or the buyer, or the lion-hunter, according to the time of day. -Other people must sit on the divan or on the floor.” - -“Yes,” answered Griggs. “I see.” - -Katharine did not think the answer a very brilliant one for a man of -such reputation. Hitherto she had not had much experience of lions. -Crowdie came back with his palette and paints. - -“That’s almost it,” he said, looking at Katharine. “A little more to the -left, I think--just the shade of a shadow!” - -“So?” asked Katharine, turning her head a very little. - -“Yes--only for a moment--while I look at you. Afterwards you needn’t -keep so very still.” - -“Yes--I know. The same as last time.” - -Meanwhile, Hester remembered that she had not yet asked Griggs to stay -to luncheon, though she had taken it for granted that he would. - -“Won’t you stay and lunch with us?” she asked. “Miss Lauderdale says she -will, and I’ve told them to set a place for you. We shall be four. Do, -if you can!” - -“You’re awfully kind, Mrs. Crowdie,” answered Griggs. “I wish I could. I -believe I have an engagement.” - -“Oh, of course you have. But that’s no reason.” Hester spoke with great -conviction. “I daresay you made that particular engagement very much -against your will. At all events, you mean to stay, because you only say -you ‘believe’ you’re engaged. If you didn’t mean to stay, you would say -at once that you ‘had’ an engagement which you couldn’t break. Wouldn’t -you? Therefore you will.” - -“That’s a remarkable piece of logic,” observed Griggs, smiling. - -“Besides, you’re a lion just now, because you’ve been away so long. So -you can break as many engagements as you please--it won’t make any -difference.” - -“There’s a plain and unadorned contempt for social rules in that, which -appeals to me. Thanks; if you’ll let me, I’ll stay.” - -“Of course!” Hester laughed. “You see I’m married to a lion, so I know -just what lions do. Walter, Katharine and Mr. Griggs are going to stay -to luncheon.” - -“I’m delighted,” answered Crowdie, from behind his easel. He was putting -in background with an enormous brush. “I say, Griggs--” he began again. - -“Well?” - -“Do you like Rockaways or Blue Points? I’m sure Hester has forgotten.” - -“‘When love was the pearl of’ my ‘oyster,’ I used to prefer Blue -Points,” answered Griggs, meditatively. - -“So does Walter,” said Mrs. Crowdie. - -“Was that a quotation--or what?” asked Katharine, speaking to Crowdie in -an undertone. - -“Swinburne,” answered the painter, indistinctly, for he had one of his -brushes between his teeth. - -“Not that it makes any difference what a man eats,” observed Griggs in -the same thoughtful tone. “I once lived for five weeks on ship biscuit -and raw apples.” - -“Good heavens!” laughed Hester. “Where was that? In a shipwreck?” - -“No; in New York. It wasn’t bad. I used to eat a pound a day--there were -twelve to a pound of the white pilot-bread, and four apples.” - -“Do you mean to say that you were deliberately starving yourself? What -for?” - -“Oh, no! I had no money, and I wanted to write a book, so that I -couldn’t get anything for my work till it was done. It wasn’t like -little jobs that one’s paid for at once.” - -“How funny!” exclaimed Hester. “Did you hear that, Walter?” she asked. - -“Yes; but he’s done all sorts of things.” - -“Were you ever as hard up as that, Walter?” - -“Not for so long; but I’ve had my days. Haven’t I, Griggs? Do you -remember--in Paris--when we tried to make an omelet without eggs, by the -recipe out of the ‘Noble Booke of Cookerie,’ and I wanted to colour it -with yellow ochre, and you said it was poisonous? I’ve often thought -that if we’d had some saffron, it would have turned out better.” - -“You cooked it too much,” answered Griggs, gravely. “It tasted like an -old binding of a book--all parchment and leathery. There’s nothing in -that recipe anyhow. You can’t make an omelet without eggs. I got hold of -the book again, and copied it out and persuaded the great man at -Voisin’s to try it. But he couldn’t do anything with it. It wasn’t much -better than ours.” - -“I’m glad to know that,” said Crowdie. “I’ve often thought of it and -wondered whether we hadn’t made some mistake.” - -Katharine was amused by what the two men said. She had supposed that a -famous painter and a well-known writer, who probably did not spend a -morning together more than two or three times a year, would talk -profoundly of literature and art. But it was interesting, nevertheless, -to hear them speak of little incidents which threw a side-light on their -former lives. - -“Do people who succeed always have such a dreadfully hard time of it?” -she asked, addressing the question to both men. - -“Oh, I suppose most of them do,” answered Crowdie, indifferently. - -“‘Jordan’s a hard road to travel,’” observed Griggs, mechanically. - -“Sing it, Walter--it is so funny!” suggested Hester. - -“What?” asked the painter. - -“‘Jordan’s a hard road’--” - -“Oh, I can’t sing and paint. Besides, we’re driving Miss Lauderdale -distracted. Aren’t we, Miss Lauderdale?” - -“Not at all. I like to hear you two talk--as you wouldn’t to a reporter, -for instance. Tell me something more about what you did in Paris. Did -you live together?” - -“Oh, dear, no! Griggs was a sort of little great man already in those -days, and he used to stay at Meurice’s--except when he had no money, and -then he used to sleep in the Calais train--he got nearly ten hours in -that way--and he had a free pass--coming back to Paris in time for -breakfast. He got smashed once, and then he gave it up.” - -“That’s pure invention, Crowdie,” said Griggs. - -“Oh, I know it is. But it sounds well, and we always used to say it was -true because you were perpetually rushing backwards and forwards. Oh, -no, Miss Lauderdale--Griggs had begun to ‘arrive’ then, but I was only a -student. You don’t suppose we’re the same age, do you?” - -“Oh, Walter!” exclaimed Hester, as though the suggestion were an insult. - -“Yes, Griggs is--how old are you, Griggs? I’ve forgotten. About fifty, -aren’t you?” - -“About fifty thousand, or thereabouts,” answered the literary man, with -a good-humoured smile. - -Katharine looked at him, turning completely round, for he and Mrs. -Crowdie were sitting on the divan behind her. She thought his face was -old, especially the eyes and the upper part, but his figure had the -sinewy elasticity of youth even as he sat there, bending forward, with -his hands folded on his knees. She wished she might be with him alone -for a while, for she longed to make him talk about himself. - -“You always seemed the same age, to me, even then,” said Crowdie. - -“Does Mr. Crowdie mean that you were never young, Mr. Griggs?” asked -Katharine, who had resumed her pose and was facing the artist. - -“We neither of us mean anything,” said Crowdie, with a soft laugh. - -“That’s reassuring!” exclaimed Katharine, a little annoyed, for Crowdie -laughed as though he knew more about Griggs than he could or would tell. - -“I believe it’s the truth,” said Griggs himself. “We don’t mean anything -especial, except a little chaff. It’s so nice to be idiotic and not to -have to make speeches.” - -“I hate speeches,” said Katharine. “But what I began by asking was this. -Must people necessarily have a very hard time in order to succeed at -anything? You’re both successful men--you ought to know.” - -“They say that the wives of great men have the hardest time,” said -Griggs. “What do you think, Mrs. Crowdie?” - -“Be reasonable!” exclaimed Hester. “Answer Miss Lauderdale’s -question--if any one can, you can.” - -“It depends--” answered Griggs, thoughtfully. “Christopher Columbus--” - -“Oh, I don’t mean Christopher Columbus, nor any one like him!” Katharine -laughed, but a little impatiently. “I mean modern people, like you two.” - -“Oh--modern people. I see.” Mr. Griggs spoke in a very absent tone. - -“Don’t be so hopelessly dull, Griggs!” protested Crowdie. “You’re here -to amuse Miss Lauderdale.” - -“Yes--I know I am. I was thinking just then. Please don’t think me rude, -Miss Lauderdale. You asked rather a big question.” - -“Oh--I didn’t mean to put you to the trouble of thinking--” - -“By the bye, Miss Lauderdale,” interrupted Crowdie, “you’re all in black -to-day, and on Wednesday you were in grey. It makes a good deal of -difference, you know, if we are to go on. Which is to be in the picture? -We must decide now, if you don’t mind.” - -“What a fellow you are, Crowdie!” exclaimed Griggs. - -“I’ll have it black, if it’s the same to you,” said Katharine, answering -the painter’s question. - -“What are you abusing me for, Griggs?” asked Crowdie, looking round his -easel. - -“For interrupting. You always do. Miss Lauderdale asked me a question, -and you sprang at me like a fiery and untamed wild-cat because I didn’t -answer it--and then you interrupt and begin to talk about dress.” - -“I didn’t suppose you had finished thinking already,” answered Crowdie, -calmly. “It generally takes you longer. All right. Go ahead. The -curtain’s up! The anchor’s weighed--all sorts of things! I’m listening. -Miss Lauderdale, if you could look at me for one moment--” - -“There you go again!” exclaimed Griggs. - -“Bless your old heart, man--I’m working, and you’re doing nothing. I -have the right of way. Haven’t I, Miss Lauderdale?” - -“Of course,” answered Katharine. “But I want to hear Mr. Griggs--” - -“‘Griggs on Struggles’--it sounds like the title of a law book,” -observed Crowdie. - -“You seem playful this morning,” said Griggs. “What makes you so -terribly pleasant?” - -“The sight of you, my dear fellow, writhing under Miss Lauderdale’s -questions.” - -“Doesn’t Mr. Griggs like to be asked general questions?” enquired -Katharine, innocently. - -“It’s not that, Miss Lauderdale,” said Griggs, answering her question. -“It’s not that. I’m a fidgety old person, I suppose, and I don’t like to -answer at random, and your question is a very big one. Not as a matter -of fact. It’s perfectly easy to say yes, or no, just as one feels about -it, or according to one’s own experience. In that way, I should be -inclined to say that it’s a matter of accident and -circumstances--whether men who succeed have to go through many material -difficulties or not. You don’t hear much of all those who struggle and -never succeed, or who are heard of for a moment and then sink. They’re -by far the most numerous. Lots of successful men have never been poor, -if that’s what you mean by hard times--even in art and literature. -Michael Angelo, Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, Chaucer, Montaigne, Goethe, -Byron--you can name any number who never went through anything like what -nine students out of ten in Paris, for instance, suffer cheerfully. It -certainly does not follow that because a man is great he must have -starved at one time or another. The very greatest seem, as a rule, to -have had fairly comfortable homes with everything they could need, -unless they had extravagant tastes. That’s the material view of the -question. The answer is reasonable enough. It’s a disadvantage to begin -very poor, because energy is used up in fighting poverty which might be -used in attacking intellectual difficulties. No doubt the average man, -whose faculties are not extraordinary to begin with, may develop them -wonderfully, and even be very successful--from sheer necessity, sheer -hunger; when, if he were comfortably off, he would do nothing in the -world but lie on his back in the sunshine, and smoke a pipe, and -criticise other people. But to a man who - -[Illustration: “‘That’s good, Crowdie,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It’s -distinctly good.’”--Vol. II., p. 189.] - -is naturally so highly gifted that he would produce good work under any -circumstances, poverty is a drawback.” - -“You didn’t know what you were going to get, Miss Lauderdale, when you -prevailed on Griggs to answer a serious question,” said Crowdie, as -Griggs paused a moment. “He’s a didactic old bird, when he mounts his -hobby.” - -“There’s something wrong about that metaphor, Crowdie,” observed Griggs. -“Bird mounting hobby--you know.” - -“Did you never see a crow on a cow’s back?” enquired Crowdie, unmoved. -“Or on a sheep? It’s funny when he gets his claws caught in the wool.” - -“Go on, please, Mr. Griggs,” said Katharine. “It’s very interesting. -What’s the other side of the question?” - -“Oh--I don’t know!” Griggs rose abruptly from his seat and began to pace -the room. “It’s lots of things, I suppose. Things we don’t understand -and never shall--in this world.” - -“But in the other world, perhaps,” suggested Crowdie, with a smile which -Katharine did not like. - -“The other world is the inside of this one,” said Griggs, coming up to -the easel and looking at the painting. “That’s good, Crowdie,” he said, -thoughtfully. “It’s distinctly good. I mean that it’s like, that’s all. -Of course, I don’t know anything about painting--that’s your business.” - -“Of course it is,” answered Crowdie; “I didn’t ask you to criticise. But -I’m glad if you think it’s like.” - -“Yes. Don’t mind my telling you, Crowdie--Miss Lauderdale, I hope you’ll -forgive me--there’s a slight irregularity in the pupil of Miss -Lauderdale’s right eye--it isn’t exactly round. It affects the -expression. Do you see?” - -“I never noticed it,” said Katharine in surprise. - -“By Jove--you’re right!” exclaimed Crowdie. “What eyes you have, -Griggs!” - -“It doesn’t affect your sight in the least,” said Griggs, “and nobody -would notice it, but it affects the expression all the same.” - -“You saw it at once,” remarked Katharine. - -“Oh--Griggs sees everything,” answered Crowdie. “He probably observed -the fact last night when he was introduced to you, and has been thinking -about it ever since.” - -“Now you’ve interrupted him again,” said Katharine. “Do sit down again, -Mr. Griggs, and go on with what you were saying--about the other side of -the question.” - -“The question of success?” - -“Yes--and difficulties--and all that.” - -“Delightfully vague--‘all that’! I can only give you an idea of what I -mean. The question of success involves its own value, and the ultimate -happiness of mankind. Do you see how big it is? It goes through -everything, and it has no end. What is success? Getting ahead of other -people, I suppose. But in what direction? In the direction of one’s own -happiness, presumably. Every one has a prime and innate right to be -happy. Ideas about happiness differ. With most people it’s a matter of -taste and inherited proclivities. All schemes for making all mankind -happy in one direction must fail. A man is happy when he feels that he -has succeeded--the sportsman when he has killed his game, the parson -when he believes he has saved a soul. We can’t all be parsons, nor all -good shots. There must be variety. Happiness is success, in each -variety, and nothing else. I mean, of course, belief in one’s own -success, with a reasonable amount of acknowledgment. It’s of much less -consequence to Crowdie, for instance, what you think, or I think, or -Mrs. Crowdie thinks about that picture, than it is to himself. But our -opinion has a certain value for him. With an amateur, public opinion is -everything, or nearly everything. With a good professional it is quite -secondary, because he knows much better than the public can, whether his -work is good or bad. He himself is his world--the public is only his -weather, fine one day and rainy the next. He prefers his world in fine -weather, but even when it rains he would not exchange it for any other. -He’s his own king, kingdom and court. He’s his own enemy, his own -conqueror, and his own captive--slave is a better word. In the course of -time he may even become perfectly indifferent to the weather in his -world--that is, to the public. And if he can believe that he is doing a -good work, and if he can keep inside his own world, he will probably be -happy.” - -“But if he goes beyond it?” asked Katharine. - -“He will probably be killed--body or soul, or both,” said Griggs, with a -queer change of tone. - -“It seems to me, that you exclude women altogether from your paradise,” -observed Mrs. Crowdie, with a laugh. - -“And amateurs,” said her husband. “It’s to be a professional paradise -for men--no admittance except on business. No one who hasn’t had a -picture on the line need apply. Special hell for minor poets. Crowns of -glory may be had on application at the desk--fit not guaranteed in cases -of swelled head--” - -“Don’t be vulgar, Crowdie,” interrupted Griggs. - -“Is ‘swelled head’ vulgar, Miss Lauderdale?” enquired the painter. - -“It sounds like something horrid--mumps, or that sort of thing. What -does it mean?” - -“It means a bad case of conceit. It’s a good New York expression. I -wonder you haven’t heard it. Go on about the professional persons, -Griggs. I’m not half good enough to chaff you. I wish Frank Miner were -here. He’s the literary man in the family.” - -“Little Frank Miner--the brother of the three Miss Miners?” asked -Griggs. - -“Yes--looks a well-dressed cock sparrow--always in a good humour--don’t -you know him?” - -“Of course I do--the brother of the three Miss Miners,” said Griggs, -meditatively. “Does he write? I didn’t know.” Crowdie laughed, and -Hester smiled. - -“Such is fame!” exclaimed Crowdie. “But then, literary men never seem to -have heard of each other.” - -“No,” answered Griggs. “By the bye, Crowdie, have you heard anything of -Chang-Li-Ho lately?” - -“Chang-Li-Ho? Who on earth is he? A Chinese laundryman?” - -“No,” replied Griggs, unmoved. “He’s the greatest painter in the Chinese -Empire. But then, you painters never seem to have heard of one another.” - -“By Jove! that’s not fair, Griggs! Is he to be in the professional -heaven, too?” - -“I suppose so. There’ll probably be more Chinamen than New Yorkers -there. They know a great deal more about art.” - -“You’re getting deucedly sarcastic, Griggs,” observed Crowdie. “You’d -better tell Miss Lauderdale more about the life to come. Your hobby -can’t be tired yet, and if you ride him industriously, it will soon be -time for luncheon.” - -“We’d better have it at once if you two are going to quarrel,” suggested -Hester, with a laugh. - -“Oh, we never quarrel,” answered Crowdie. “Besides, I’ve got no soul, -Griggs says, and he sold his own to the printer’s devil ages ago--so -that the life to come is a perfectly safe subject.” - -“What do you mean by saying that Walter has no soul?” asked Hester, -looking up quickly at Griggs. - -“My dear lady,” he answered, “please don’t be so terribly angry with me. -In the first place, I said it in fun; and secondly, it’s quite true; and -thirdly, it’s very lucky for him that he has none.” - -“Are you joking now, or are you unintentionally funny?” asked Crowdie. - -“I don’t think it’s very funny to be talking about people having no -souls,” said Katharine. - -“Do you think every one has a soul, Miss Lauderdale?” asked Griggs, -beginning to walk about again. - -“Yes--of course. Don’t you?” - -Griggs looked at her a moment in silence, as though he were hesitating -as to what he should say. - -“Can you see the soul, as you did the defect in my eyes?” asked -Katharine, smiling. - -“Sometimes--sometimes one almost fancies that one might.” - -“And what do you see in mine, may I ask? A defect?” - -He was quite near to her. She looked up at him earnestly with her pure -girl’s eyes, wide, grey and honest. The fresh pallor of her skin was -thrown into relief by the black she wore, and her features by the rich -stuff which covered the high back of the chair. There was a deeper -interest in her expression than Griggs often saw in the faces of those -with whom he talked, but it was not that which fascinated him. There was -something suggestive of holy things, of innocent suffering, of the -romance of a virgin martyr--something which, perhaps, took him back to -strange sights he had seen in his youth. - -He stood looking down into her eyes, a gaunt, world-worn fighter of -fifty years, with a strong, ugly, determined but yet kindly face--the -face of a man who has passed beyond a certain barrier which few men ever -reach at all. - -Crowdie dropped his hand, holding his brush, and gazing at the two in -silent and genuine delight. The contrast was wonderful, he thought. He -would have given much to paint them as they were before him, with their -expressions--with the very thoughts of which the look in each face was -born. Whatever Crowdie might be at heart, he was an artist first. - -And Hester watched them, too, accustomed to notice whatever struck her -husband’s attention. A very different nature was hers from any of the -three--one reserved for an unusual destiny, and with something of fate’s -shadowy painting already in all her outward self--passionate, first, and -having, also, many qualities of mercy and cruelty at passion’s command, -but not having anything of the keen insight into the world spiritual, -and material, which in varied measure belonged to each of the others. - -“And what defect do you see in my soul?” asked Katharine, her exquisite -lips just parting in a smile. - -“Forgive me!” exclaimed Griggs, as though roused from a reverie. “I -didn’t realize that I was staring at you.” He was an oddly natural man -at certain times. Katharine almost laughed. - -“I didn’t realize it either,” she answered. “I was too much interested -in what I thought you were going to say.” - -“He’s a very clever fellow, Miss Lauderdale,” said Crowdie, going on -with his painting. “But you’ll turn his head completely. To be so much -interested--not in what he has said, or is saying, or even is going to -say, but just in what you think he possibly may say--it’s amazing! -Griggs, you’re not half enough nattered! But then, you’re so spoilt!” - -“Yes--in my old age, people are spoiling me.” Griggs smiled rather -sourly. “I can’t read souls, Miss Lauderdale,” he continued. “But if I -could, I should rather read yours than most books. It has something to -say.” - -“It’s impossible to be more vague, I’m sure,” observed Crowdie. - -“It’s impossible to be more flattering,” said Katharine, quietly. “Thank -you, Mr. Griggs.” - -She was beginning to be tired of Crowdie’s observations upon what Griggs -said--possibly because she was beginning to like Griggs himself more -than she had expected. - -“I didn’t mean to be either vague or flattering. It’s servile to be the -one and weak to be the other. I said what I thought. Do you call it -flattery to paint a beautiful portrait of Miss Lauderdale?” - -“Not unless I make it more beautiful than she is,” answered the painter. - -“You can’t.” - -“That’s decisive, at all events,” laughed Crowdie. “Not but that I agree -with you, entirely.” - -“Oh, I don’t mean it as you do,” answered Griggs. “That would be -flattery--exactly what I don’t mean. Miss Lauderdale is perfectly well -aware that you’re a great portrait painter and that she is not -altogether the most beautiful young lady living at the present moment. -You mean flesh and blood and eyes and hair. I don’t. I mean all that -flesh and blood and eyes and hair don’t mean, and never can mean.” - -“Soul,” suggested Crowdie. “I was talking about that to Miss Lauderdale -the last time she sat for me--that was on Wednesday, wasn’t it--the day -before yesterday? It seems like last year, for some reason or other. -Yes, I know what you mean. You needn’t get into such a state of frenzied -excitement.” - -“I appeal to you, Mrs. Crowdie--was I talking excitedly?” - -“A little,” answered Hester, who was incapable of disagreeing with her -husband. - -“Oh--well--I daresay,” said Griggs. “It hasn’t been my weakness in life -to get excited, though.” He laughed. - -“Walter always makes you talk, Mr. Griggs,” answered Mrs. Crowdie. - -“A great deal too much. I think I shall be rude, and not stay to -luncheon, after all.” - -“Nonsense!” exclaimed Crowdie. “Don’t go in for being young and -eccentric--the ‘man of genius’ style, who runs in and out like a hen in -a thunder-storm, and is in everybody’s way when he’s not wanted and -can’t be found when people want him. You’ve outgrown that sort of -absurdity long ago.” - -Katharine would have liked to see Griggs’ face at that moment, but he -was behind her again. There was something in the relation of the two -men which she found it hard to understand. Crowdie was much younger than -Griggs--fourteen or fifteen years, she fancied, and Griggs did not seem -to be at all the kind of man with whom people would naturally be -familiar or take liberties, to use the common phrase. Yet they talked -together like a couple of schoolboys. She should not have thought, -either, that they could be mutually attracted. Yet they appeared to have -many ideas in common, and to understand each other wonderfully well. -Crowdie was evidently not repulsive to Griggs as he was to many men she -knew--to Bright and Miner, for instance--and the two had undoubtedly -been very intimate in former days. Nevertheless, it was strange to hear -the younger man, who was little more than a youth in appearance, -comparing the celebrated Paul Griggs to a hen in a thunder-storm, and -still stranger to see that Griggs did not resent it at all. An older -woman might have unjustly suspected that the elderly man of letters was -in love with Hester Crowdie, but such an idea could never have crossed -Katharine’s mind. In that respect she was singularly unsophisticated. -She had been accustomed to see her beautiful mother surrounded and -courted by men of all ages, and she knew that her mother was utterly -indifferent to them except in so far as she liked to be admired. In some -books, men fall in love with married women, and Katharine had always -been told that those were bad books, and had accepted the fact without -question and without interest. - -But in ordinary matters she was keen of perception. It struck her that -there was some bond or link between the two men, and it seemed strange -to her that there should be--as strange as though she had seen an old -wolf playing amicably with a little rabbit. She thought of the two -animals in connection with the two men. - -While she had been thinking, Hester and Griggs had been talking together -in lower tones, on the divan, and Crowdie had been painting -industriously. - -“It’s time for luncheon,” said Mrs. Crowdie. “Mr. Griggs says he really -must go away very early, and perhaps, if Katharine will stay, she will -let you paint for another quarter of an hour afterward.” - -“I wish you would!” answered Crowdie, with alacrity. “The snow-light is -so soft--you see the snow lies on the skylight like a blanket.” - -Katharine looked up at the glass roof, turning her head far back, for it -was immediately overhead. When she dropped her eyes she saw that Griggs -was looking at her again, but he turned away instantly. She had no -sensation of unpleasantness, as she always had when she met Crowdie’s -womanish glance; but she wondered about the man and his past. - -Hester was just leaving the studio, going downstairs to be sure that -luncheon was ready, and Crowdie had disappeared behind his curtain to -put his palette and brushes out of sight, as usual. Katharine was alone -with Griggs for a few moments. They stood together, looking at the -portrait. - -“How long have you known Mr. Crowdie?” she asked, yielding to an -irresistible impulse. - -“Crowdie?” repeated Griggs. “Oh--a long time--fifteen or sixteen years, -I should think. That’s going to be a very good portrait, Miss -Lauderdale--one of his best. And Crowdie, at his best, is first rate.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -Katharine was conscious that during the time she had spent in the studio -she had been taken out of herself. She had listened to what the others -had said, she had been interested in Griggs, she had speculated upon the -probable origin of his apparent friendship with Crowdie; in a word, she -had temporarily lulled the tempest which had threatened to overwhelm her -altogether in the earlier part of the morning. She was not much given to -analyzing herself and her feelings, but as she descended the stairs, -followed by Crowdie and Griggs, she was inclined to doubt whether she -were awake, or dreaming. She told herself that it was all true; that she -had been married to John Ralston on the previous morning in the quiet, -remote church, that she had seen John for one moment in the afternoon, -at her own door, that he had failed her in the evening, and that she -knew only too certainly how he had disgraced himself in the eyes of -decent people during the remainder of the day. It was all true, and yet -there was something misty about it all, as though it were a dream. She -did not feel angry or hurt any more. It only seemed to her that John, -and everything connected with him, had all at once passed out of her -life, beyond the possibility of recall. And she did not wish to recall -it, for she had reached something like peace, very unexpectedly. - -It was, of course, only temporary. Physically speaking, it might be -explained as the reaction from violent emotions, which had left her -nerves weary and deadened. And speaking not merely of the material side, -it is true that the life of love has moments of suspended animation, -during which it is hard to believe that love was ever alive at -all--times when love has a past and a future, but no present. - -If she had met John at that moment, on the stairs, she would very -probably have put out her hand quite naturally, and would have greeted -him with a smile, before the reality of all that had happened could come -back to her. Many of us have dreamed that those dearest to us have done -us some cruel and bitter wrong, struck us, insulted us, trampled on our -life-long devotion to them; and in the morning, awaking, we have met -them, and smiled, and loved them just the same. For it was only a dream. -And there are those who have known the reality; who, after much time, -have very suddenly found out that they have been betrayed and wickedly -deceived, and used ill, by their most dear--and who, in the first -moment, have met them, and smiled, and loved them just the same. For it -was only a dream, they thought indeed. And then comes the waking, which -is as though one fell asleep upon his beloved’s bosom and awoke among -thorns, and having a crown of thorns about his brows--very hard to bear -without crying aloud. - -Katharine pressed the polished banister of the staircase with her hand, -and with the other she found the point of the little gold pin she wore -at her throat and made it prick her a little. It was a foolish idea and -a childish thought. She knew that she was not really dreaming, and yet, -as though she might have been, she wanted a physical sensation to assure -her that she was awake. Griggs was close behind her. Crowdie had stopped -a moment to pull the cord of a curtain which covered the skylight of the -staircase. - -“I wonder where real things end, and dreams begin!” said Katharine, half -turning her head, and then immediately looking before her again. - -“At every minute of every hour,” answered Griggs, as quickly as though -the thought had been in his own mind. - -From higher up came Crowdie’s golden voice, singing very softly to -himself. He had heard the question and the answer. - -“‘La vie est un songe,’” he sang, and then, breaking off suddenly, -laughed a little and began to descend. - -At the first note, Katharine stood still and turned her face upwards. -Griggs stopped, too, and looked down at her. Even after Crowdie had -laughed Katharine did not move. - -“I wish you’d go on, Mr. Crowdie!” she cried, speaking so that he could -hear her. - -“Griggs is anxious for the Blue Points,” he answered, coming down. -“Besides, he hates music, and makes no secret of the fact.” - -“Is it true? Do you really hate music?” asked Katharine, turning and -beginning to descend again. - -“Quite true,” answered Griggs, quietly. “I detest it. Crowdie’s a -nuisance with his perpetual yapping.” - -Crowdie laughed good naturedly, and Katharine said nothing. As they -reached the lower landing she turned and paused an instant, so that -Griggs came beside her. - -“Did you always hate music?” she asked, looking up into his -weather-beaten face with some curiosity. - -“Hm!” Griggs uttered a doubtful sound. “It’s a long time since I heard -any that pleased me, at all events.” - -“There are certain subjects, Miss Lauderdale, upon which Griggs is -unapproachable, because he won’t say anything. And there are others upon -which it is dangerous to approach him, because he is likely to say too -much. Hester! Where are you?” - -He disappeared into the little room at the front of the house in search -of his wife, and Katharine stood alone with Griggs in the entry. Again -she looked at him with curiosity. - -“You’re a very good-humoured person, Mr. Griggs,” she said, with a -smile. - -“You mean about Crowdie? Oh, I can stand a lot of his chaff--and he has -to stand mine, too.” - -“That was a very interesting answer you gave to my question about -dreams,” said Katharine, leaning against the pillar of the banister. - -“Was it? Let me see--what did I say?” He seemed to be absent-minded -again. - -“Come to luncheon!” cried Crowdie, reappearing with Hester at that -moment. “You can talk metaphysics over the oysters.” - -“Metaphysics!” exclaimed Griggs, with a smile. - -“Oh, I know,” answered Crowdie. “I can’t tell the difference between -metaphysics and psychics, and geography and Totem. It is all precisely -the same to me--and it is to Griggs, if he’d only acknowledge it. Come -along, Miss Lauderdale--to oysters and culture!” - -Hester laughed at Crowdie’s good spirits, and Griggs smiled. He had -large, sharp teeth, and Katharine thought of the wolf and the rabbit -again. It was strange that they should be on such good terms. - -They sat down to luncheon. The dining-room, like every other part of -the small house, had been beautified as much as its position and -dimensions would allow. It had originally been small, but an extension -of glass had been built out into the yard, which Hester had turned into -a fernery. There were a great number of plants of many varieties, some -of which had been obtained with great difficulty from immense distances. -Hester had been told that it would be impossible to make them grow in an -inhabited room, but she had succeeded, and the result was something -altogether out of the common. - -She admitted that, besides the attention she bestowed upon the plants -herself, they occupied the whole time of a specially trained gardener. -They were her only hobby, and where they were concerned, time and money -had no value for her. The dining-room itself was simple, but exquisite -in its way. There were a few pieces of wonderfully chiselled silver on -the sideboard, and the glasses on the table were Venetian and Bohemian, -and very old. The linen was as fine as fine writing paper, the porcelain -was plain white Sèvres. There was nothing superfluous, but there were -all the little, unobtrusive, almost priceless details which are the -highest expression “of intimate luxury--in which the eye alone receives -rest, while the other senses are flattered to the utmost. Colour and the -precious metals are terribly cheap things nowadays compared with what -appeals to touch and taste. There are times when certain dainties, like -terrapin, for instance, are certainly worth much more than their weight -in silver, if not quite their weight in gold. But as for that, to say -that a man is worth his weight in gold has ceased to mean very much. -Some ingenious persons have lately calculated that the average man’s -weight in gold would be worth about forty thousand dollars, and that a -few minutes’ worth of the income of some men living would pay for a -life-sized golden calf. The further development of luxury will be an -interesting thing to watch during the next century. A poor woman in New -York recently returned a roast turkey to a charitable lady who had sent -it to her, with the remark that she was accustomed to eat roast beef at -Christmas, though she ‘did not mind turkey on Thanksgiving Day.’ - -Katharine wondered how far such a man as Griggs, who said that he hated -music, could appreciate the excessive refinement of a luxury which could -be felt rather than seen. It was all familiar to Katharine, and there -were little things at the Crowdies which she longed to have at home. -Griggs ate his oysters in silence. Fletcher came to his elbow with a -decanter. - -“Vin de Grave, sir?” enquired the old butler in a low voice. - -“No wine, thank you,” said Griggs. - -“There’s Sauterne, isn’t there, Walter?” asked Hester. “Perhaps Mr. -Griggs--” - -“Griggs is a cold water man, like me,” answered Crowdie. “His secret -vice is to drink a bucket of it, when nobody is looking.” - -Fletcher looked disappointed, and replaced the decanter on the -sideboard. - -“It’s uncommon to see two men who drink nothing,” observed Hester. “But -I remember that Mr. Griggs never did.” - -“Never--since you knew me, Mrs. Crowdie. I did when I was younger.” - -“Did you? What made you give it up?” - -Katharine felt a strange pain in her heart, as they began to talk of the -subject. The reality was suddenly coming back out of dreamland. - -“I lost my taste for it,” answered Griggs, indifferently. - -“About the same time as when you began to hate music, wasn’t it?” asked -Crowdie, gravely. - -“Yes, I daresay.” - -The elder man spoke quietly enough, and there was not a shade of -interest in his voice as he answered the question. But Katharine, who -was watching him unconsciously, saw a momentary change pass over his -face. He glanced at Crowdie with an expression that was almost savage. -The dark, weary eyes gleamed fiercely for an instant, the great veins -swelled at the lean temples, the lips parted and just showed the big, -sharp teeth. Then it was all over again and the kindly look came back. -Crowdie was not smiling, and the tone in which he had asked the question -showed plainly enough that it was not meant as a jest. Indeed, the -painter himself seemed unusually serious. But he had not been looking at -Griggs, nor had Hester seen the sudden flash of what was very like -half-suppressed anger. Katharine wondered more and more, and the little -incident diverted her thoughts again from the suggestion which had given -her pain. - -“Lots of men drink water altogether, nowadays,” observed Crowdie. “It’s -a mistake, of course, but it’s much more agreeable.” - -“A mistake!” exclaimed Katharine, very much astonished. - -“Oh, yes--it’s an awful mistake,” echoed Griggs, in the most natural way -possible. - -“I’m not so sure,” said Hester Crowdie, in a tone of voice which showed -plainly that the idea was not new to her. - -“I don’t understand,” said Katharine, unable to recover from her -surprise. “I always thought that--” she checked herself and looked -across at the ferns, for her heart was hurting her again. - -She suddenly realized, also, that considering what had happened on the -previous night, it was very tactless of Crowdie not to change the -subject. But he seemed not at all inclined to drop it yet. - -“Yes,” he said. “In the first place, total abstinence shortens life. -Statistics show that moderate consumers of alcoholic drinks live -considerably longer than drunkards and total abstainers.” - -“Of course,” assented Griggs. “A certain amount of wine makes a man lazy -for a time, and that rests his nerves. We who drink water accomplish -more in a given time, but we don’t live so long. We wear ourselves out. -If we were not the strongest generation there has been for centuries, we -should all be in our graves by this time.” - -“Do you think we are a very strong generation?” asked Crowdie, who -looked as weak as a girl. - -“Yes, I do,” answered Griggs. “Look at yourself and at me. You’re not an -athlete, and an average street boy of fifteen or sixteen might kill you -in a fight. That has nothing to do with it. The amount of actual hard -work, in your profession, which you’ve done--ever since you were a mere -lad--is amazing, and you’re none the worse for it, either. You go on, -just as though you had begun yesterday. Heaving weights and rowing races -is no test of what a man’s strength will bear in everyday life. You -don’t need big muscles and strong joints. But you need good nerves and -enormous endurance. I consider you a very strong man--in most ways that -are of any use.” - -“That’s true,” said Mrs. Crowdie. “It’s what I’ve always been trying to -put into words.” - -“All the same,” continued Griggs, “one reason why you do more than other -people is that you drink water. If we are strong, it’s because the last -generation and the one before it lived too well. The next generation -will be ruined by the advance of science.” - -“The advance of science!” exclaimed Katharine. “But, Mr. Griggs--what -extraordinary ideas you have!” - -“Have I? It’s very simple, and it’s absolutely true. We’ve had the -survival of the fittest, and now we’re to have the survival of the -weakest, because medical science is learning how to keep all the -weaklings alive. If they were puppies, they’d all be drowned, for fear -of spoiling the breed. That’s rather a brutal way of putting it, but -it’s true. As for the question of drink, the races that produce the most -effect on the world are those that consume the most meat and the most -alcohol. I don’t suppose any one will try to deny that. Of course, the -consequences of drinking last for many generations after alcohol has -gone out of use. It’s pretty certain that before Mohammed’s time the -national vice of the Arabs was drunkenness. So long as the effects -lasted--for a good many generations--they swept everything before them. -The most terrible nation is the one that has alcohol in its veins but -not in its head. But when the effects wore out, the Arabs retired from -the field before nations that drank--and drank hard. They had no -chance.” - -“What a horrible view to take!” Katharine was really shocked by the -man’s cool statements, and most of all by the appearance of indisputable -truth which he undoubtedly gave to them. - -“And as for saying that drink is the principal cause of crime,” he -continued, quietly finishing a piece of shad on his plate, “it’s the -most arrant nonsense that ever was invented. The Hindus are total -abstainers and always have been, so far as we know. The vast majority of -them take no stimulant whatever, no tea, no coffee. They smoke a little. -There are, I believe, about two hundred millions of them alive now, and -their capacity for most kinds of wickedness is quite as great as ours. -Any Indian official will tell you that. It’s pure nonsense to lay all -the blame on whiskey. There would be just as many crimes committed -without it, and it would be much harder to detect them, because the -criminals would keep their heads better under difficulties. Crime is in -human nature, like virtue--like most things, if you know how to find -them.” - -“That’s perfectly true,” said Crowdie. “I believe every word of it. And -I know that if I drank a certain amount of wine I should have a better -chance of long life, but I don’t like the taste of it--couldn’t bear it -when I was a boy. I like to see men get mellow and good-natured over a -bottle of claret, too. All the same, there’s nothing so positively -disgusting as a man who has had too much.” - -Hester looked at him quickly, warning him to drop the subject. But -Griggs knew nothing of the circumstances, and went on discussing the -matter from his original point of view. - -“There’s a beast somewhere, in every human being,” he said, -thoughtfully. “If you grant the fact that it is a beast, it’s no worse -to look at than other beasts. But it’s quite proper to call a drunkard a -beast, because almost all animals will drink anything alcoholic which -hasn’t a bad taste, until they’re blind drunk. It’s a natural instinct. -Did you ever see a goat drink rum, or a Western pony drink a pint of -whiskey? All animals like it. I’ve tried it on lots of them. It’s an old -sailors’ trick.” - -“I think it’s horrid!” exclaimed Hester. “Altogether, it’s a most -unpleasant subject. Can’t we talk of something else?” - -“Griggs can talk about anything except botany, my dear,” said Crowdie. -“Don’t ask him about ferns, unless you want an exhibition of ignorance -which will startle you.” - -Katharine sat still in silence, though it would have been easy for her -at that moment to turn the conversation into a new channel, by asking -Griggs the first question which chanced to present itself. But she could -not have spoken just then. She could not eat, either, though she made a -pretence of using her fork. The reality had come back out of dreamland -altogether this time, and would not be banished again. The long -discussion about the subject which of all others was most painful to -her, and the cynical indifference with which the two men had discussed -it, had goaded her memory back through all the details of the last -twenty-four hours. She was scarcely conscious that Hester had -interfered, as she became more and more absorbed by her own suffering. - -“Shall we talk of roses and green fields and angels’ loves?” asked -Griggs. “How many portraits have you painted since last summer, -Crowdie?” - -“By way of reminding me of roses you stick the thorns into me--four, I -think--and two I’m doing now, besides Miss Lauderdale’s. There’s been a -depression down town. That accounts for the small number. Portrait -painters suffer first. In hard times people don’t want them.” - -“Yes,” answered Griggs, thoughtfully. “Portrait painters and hatters. -Did you know that, Crowdie? When money is tight in Wall Street, people -don’t bet hats, and the hatters say it makes a great difference.” - -“That’s queer. And you--how many books have you written?” - -“Since last summer? Only one--a boshy little thing of sixty thousand.” - -“Sixty thousand what?” asked Hester. “Dollars?” - -“Dollars!” Griggs laughed. “No--only words. Sixty thousand words. That’s -the way we count what we do. No--it’s a tiresome little thing. I had an -idea,--or thought I had,--and just when I got to the end of it I found -it was trash. That’s generally the way with me, unless I have a stroke -of luck. Haven’t you got an idea for me, Mrs. Crowdie? I’m getting old -and people won’t give me any, as they used to.” - -“I wish I had! What do you want? A love story?” - -“Of course. But what I want is a character. There are no new plots, nor -incidents, nor things of that sort, you know. Everything that’s ever -happened has happened so often. But there are new characters. The end of -the century, the sharp end of the century, is digging them up out of the -sands of life--as you might dig up clams with a pointed stick.” - -“That’s bathos!” laughed Crowdie. “The sands of life--and clams!” - -“I wish you’d stick to your daubs, Crowdie, and leave my English alone!” -said Griggs. “It sells just as well as your portraits. No--what I mean -is that just when fate is twisting the tail of the century--” - -“Really, my dear fellow--that’s a little too bad, you know! To compare -the century to a refractory cow!” - -“Crowdie,” said Griggs, gravely, “in a former state I was a wolf, and -you were a rabbit, and I gobbled you up. If you go on interrupting me, -I’ll do it again and destroy your Totem.” - -Katharine started suddenly and stared at Griggs. It seemed so strange -that he should have used the very words--wolf and rabbit--which had been -in her mind more than once during the morning. - -“What is it, Miss Lauderdale?” he asked, in some surprise. “You look -startled.” - -“Oh--nothing!” Katharine hastened to say. “I happened to have thought of -wolves and rabbits, and it seemed odd that you should mention them.” - -“Write to the Psychical Research people,” suggested Crowdie. “It’s a -distinct case of thought-transference.” - -“I daresay it is,” said Griggs, indifferently. “Everything is -transferable--why shouldn’t thoughts be?” - -“Everything?” repeated Crowdie. “Even the affections?” - -“Oh, yes--even the affections--but punched, like a railway ticket,” -answered Griggs, promptly. Everybody laughed a little, except Griggs -himself. - -“Of course the affections are transferable,” he continued, meditatively. -“The affections are the hat--the object is only the peg on which it’s -hung. One peg is almost as good as another--if it’s within reach; but -the best place for the hat is on the man’s own head. Nothing shields a -man like devoting all his affections to himself.” - -“That’s perfectly outrageous!” exclaimed Hester Crowdie. “You make one -think that you don’t believe in anything! Oh, it’s too bad--really it -is!” - -“I believe in ever so many things, my dear lady,” answered Griggs, -looking at her with a singularly gentle expression on his weather-beaten -face. “I believe in lots of good things--more than Crowdie does, as he -knows. I believe in roses, and green fields, and love, as much as you -do. Only--the things one believes in are not always good for one--it -depends--love’s path may lie among roses or among thorns; yet the path -always has two ends--the one end is life, if the love is true.” - -“And the other?” asked Katharine, meeting his far-away glance. - -“The other is death,” he answered, almost solemnly. - -A momentary silence followed the words. Even Crowdie made no remark, -while both Hester and Katharine watched the elder man’s face, as women -do when a man who has known the world well speaks seriously of love. - -“But then,” added Griggs himself, more lightly, and as though to destroy -the impression he had made, “most people never go to either end of the -path. They enter at one side, look up and down it, cross it, and go out -at the other. Something frightens them, or they don’t like the colour of -the roses, or they’re afraid of the thorns--in nine cases out of ten, -something drives them out of it.” - -“How can one be driven out of love?” asked Katharine, gravely. - -“I put the thing generally, and adorned it with nice similes and -things--and now you want me to explain all the details!” protested -Griggs, with a little rough laugh. “How can one be driven out of love? -In many ways, I fancy. By a real or imaginary fault of the other person -in the path, I suppose, as much as by anything. It won’t do to stand at -trifles when one loves. There’s a meaning in the words of the marriage -service--‘for better, for worse.’” - -“I know there is,” said Katharine, growing pale, and choking herself -with the words in the determination to be brave. - -“Of course there is. People don’t know much about one another when they -get married. At least, not as a rule. They’ve met on the stage like -actors in a play--and then, suddenly, they meet in private life, and are -quite different people. Very probably the woman is jealous and -extravagant, and has a temper, and has been playing the ingenuous young -girl’s parts on the stage. And the man, who has been doing the -self-sacrificing hero, who proposes to go without butter in order to -support his starving mother-in-law, turns out to be a gambler--or -drinks, or otherwise plays the fool. Of course that’s all very -distressing to the bride or the bridegroom, as the case may be. But it -can’t be helped. They’ve taken one another ‘for better, for worse,’ and -it’s turned out to be for worse. They can go to Sioux City and get a -divorce, but then that’s troublesome and scandalous, and one thing and -another. So they just put up with it. Besides, they may love each other -so much that the defects don’t drive them out of it. Then the bad one -drags down the good one--or, in rare cases, the good one raises the bad -one. Oh, yes--I’m not a cynic--that happens, too, from time to time.” - -Crowdie looked at his wife with his soft, languishing glance, and if -Katharine had been watching him, she might have seen on his red lips -the smile she especially detested. But she was looking down and pressing -her hands together under the table. Hester Crowdie’s eyes were fixed on -her face, for she was very pale and was evidently suffering. Griggs also -looked at her, and saw that something unusual was happening. - -“Mrs. Crowdie,” he said, vigorously changing the subject, as a man can -who has been leading the conversation, “if it isn’t a very rude -question, may I ask where you get the extraordinary ham you always have -whenever I lunch with you? I’ve been all over the world, and I’ve never -eaten anything like it. I’m not sure whether it’s the ham itself, or -some secret in the cooking.” - -Mrs. Crowdie glanced at Katharine’s face once more, and then looked at -him. Crowdie also turned towards him, and Katharine slowly unclasped her -hands beneath the table, as though the bitterness of death were passed. - -“Oh--the ham?” repeated Mrs. Crowdie. “They’re Yorkshire hams, aren’t -they, Walter? You always order them.” - -“No, my dear,” answered Crowdie. “They’re American. We’ve not had any -English ones for two or three years. Fletcher gets them. He’s a better -judge than the cook. Griggs is quite right--there’s a trick about -boiling them--something to do with changing the water a certain number -of times before you put in the wine. Are you going to set up -housekeeping, Griggs? I should think that oatmeal and water and dried -herrings would be your sort of fare, from what I remember.” - -“Something of that kind,” answered Griggs. “Anything’s good enough that -will support life.” - -The luncheon came to an end without any further incident, and the -conversation ran on in the very smallest of small talk. Then Griggs, who -was a very busy man, lighted a cigarette and took his departure. As he -shook hands with Katharine, and bowed in his rather foreign way, he -looked at her once more, as though she interested him very much. - -“I hope I shall see you again,” said Katharine, quietly. - -“I hope so, indeed,” answered Griggs. “You’re very kind to say so.” - -When he was gone the other three remained together in the little front -room, which has been so often mentioned. - -“Will you sit for me a little longer, Miss Lauderdale?” asked Crowdie. - -“Oh, don’t work any more just yet, Walter!” cried Hester, with sudden -anxiety. - -“Why? What’s the matter?” enquired Crowdie in some surprise. - -“You know what Mr. Griggs was just saying at luncheon. You work so -hard! You’ll overdo it some day. It’s perfectly true, you know. You -never give yourself any rest!” - -“Except during about one-half of the year, my dear, when you and I do -absolutely nothing together in the most beautiful places in the -world--in the most perfect climates, and without one solitary little -shadow of a care for anything on earth but our two selves.” - -“Yes--I know. But you work all the harder the rest of the time. Besides, -we haven’t been abroad this year, and you say we can’t get away for at -least two months. Do give yourself time to breathe--just after luncheon, -too. I’m sure it’s not good for him, is it Katharine?” she asked, -appealing to her friend. - -“Of course not!” answered Katharine. “And besides, I must run home. My -dear, just fancy! I forgot to ask you to send word to say that I wasn’t -coming, and they won’t know where I am. But we lunch later than you -do--if I go directly, I shall find them still at table.” - -“Nonsense!” exclaimed Hester. “You don’t want to go really? Do you? You -know, I could send word still--it wouldn’t be too late.” She glanced at -her husband, who shook his head, and smiled--he was standing behind -Katharine. “Well--if you must, then,” continued Hester, “I won’t keep -you. But come back soon. It seems to me that I never see you now--and I -have lots of things to tell you.” - -Katharine shook hands with Crowdie, whose soft, white fingers felt cold -in hers. Hester went out with her into the entry, and helped her to put -on her thick coat. - -“Take courage, dear!” said Mrs. Crowdie in a low voice, as she kissed -her. “It will come right in the end.” - -Katharine looked fixedly at her for a few seconds, buttoning her coat. - -“It’s not courage that I need,” she said slowly, at last. “I think I -have enough--good-bye--Hester, darling--good-bye!” - -She put her arms round her friend and kissed her three times, and then -turned quickly and let herself out, leaving Hester standing in the -entry, wondering at the solemn way in which she had taken leave of her. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -Katharine’s mood had changed very much since she had entered the -Crowdies’ house. She had felt then a certain sense of strength which had -been familiar to her all her life, but which had never before seemed so -real and serviceable. She had been sure that she could defy the -world--in that black frock she wore--and that her face would be of -marble and her heart of steel under all imaginable circumstances. She -had carried her head high and had walked with a firm tread. She had felt -that if she met John Ralston she could tell him what she thought of him, -and hurt him, so that in his suffering, at least, he should repent of -what he had done. - -It was different now. She did not attempt to find reasons for the -difference, and they would have been hard to discover. But she knew that -she had been exposed to a sort of test of her strength, and had broken -down, and that Hester Crowdie had seen her defeat. Possibly it was the -knowledge that Hester had seen and understood which was the most -immediately painful circumstance at the present moment; but it was not -the most important one, for she was really quite as brave as she had -believed herself, and what suffered most in her was not her vanity. - -The conversation at table had somehow brought the whole truth more -clearly before her, as the developer brings out the picture on a -photographer’s plate. The facts were fixed now, and she could not hide -them nor turn from them at will. - -Whether she were mistaken or not, the position was bad enough. As she -saw it, it was intolerable. By her own act, by the exercise of her own -will, and by nothing else, she had been secretly married to John -Ralston. She had counted with certainty upon old Robert Lauderdale to -provide her husband with some occupation immediately, feeling sure that -within a few days she should be able to acknowledge the marriage and -assume her position before the world as a married woman. But Robert -Lauderdale had demonstrated to her that this was impossible under the -conditions she required, namely, that John should support himself. He -had indeed offered to make her independent, but that solution of the -difficulty was not acceptable. To obtain what she and Ralston had both -desired, it was necessary, and she admitted the fact, that John should -work regularly in some office for a certain time. Robert Lauderdale -himself could not take an idle man from a fashionable club and suddenly -turn him into a partner in a house of business or a firm of lawyers, if -the idle man himself refused to accept money in any shape. Even if he -had accepted it, such a proceeding would have been criticised and -laughed at as a piece of plutocratic juggling. It would have made John -contemptible. Therefore it was impossible that John and Katharine should -have a house of their own and appear as a married couple for some time, -for at least a year, and probably for a longer period. Under such -circumstances to declare the marriage would have been to make themselves -the laughing-stock of society, so long as John continued to live under -his mother’s roof, and Katharine with her father. The secret marriage -would have to be kept a secret, except, perhaps, from the more discreet -members of the family. Alexander Lauderdale would have to be told, and -life would not be very pleasant for Katharine until she could leave the -paternal dwelling. She knew that, but she would have been able to bear -it, to look upon the next year or two as years of betrothal, and to give -her whole heart and soul to help John in his work. It was the worst -contingency which she had foreseen when she had persuaded him to take -the step with her, and she had certainly not expected that it could -arise; but since it had arisen, she was ready to meet it. There was -nothing within the limits of reason which she would not have done for -John, and she had driven those limits as far from ordinary common sense -as was possible, to rashness, even to the verge of things desperate in -their folly. - -She knew that. But she had counted on John Ralston with that singularly -whole-hearted faith which characterizes very refined women. Many years -ago, when analytical fiction was in its infancy, Charles de Bernard made -the very wise and true observation that no women abandon themselves more -completely in thought and deed to the men they love, or make such real -slaves of themselves, as those whom he calls ‘great ladies,’--that is, -as we should say, women of the highest refinement, the most unassailable -social position, and the most rigid traditions. The remark is a very -profound one. The explanation of the fact is very simple. Women who have -grown up in surroundings wherein the letter of honour is rigidly -observed, and in which the spirit of virtue prevails for honour’s sake, -readily believe that the men they love are as honourable as they seem, -and more virtuous in all ways than sinful man is likely to be. The man -whom such a woman loves with all her heart, before she has met truth -face to face, cannot possibly be as worthy as she imagines that he is; -and if he be an honest man, he must be aware of the fact, and must -constantly suffer by the ever present knowledge that he is casting a -shadow greater than himself, so to say--and to push the simile further, -it is true that in attempting to overtake that shadow of himself, he -often deliberately walks away from the light which makes him cast it. - -John Ralston could never, under any circumstances, have done all that -Katharine had expected of him, although she had professed to expect so -little. Woman fills the hours of her lover’s absence with scenes from -her own sweet dreamland. In nine cases out of ten, when she has the -chance of comparing what she has learned with what she has imagined, she -has a moment of sickening disappointment. Later in life there is an -adjustment, and at forty years of age she merely warns her daughter -vaguely that she must not believe too much in men. That is the usual -sequence of events. - -But Katharine’s case just now was very much worse than the common. It is -not necessary to recapitulate the evidence against John’s soberness on -that memorable Thursday. It might have ruined the reputation of a Father -of the Church. Up to one o’clock on the following day no one but Mrs. -Ralston and Doctor Routh were aware that there was anything whatsoever -to be said on the other side of the question. So far as Katharine or any -one else could fairly judge, John had been through one of the most -outrageous and complete sprees of which New York society had heard for -a long time. A certain number of people knew that he had practically -fought Hamilton Bright in the hall of his club, and had undoubtedly -tripped him up and thrown him. Katharine, naturally enough, supposed -that every one knew it, and in spite of Bright’s reassuring words on the -previous night, she fully expected that John would have to withdraw from -the club in question. Even she, girl as she was, knew that this was a -sort of public disgrace. - -There was no other word for it. The man she loved, and to whom she had -been secretly married, had publicly disgraced himself on the very day of -the marriage, had been tipsy in the club, had been seen drunk in the -streets, had been in a light with a professional boxer, and had been -incapable of getting home alone--much more of going to meet his wife at -the Assembly ball. - -If he had done such things on their wedding day, what might he not do -hereafter? The question was a natural one. Katharine had bound herself -to a hopeless drunkard. She had heard of such cases, unfortunately, -though they have become rare enough in society, and she knew what it all -meant. There would be years of a wretched existence, of a perfectly -hopeless attempt to cure him. She had heard her father tell such -stories, for Alexander Junior was not a peaceable abstainer like Griggs -and Crowdie. He was not an abstainer at all--he was a man of ferocious -moderation. She remembered painful details about the drunkard’s -children. Then there was a story of a blow--and then a separation--a -wife who, for her child’s sake, would not go to another State and be -divorced--and the going back to the father’s house to live, while the -husband sank from bad to worse, and his acquaintances avoided him in the -street, till he had been seen hanging about low liquor saloons and -telling drunken loafers the story of his married life--speaking to them -of the pure and suffering woman who was still his lawful wife--and -laughing about it. Alexander had told it all, as a wholesome lesson to -his household, which, by the way, consisted of his aged father, his -wife, and his two daughters, none of whom, one might have thought, could -ever stand in need of such lessons. Charlotte had laughed then, and -Katharine had been disgusted. Mrs. Lauderdale’s perfectly classical face -had expressed nothing, for she had been thinking of something else, and -the old philanthropist had made some remarks about the close connection -between intemperance and idiocy. But the so-called lesson was telling -heavily against John Ralston now, two or three years after it had been -delivered. - -It was clear to Katharine that her life was ruined before it had begun. -In those first hours after the shock it did not occur to her that she -could ever forgive John. She was therefore doubly sure that the ruin he -had wrought was irretrievable. She could not naturally think now of the -possibility of ever acknowledging her marriage. To proclaim it meant to -attempt just such a life as she had heard her father describe. -Unfortunately, too, in that very case, she knew the people, and knew -that Alexander Junior, who never exaggerated anything but the terrors of -the life to come, had kept within the truth rather than gone beyond it. - -She did not even tell herself that matters would have been still worse -if she had been made publicly John Ralston’s wife on the previous day. -At that moment she did not seek to make things look more bearable, if -they might. She had faced the situation and it was terrible--it -justified anything she might choose to do. If she chose to do something -desperate to free herself, she wished to be fully justified, and that -desired justification would be weakened by anything which should make -her position seem more easy to bear. - -Indeed, she could hardly have been blamed, whatever she had done. She -was bound without being united, married and yet not married, but -necessarily shut off from all future thought of marriage, so long as -John Ralston lived. - -She had assumed duties, too, which she was far from wishing to avoid. In -her girlish view, the difference between the married and the single -state lay mainly in the loss of the individual liberty which seemed to -belong to the latter. She had been brought up, as most American girls -are, in old-fashioned ideas on the subject, which are good,--much better -than European ideas,--though in extended practice they occasionally lead -to some odd results, and are not always carried out in after life. In -two words, our American idea is that, on being married, woman assumes -certain responsibilities, and ceases, so to say, to be a free dancer in -a ball-room. The general idea in Europe is that, at marriage, a woman -gets rid of as many responsibilities as she can, and acquires the -liberty to do as she pleases, which has been withheld from her before. - -Katharine felt, therefore, even at that crisis, that she had forfeited -her freedom, and, amidst all she felt, there was room for that bitter -regret. A French girl could hardly understand her point of view; a -certain number of English girls might appreciate it, and some might -possibly feel as she did; to an American girl it will seem natural -enough. It was not merely out of a feeling of self-respect that she -looked upon a change as necessary, nor out of a blind reverence for the -religious ceremony which had taken place. Every inborn and cultivated -instinct and tradition told her that as a married woman, though the -whole world should believe her to be a young girl, she could not behave -as she had behaved formerly; that a certain form of perfectly innocent -amusement would no longer be at all innocent now; that she had forfeited -the right to look upon every man she met as a possible admirer--she went -no further than that in her idea of flirtation--and finally that, -somehow, she should feel out of place in the parties of very young -people to which she was naturally invited. - -She was a married woman, and she must behave as one, for the rest of her -natural life, though no one was ever to know that she was married. It -was a very general idea, with her, but it was a very strong one, and -none the less so for its ingenuous simplicity. - -But the fact that she regretted her liberty did not even distantly -suggest that she might ever fall in love with any one but John Ralston. -Her only wish was to make him feel bitterly what he had done, that he -might regret it as long as he lived, just as she must regret her -liberty. The offence was so monstrous that the possibility of forgiving -it did not cross her mind. She did not, however, ask herself whether the -love that still remained was making the injury he had done it seem yet -more atrocious. Love was still in a state of suspended animation--there -was no telling what he might do when he came to life again. For the time -being he was not to be taken into consideration at all. If she were to -love him during the coming years, that would only make matters much -worse. - -There is not, perhaps, in the yet comparatively passionless nature of -most young girls so great a capacity for real suffering as there is in -older women. But there is something else instead. There is a -sensitiveness which most women lose by degrees to a certain point, -though never altogether, the sensitiveness of the very young animal when -it is roughly exposed to the first storm of its first winter, if it has -been born under the spring breezes and reared amongst the flowers of -summer. - -It will suffer much more acutely later,--lash and spur, or shears and -knife, sharper than wind and snow,--but it will never be so sensitive -again. It will never forget how the cruel cold bit its young skin, and -got into its delicate throat, and made its slender limbs tremble like -the tendrils of a creeper. - -It was snowing again, but Katharine walked slowly, and went out of her -way in her unformulated wish to lose time, and to put off the moment at -which she must meet the familiar faces and hear the well-known voices at -home. Until Griggs had broached the fatal subject at table, she had been -taken out of herself at the Crowdies’. She must go back to herself now, -and she hated the thought as she hated all her own existence. But the -regions between Clinton Place and Fourth Avenue are not the part of New -York in which it is best for a young girl to walk about alone. She did -not like to be stared at by the loafers at the corners, nor to be -treated with too much familiarity by the patronizing policeman who saw -her over the Broadway crossing. Then, too, she remembered that she had -given no notice of her absence from luncheon, and that her mother might -perhaps be anxious about her. There was nothing for it but to take -courage and go home. She only hoped that Charlotte might not be there. - -But Charlotte had come, in the hope of enjoying herself as she had done -on the previous day. Katharine ascertained the fact from the girl who -let her in, and went straight to her room, sending word to her mother -that she had lunched with the Crowdies and would come down presently. -Even as she went up the stairs she felt a sharp pain at the thought that -her mother and sister were probably at that very moment discussing -John’s mishaps, and comparing notes about the stories they had -heard--and perhaps reading more paragraphs from the papers. The shame of -the horrible publicity of it all overcame her, and she locked her door, -and tried the handle to be sure that it was fast--with a woman’s -distrust of all mechanical contrivances when she wishes to be quite sure -of a situation. It was instinctive, and she had no second thought which -she tried to hide from herself. - -As she took off her hat and coat she grew very pale, and the deep -shadows came under her eyes--so dark that she wondered at them vaguely -as she glanced at herself in the mirror. She felt faint and sick. She -drank a little water, and then, with a sudden impulse, threw herself -upon her bed, and lay staring at the ceiling, as she had lain at dawn. -The same glare still came in from the street and penetrated every -corner, but not so vividly as before, for the snow was falling fast, and -the mist of the whirling flakes softened the light. - -It was a forlorn little room. Robert the Rich would have been very much -surprised if he could have seen it. He was a generous man, and was very -fond of his grand-niece, and if he had known exactly how she lived under -her father’s roof it would have been like him to have interfered. All -that he ever saw of the house was very different. There was great -simplicity downstairs, and his practised eye detected the signs of a -rigid economy--far too rigid, he thought, when he calculated what -Alexander Junior must be worth; a ridiculously exaggerated economy, he -considered, when he thought of his own wealth, and that his only -surviving brother lived in the house in Clinton Place. But there was -nothing squalid or mean about it all. The meanness was relative. It was -like an aspersion upon the solidity of Robert’s fortune, and upon his -intention of providing suitably for all his relations. - -Upstairs, however, and notably in Katharine’s room, things had a -different aspect. Nothing had been done there since long before -Charlotte had been married. The wall-paper was old-fashioned, faded, and -badly damaged by generations of tacks and pins. The carpet was -threadbare and patched, and there were holes where even a patch had not -been attempted. The furniture was in the style of fifty years ago or -more, veneered with dark mahogany, but the veneering was coming off in -places, leaving bare little surfaces of dusty pine wood smeared with -yellowish, hardened glue. Few objects can look more desperately shabby -than veneered furniture which is coming to pieces. There was nothing in -the room which Katharine could distinctly remember to have seen in good -condition, except the old carpet, which had been put down when she and -Charlotte had been little girls. To Charlotte herself, when she had come -in on Wednesday afternoon, there had been something delightful in the -renewal of acquaintance with all her old dinginess of intimate -surroundings. Charlotte’s own life was almost oppressed with luxury, so -that it destroyed her independence. But to Katharine, worn out and -heartsore with the troubles of her darkening life, it was all -inexpressibly depressing. She stared at the ceiling as she lay there, in -order not to look at the room itself. She was very tired, too, and she -would have given anything to go to sleep. - -It was not merely sleep for which she longed. It was a going out. Again -the thought crossed her mind, as it had that morning, that if the whole -world were a single taper, she would extinguish the flame with one short -breath, and everything would be over. And now, too, in her exhaustion, -came the idea that something less complete, but quite as effectual, was -in her power. It had passed through her brain half an hour previously, -when she had bidden Hester Crowdie good-bye--with a sort of intuitive -certainty that she was never to see her friend again. She had left -Hester with a vague and sudden presentiment of darkness. She had -assuredly not any intention of seeking death in any definite form, but -it had seemed to be close to her as she had said those few words of -farewell. It came nearer still as she lay alone in her own room. It came -nearer, and hovered over her, and spoke to her. - -It would be the instant solution of all difficulties, the end of all -troubles. The deep calm against which no storm would have power any -more. On the one hand, there was life in two aspects. Either to live an -existence of misery and daily torture with the victim of a most -degrading vice, a man openly disgraced, and at whom every one she -respected would forever look askance. Or else to live out that other -life of secret bondage, neither girl nor wife, so long as John Ralston -was alive, suffering each time he was dragged lower, as she was -suffering to-day, bound, tied in every way, beyond possibility of -escaping. Why should she suffer less to-morrow than now? It would be the -same, since all the conditions must remain unchanged. It would be the -same always. Those were the two aspects of living on in the future which -presented themselves. The torn carpet and the broken veneering of the -furniture made them seem even more terrible. There may be a point at -which the trivial has the power to push the tragic to the last -extremity. - -And on the other side stood death, the liberator, with his white smile -and far-away eyes. The snow-glare was in his face, and he did not seem -to feel it, but looked quietly into it, as though he saw something very -peaceful beyond. It was a mere passing fancy that evoked the picture in -the weary, restless mind, but it was pleasant to gaze at it, so long as -it lasted. It was gone in a moment again, leaving, however, a new -impression--that of light, rather than of darkness. She wished it would -come back. - -Possibly she had been almost or quite dozing, seeing that she was so -much exhausted. But she was wide awake again now. She turned upon her -side with a long-drawn sigh, and stared at the hideous furniture, the -ragged carpet, and the dilapidated wall-paper. It was not that they -meant anything of themselves--certainly not poverty, as they might have -seemed to mean to any one else. They were the result of a curious -combination of contradictory characters in one family, which ultimately -produced stranger results than Katharine Lauderdale’s secret marriage, -some of which shall be chronicled hereafter. The idea of poverty was not -associated with the absence of money in Katharine’s mind. She might be -in need of a pair of new gloves, and she and her mother might go to the -opera upstairs, because the stalls were too dear. But poverty! How could -it enter under the roof of any who bore the name of Lauderdale? If, -yesterday, she had begged uncle Robert to give her half a million, -instead of refusing a hundred thousand, it was quite within the bounds -of possibility that he might have written the cheque there and then. No. -The shabby furniture in Katharine’s room had nothing to do with poverty, -nor with the absence of money, either. It was the fatal result of -certain family peculiarities concerning which the public knew nothing, -and it was there, and at that moment it had a strong effect upon -Katharine’s mind. It represented the dilapidation of her life, the -literal dilapidation, the tearing down of one stone after another from -the crowning point she had reached yesterday to the deep foundation -which was laid bare as an open tomb to-day. She dwelt on the idea now, -and she stared at the forlorn objects, as she had at first avoided both. - -Death has a strange fascination, sometimes, both for young and old -people. Men and women in the prime and strength of life rarely fall -under its influence. It is the refuge of those who, having seen little, -believe that there is little to see, and of the others who, having seen -all, have died of the sight, inwardly, and desire bodily death as the -completion of experience. Let one, or both, be wrong or right; it -matters little, since the facts are there. But the fascination aforesaid -is stronger upon the young than upon the old. They have fewer ties, and -less to keep them with the living. For the ascendant bond is weaker than -the descendant in humanity, and the love of the child for its mother is -not as her love for the child. It is right that it should be so. In -spite of many proverbs, we know that what the child owes the parent is -as nothing compared with the parent’s debt to it. Have we all found it -so easy to live that we should cast stones upon heart-broken youths and -maidens who would fain give back the life thrust upon them without their -consent? - -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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -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!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -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!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - - -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. - -“I’m glad to see that you look at the matter in its true light,” said -her father, as she stood up again. - -“How should I look at it?” asked Katharine, coldly. “Good night, -mother--good night,” she repeated, nodding to her father. - -She turned and left the room. A moment later she was on her way to the -Van De Waters’ house, leaning back in the dark, comfortable brougham, -her feet toasting on the foot-warmer, and the furs drawn up closely -round her. It was a bitterly cold night, for a sharp frost had succeeded -the snow-storm after sunset. Even inside the carriage Katharine could -feel that there was something hard and ringing in the quality of the air -which was in harmony with her own temper. She had plenty of time to go -over the scene which had taken place in her mother’s room, but she felt -no inclination to analyze her feelings. She only knew that this letter -of John’s, written when he was still half senseless with drink, was -another insult, and one deeper than any she had felt before. It was a -direct insult--a sin of commission, and not merely of omission, like his -absence from the ball on the previous night. - -She supposed, naturally enough, that he would not appear at the -dinner-party, but at that moment she was almost indifferent as to -whether he should come or not. She was certainly not afraid to meet him. -It would be far more probable, she thought, that he should be afraid to -meet her. - -It was a quarter past eight when she reached the Van De Waters’, and she -was the last to arrive. It was a party of sixteen, almost all very -young, and most of them unmarried--a party very carefully selected with -a view to enjoyment--an intimate party, because many out of the number -were more or less closely connected and related, and it was indicative -of the popularity of the Lauderdales, that amongst sixteen young persons -there should be four who belonged more or less to the Lauderdale tribe. -There was Katharine, there was Hamilton Bright,--the Crowdies had been -omitted because so many disliked Crowdie himself,--there was little -Frank Miner, who was a near relation of the Van De Waters, and there -stood John Ralston, talking to Ruth Van De Water, before Crowdie’s new -portrait of her, as though nothing had happened. - -Katharine saw him the moment she entered the room, and he knew, as he -heard the door opened, that she must be the last comer, since every one -else had arrived. Without interrupting his conversation with Miss Van De -Water, he turned his head a little and met Katharine’s eyes. He bowed -just perceptibly, but she gave him no sign of recognition, which was -pardonable, however, as he knew, since there were people between them, -and she had not yet spoken to Ruth herself, who, with her brother, had -invited the party. The elder Van De Waters had left the house to the -young people, and had betaken themselves elsewhere for the evening. - -John continued to talk quietly, as Katharine came forward. As he had -expected, he had found her name on the card in the little envelope which -had been handed to him when he arrived, and he was to take her in to -dinner. Until late in the afternoon the brother and sister had hoped -that John would not come, and had already decided to ask in his place -that excellent man, Mr. Brown, who was always so kind about coming when -asked at the last minute. Then Frank Miner had appeared, with an evening -paper containing Doctor Routh’s letter, and had explained the whole -matter, so that they felt sympathy for John rather than otherwise, -though no one had as yet broached to him the subject of his adventures. -Naturally enough, the Van De Waters both supposed that Katharine should -have been among the first to hear the true version of the story, and -they would not disarrange their table in order to separate two young -people who were generally thought to be engaged to be married. There -were, of course, a few present who had not heard of Doctor Routh’s -justification of John. - -Katharine came across directly, towards Ruth Van De Water, and greeted -her affectionately. John came forward a little, waiting to be noticed -and to shake hands in his turn. Katharine prolonged the first exchange -of words with her young hostess rather unnecessarily, and then, since -she could not avoid the meeting, held out her hand to John, looking -straight and coldly into his eyes. - -“You’re to take Miss Lauderdale in, you know, Mr. Ralston,” said Miss -Van De Water, who knew that dinner would be announced almost -immediately, and that Katharine would wish to speak to the other guests -before sitting down. - -“Yes--I found my card,” answered John, as Katharine withdrew her hand -without having given his the slightest pressure. - -It was a strange meeting, considering that they had been man and wife -since the previous morning, and could hardly be said to have met since -they had parted after the wedding. Katharine, who was cold and angry, -wondered what all those young people would say if she suddenly announced -to them, at table, that John Ralston was her husband. But just then she -had no definite intention of ever announcing the fact at all. - -John only partly understood, for he was sure that she must have received -his letter. But what he saw was enough to convince him that she had not -in the least believed what he had written, and had not meant to answer -him. He was pale and haggard already, but during the few minutes that -followed, while Katharine moved about the room, greeting her friends, -the strong lines deepened about his mouth and the shadows under his eyes -grew perceptibly darker. - -A few minutes later the wide doors were thrown back and dinner was -announced. Without hesitation he went to Katharine’s side, and waited -while she finished speaking with young Mrs. Vanbrugh, his right arm -slightly raised as he silently offered it. - -Katharine deliberately finished her sentence, nodded and smiled to Dolly -Vanbrugh, who was a friend of hers, and had been in some way concerned -in the famous Darche affair three or four years ago, as Mrs. Darche’s -intimate and confidante. Then she allowed her expression to harden -again, and she laid her hand on John’s arm and they all moved in to -dinner. - -“I’m sorry,” said John, in a low, cold voice. “I suppose they couldn’t -upset their table.” - -Katharine said nothing, but looked straight before her as they traversed -one beautiful room after another, going through the great house to the -dining-room at the back. - -“You got my letter, I suppose,” said John, speaking again as they -crossed the threshold of the last door but one, and came in sight of the -table, gleaming in the distance under soft lights. - -Katharine made a slight inclination of the head by way of answer, but -still said nothing. John thought that she moved her hand, as though she -would have liked to withdraw it from his arm, and he, for his part, -would gladly have let it go at that moment. - -It was a very brilliant party, of the sort which could hardly be -gathered anywhere except in America, where young people are not -unfrequently allowed to amuse themselves together in their own way -without the interference or even the presence of elders--young people -born to the possession, in abundance, of most things which the world -thinks good, and as often as anywhere, too, to the inheritance of things -good in themselves, besides great wealth--such as beauty, health, a fair -share of wit, and the cheerful heart, without which all else is as -ashes. - -Near one end of the table sat Frank Miner, who had taken in Mrs. -Vanbrugh, and who was amusing every one with absurd stories and -jokes--the small change of wit, but small change that was bright and -new, ringing from his busy little mint. - -At the other end sat Teddy Van De Water, a good fellow at heart in spite -of his eyeglass and his affectations, discussing yachts and centreboards -and fin-keels with Fanny Trehearne, a girl who sailed her own boats at -Newport and Bar Harbor, and who cared for little else except music, -strange to say. Nearly opposite to Katharine and John was Hamilton -Bright, between two young girls, talking steadily and quietly about -society, but evidently much preoccupied, and far more inclined to look -at Katharine than at his pretty neighbours. He had seen Routh’s letter, -and had, moreover, exchanged a few words with Ralston in the hall, -having arrived almost at the same instant, and he saw that Katharine did -not understand the truth. Ralston had begun by apologizing to his friend -for what had happened at the club, but Bright, who bore no malice, had -stopped him with a hearty shake of the hand, and a challenge to wrestle -with him any day, for the honour of the thing, in the hall of the club -or anywhere else. - -Frank Miner, too, from a distance, watched John and Katharine, and saw -that the trouble was great, though he laughed and chatted and told -stories, as though he were thoroughly enjoying himself. In reality he -was debating whether he should not bring up the subject which must be -near to every one’s thoughts, and give John a chance of telling his own -story. Seeing how the rest of the people were taking the affair, he -would not have done so, since all was pleasant and easy, but he saw also -that John could not possibly have an explanation with Katharine at -table, and that both were suffering. His kindly heart decided the -question. It would be a very easy matter to accomplish, and he waited -for a convenient opportunity of attracting attention to himself, so as -to obtain the ear of the whole large table, before he began. He was -perfectly conscious of his own extreme popularity, and knew that, for -once, he could presume upon it, though he was quite unspoiled by a long -career of little social successes. - -John and Katharine exchanged a few words from time to time, for the sake -of appearances, in a coldly civil tone, and without the slightest -expression of interest in one another. John spoke of the weather, and -Katharine admitted that it had been very bad of late. She observed that -Miss Van De Water was looking very well, and that a greenish blue was -becoming to fair people. John answered that he had expected to hear of -Miss Van De Water’s engagement to that foreigner whose name he had -forgotten, and Katharine replied that he was not a foreigner but an -Englishman, and that his name was Northallerton, or something like that. -John said he had heard that they had first met in Paris, and Katharine -took some salt upon her plate and admitted that it was quite possible. -She grew more coldly wrathful with every minute, and the iron entered -into John’s soul, and he gave up trying to talk to her--of which she was -very glad. - -It was some time before the occasion which Miner sought presented -itself, and the dinner proceeded brilliantly enough amid the laughter of -young voices and the gladness of young eyes. For young eyes see flowers -where old ones see but botany, so to speak. - -Katharine had not believed that it would hurt her as it did, nor Ralston -that love could seem so far away. They turned from each other and talked -with their neighbours. John almost thought that Katharine once or twice -gathered her black skirts nearer to her, as though to keep them from a -sort of contamination. He was on her left, and he was conscious that in -pretending to eat he used his right arm very cautiously because he did -not wish even to run the risk of touching hers by accident. - -Now, in the course of events, it happened that the subject of yachts -travelled from neighbour to neighbour, as subjects sometimes do at big -dinners, until, having been started by Teddy Van De Water and Fanny -Trehearne, it came up the table to Frank Miner. He immediately saw his -chance, and plunged into his subject. - -“Oh, I don’t take any interest in yacht races, compared with prize -fights, since Jack Ralston has gone into the ring!” he said, and his -high, clear voice made the words ring down the table with the cheery, -laughing cadence after them. - -“What’s that about me, Frank?” asked John, speaking over Katharine’s -head as she bent away from him towards Russell Vanbrugh, who was next to -her on the other side. - -“Oh, nothing--talking about your round with Tom Shelton. Tell us all -about it, Jack. Don’t be modest. You’re the only man here who’s ever -stood up to a champion prize-fighter without the gloves on, and it seems -you hit him, too. You needn’t be ashamed of it.” - -“I’m not in the least ashamed of it,” answered Ralston, unbending a -little. - -He spoke in a dead silence, and all eyes were turned upon him. But he -said nothing more. Even the butler and the footmen, every one of whom -had read both the morning and the evening papers, paused and held their -breath, and looked at John with admiration. - -“Go ahead, Ralston!” cried Teddy Van De Water, from his end. “Some of us -haven’t heard the story, though everybody saw those horrid things in the -papers this morning. It was too bad!” - -Katharine had attempted to continue her conversation with Russell -Vanbrugh, but it had proved impossible. Moreover, she was herself -almost breathless with surprise at the sudden appeal to Ralston himself, -when she had been taking it for granted that every one present, -including his hosts, despised him, and secretly wished that he had not -come. - -Van De Water had spoken from the end of the table. Frank Miner responded -again from the other, looking hard at Katharine’s blank face, as he -addressed John. - -“Tell it, Jack!” he cried. “Don’t be foolish. Everybody wants to know -how it happened.” - -Ralston looked round the table once more, and saw that every one was -expecting him to speak, all with curiosity, and some of the men with -admiration. His eyes rested on Katharine for a moment, but she turned -from him instantly--not coldly, as before, but as though she did not -wish to meet his glance. - -“I can’t tell a story by halves,” said he. “If you really want to have -it, you must hear it from the beginning. But I told Frank Miner this -morning--he can tell it better than I.” - -“Go on, Jack--you’re only keeping everybody waiting!” said Hamilton -Bright, from across the table. “Tell it all--about me, too--it will make -them laugh.” - -John saw the honest friendship in the strong Saxon face, and knew that -to tell the whole story was his best plan. - -“All right,” he said. “I’ll do my best. It won’t take long. In the first -place--you won’t mind my going into details, Miss Van De Water?” - -“Oh, no--we should rather prefer it,” laughed the young girl, from her -distant place. - -“Then I’ll go on. I’ve been going in for reform lately--I began last -Monday morning. Yes--of course you all laugh, because I’ve not much of a -reputation for reform, or anything else. But the statement is necessary -because it’s true, and bears on the subject. Reform means claret and -soda, and very little of that. It had rather affected my temper, as I -wasn’t used to it, and I was sitting in the club yesterday afternoon, -trying to read a paper and worrying about things generally, when Frank, -there, wanted me to drink with him, and I wouldn’t, and I didn’t choose -to tell him I was trying to be good, because I wasn’t sure that I was -going to be. Anyhow, he wouldn’t take ‘no,’ and I wouldn’t say -‘yes’--and so I suppose I behaved rather rudely to him.” - -“Like a fiend!” observed Miner, from a distance. - -“Exactly. Then I was called to the telephone, and found that my uncle -Robert wanted me at once, that very moment, and wouldn’t say why. So I -came back in a hurry, and as I was coming out of the cloak-room with my -hat and coat on I ran into Bright, who generally saves my life when the -thing is to be done promptly. I suppose I looked rather wild, didn’t I, -Ham?” - -“Rather. You were white--and queer altogether. I thought you ‘had it -bad.’” - -There was a titter and a laugh, as the two men looked at one another and -smiled. - -“Well, you’ve not often been wrong, Ham,” said Ralston, laughing too. “I -don’t propose to let my guardian angel lead a life of happy idleness--” - -“Keep an angel, and save yourself,” suggested Miner. - -“Don’t make them laugh till I’ve finished,” said Ralston, “or they won’t -understand. Well--Ham tried to hold me, and I wouldn’t be held. He’s -about twenty times stronger than I am, anyhow, and he’d got hold of my -arm--wanted to calm me before I went out, as he thought. I lost my -temper--” - -“Your family’s been advertising a reward if it’s found, ever since you -were born,” observed Miner. - -“Suppress that man, can’t you--somebody?” cried Ralston, good-naturedly. -“So I tripped Bright up under Miner’s nose--and there was Crowdie there, -and a couple of servants, so it was rather a public affair. I got out of -the door, and made for the park--uncle Robert’s, you know. Being in a -rage, I walked, and passing the Murray Hill Hotel, I went in, from sheer -force of habit, and ordered a cocktail. I hadn’t more than tasted it -when I remembered what I was about, and promptly did the Spartan -dodge--to the surprise of the bar-tender--and put it down and went out. -Then uncle Robert and I had rather a warm discussion. Unfortunately, -too, just that drop of whiskey--forgive the details, Miss Van De -Water--you know I warned you--just that drop of whiskey I had touched -was distinctly perceptible to the old gentleman’s nostrils, and he began -to call me names, and I got angry, and being excited already, I daresay -he really thought I wasn’t sober. Anyhow, he managed to knock my hat out -of my hand and smash it--ask him the first time you see him, if any of -you doubt it.” - -“Oh, nobody doubts you, Jack,” said Teddy Van De Water, vehemently. -“Don’t be an idiot!” - -“Thank you, Teddy,” laughed Ralston. “Well, the next thing was that I -bolted out of the house with a smashed hat, and forgot my overcoat in my -rage. It’s there still, hanging in uncle Robert’s hall. And, of course, -being so angry, I never thought of my hat. It must have looked oddly -enough. I went down Fifth Avenue, past the reservoir--nearly a mile in -that state.” - -“I met you,” observed Russell Vanbrugh. “I was just coming home--been -late down town. I thought you looked rather seedy, but you walked -straight enough.” - -“Of course I did--being perfectly sober, and only angry. I must have -turned into East Fortieth or Thirty-ninth, when I stopped to light a -cigar. The waxlight dazzled me, I suppose, for when I went on I fell -over something--that street is awfully dark after the avenue--and I hurt -my head and my hand. This finger--” - -He held up his right hand of which one finger was encased in black silk. -Katharine remembered the spot of blood on the letter. - -“Then I don’t know what happened to me. Doctor Routh said I had a -concussion of the brain and lost the sense of direction, but I lost my -senses, anyhow. Have any of you fellows ever had that happen to you? -It’s awfully queer?” - -“I have,” said Bright. “I know--you’re all right, but you can’t tell -where you’re going.” - -“Exactly--you can’t tell which is right and which is left. You recognize -houses, but don’t know which way to turn to get to your own. I lost -myself in New York. I’m glad I’ve had the experience, but I don’t want -it again. Do you know where I found myself and got my direction again? -Away down in Tompkins Square. It was ten o’clock, and I’d missed a -dinner-party, and thought I should just have time to get home and dress, -and go to the Assembly. But I wasn’t meant to. I was dazed and queer -still, and it had been snowing for hours and I had no overcoat. I found -a horse-car going up town and got on. There was nobody else on it but -that prize-fighter chap, who turns out to have been Tom Shelton. It was -nice and warm in the car, and I must have been pretty well fagged out, -for I sat down at the upper end and dropped asleep without telling the -conductor to wake me at my street. I never fell asleep in a horse-car -before in my life, and didn’t expect to then. I don’t know what happened -after that--at least not distinctly. They must have tried to wake me -with kicks and screams, or something, for I remember hitting out, and -then a struggle, and I was pitched out into the snow by the conductor -and the prize-fighter. Of course I jumped up and made for the fighting -man, and I remember hearing something about a fair fight, and then a lot -of men came running up with lanterns, and I was squaring up to Tom -Shelton. I caught him one on the mouth, and I suppose that roused him. I -can see that right-hand counter of his coming at me now, but I couldn’t -stop it for the life of me--and that was the last I saw, until I opened -my eyes in my own room and saw my mother looking at me. She sent for -Doctor Routh, and he saw that I wasn’t going to die and went home, -leaving everybody considerably relieved. But he wasn’t at all sure that -I hadn’t been larking, when he first came, so he took the trouble to -make a thorough examination. I wasn’t really hurt much, and though I’d -had such a crack from Shelton, and the other one when I tumbled in the -dark, I had pretty nearly an hour’s sleep in the horse-car as a -set-off. Then my mother brought me things to eat--of course all the -servants were in bed, and she’d rung for a messenger in order to send -for Routh. And I sat up and wrote a long letter before I went to bed, -though it wasn’t easy work, with my hand hurt and my head rather queer. -I wish I hadn’t, though--it was more to show that I could, than anything -else. There--I think I’ve told you the whole story. I’m sorry I couldn’t -make it shorter.” - -“It wasn’t at all too long, Jack,” said Katharine, in clear and gentle -tones. - -She was very white as she turned her face to him. Every one agreed with -her, and every one began talking at once. But John did not look at her. -He answered some question put to him by the young girl on his left, and -at once entered into conversation at that side, without taking any more -notice of Katharine than she had taken of him before. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - - -The dinner was almost at an end, when John spoke to Katharine again. -Every one was laughing and talking at once. The point had been reached -at which young people laugh at anything out of sheer good spirits, and -Frank Miner had only to open his lips, at his end of the table, to set -the clear voices ringing; while at the other, Teddy Van De Water, whose -conversational powers were not brilliant, but who possessed considerable -power over his fresh, thin, plain young face, excited undeserved -applause by putting up his eyeglass every other minute, staring solemnly -at John as the hero of the evening, and then dropping it with a -ridiculous little smirk, supposed to be expressive of admiration and -respect. - -John saw him do it two or three times, while turning towards him in the -act of talking to his neighbour on his left, and smiled good-naturedly -at each repetition of the trick. To tell the truth, the evident turn of -feeling in his favour had so far influenced his depressed spirits that -he smiled almost naturally, out of sympathy, because every one was so -happy and so gay. But he was soon tired of young Van De Water’s joke, -before the others were, and looking away in order not to see the -eyeglass fall again, he caught sight of Katharine’s face. - -Her eyes were not upon him, and she might have been supposed to be -looking past him at some one seated farther down the table, but she saw -him and watched him, nevertheless. She was quite silent now, and her -face was pale. He only glanced at her, and was already turning his head -away once more when her lips moved. - -“Jack!” she said, in a low voice, that trembled but reached his ear, -even amidst the peals of laughter which filled the room. - -He looked at her again, and his features hardened a little in spite of -him. But he knew that Bright, who sat opposite, was watching both -Katharine and himself, and he did his best to seem natural and -unconcerned. - -“What is it?” he asked. - -She did not find words immediately with which to answer the simple -question, but her face told all that her voice should have said, and -more. The contraction of the broad brows was gone at last, and the great -grey eyes were soft and pleading. - -“You know,” she said, at last. - -John felt that his lips would have curled rather scornfully, if he had -allowed them. He set his mouth, by an effort, in a hard, civil smile. -It was the best he could do, for he had been badly hurt. Repentance -sometimes satisfies the offender, but he who has been offended demands -blood money. John deserved some credit for saying nothing, and even for -his cold, conventional smile. - -“Jack--dear--aren’t you going to forgive me?” she asked, in a still -lower tone than before. - -Ralston glanced up and down the table, man-like, to see whether they -were watched. But no one was paying any attention to them. Hamilton -Bright was looking away, just then. - -“Why didn’t you answer my letter?” asked John, at last, but he could not -disguise the bitterness of his voice. - -“I only--it only came--that is--it was this evening, when I was all -dressed to come here.” - -John could not control his expression any longer, and his lip bent -contemptuously, in spite of himself. - -“It was mailed very early this morning, with a special delivery stamp,” -he said, coldly. - -“Yes, it reached the house--but--oh, Jack! How can I explain, with all -these people?” - -“It wouldn’t be easy without the people,” he answered. “Nobody hears -what we’re saying.” - -Katharine was silent for a moment, and looked at her plate. In a lover’s -quarrel, the man has the advantage, if it takes place in the midst of -acquaintances who may see what is happening. He is stronger and, as a -rule, cooler, though rarely, at heart, so cold. A woman, to be -persuasive, must be more or less demonstrative, and demonstrativeness is -visible to others, even from a great distance. Katharine did not -belittle the hardness of what she had to do in so far as she reckoned -the odds at all. She loved John too well, and knew again that she loved -him; and she understood fully how she had injured him, if not how much -she had hurt him. She was suffering herself, too, and greatly--much more -than she had suffered so long as her anger had lasted, for she knew, too -late, that she should have believed in him when others did not, rather -than when all were for him and with him, so that she was the very last -to take his part. But it was hard, and she tried to think that she had -some justification. - -After Ralston had finished telling his story, Russell Vanbrugh, who was -an eminent criminal lawyer, had commented to her upon the adventure, -telling her how men had been hanged upon just such circumstantial -evidence, when it had not chanced that such a man as Doctor Routh, at -the head of his profession and above all possible suspicion, had -intervened in time. She tried to argue that she might be pardoned for -being misled, as she had been. But her conscience told her flatly that -she was deceiving herself, that she had really known far less than most -of the others about the events of the previous day, some of which were -now altogether new to her, that she had judged John in the worst light -from the first words she had heard about him at the Assembly ball, and -had not even been at pains to examine the circumstances so far as she -might have known them. And she remembered how, but a short time previous -to the present moment, she had looked at the sealed envelope with -disgust--almost with loathing, and had turned over its ashes with the -tongs. Yet that letter had cost him a supreme effort of strength and -will, made for her sake, when he was bruised and wounded and exhausted -with fatigue. - -“Jack,” she said at last, turning to him again, “I must talk to you. -Please come to me right after dinner--when you come back with the -men--will you?” - -“Certainly,” answered John. - -He knew that an explanation was inevitable. Oddly enough, though he now -had by far the best of the situation, he did not wish that the -explanatory interview might come so soon. Perhaps he did not wish for it -at all. With Katharine love was alive again, working and suffering. With -him there was no response, where love had been. In its place there was -an unformulated longing to be left alone for a time, not to be forced to -realize how utterly he had been distrusted and abandoned when he had -most needed faith and support. There was an unwilling and unjust -comparison of Katharine with his mother, too, which presented itself -constantly. Losing the sense of values and forgetting how his mother had -denied his word of honour, he remembered only that her disbelief had -lasted but an hour, and that hour seemed now but an insignificant -moment. She had done so much, too, and at once. He recalled, amid the -noise and laughter, the clinking of the things on the little tray she -had brought up for him and set down outside his door--a foolish detail, -but one of those which strike fast little roots as soon as the seed has -fallen. The reaction, too, after all he had gone through, was coming at -last and was telling even on his wiry organization. Most men would have -broken down already. He wished that he might be spared the necessity of -Katharine’s explanation--that she would write to him, and that he might -read in peace and ponder at his leisure--and answer at his discretion. -Yet he knew very well that the situation must be cleared up at once. He -regretted having given Katharine but that one word in answer to her -appeal--for he did not wish to seem even more unforgiving than he felt. - -“I’ll come as soon as possible,” he said, turning to her. “I’ll come -now, if you like.” - -It would have been a satisfaction to have it over at once. But Katharine -shook her head. - -“You must stay with the men--but--thank you, Jack.” - -Her voice was very sweet and low. At that moment Ruth Van De Water -nodded to her brother, and in an instant all the sixteen chairs were -pushed back simultaneously, and the laughter died away in the rustle of -soft skirts and the moving of two and thirty slippered feet on the thick -carpet. - -“No!” cried Miss Van De Water, looking over her shoulder with a little -laugh at the man next to her, who offered his arm in the European -fashion. “We don’t want you--we’re not in Washington--we’re going to -talk about you, and we want to be by ourselves. Stay and smoke your -cigars--but not forever, you know,” she added, and laughed again, a -silvery, girlish laugh. - -Ralston stood back and watched the fair young girls and women as they -filed out. After all, there was not one that could compare with -Katharine--whether he loved her, or not, he added mentally. - -When the men were alone, they gathered round him under a great cloud of -smoke over their little cups of coffee and their tiny liqueur glasses -of many colours. He had always been more popular than he had been -willing to think, which was the reason why so much had been forgiven -him. He had assuredly done nothing heroic on the present occasion, -unless his manly effort to fight against his taste for drinking was -heroic. If it was, the majority of the seven other men did not think of -it nor care. But he did not deserve such very great credit even for -that, perhaps, for there was that strain of asceticism in him which -makes such things easier for some people than for others. Most of them, -being young, envied and admired him for having stood up to a champion -prize-fighter in fair combat, heavily handicapped as he had been, and -for having reached his antagonist once, at least, before he went down. A -good deal of the enthusiasm young men occasionally express for one of -themselves rests on a similar basis, and yet is not to be altogether -despised on that account. - -John warmed to something almost approaching to geniality, in the midst -of so much good-will, in spite of his many troubles and of the painful -interview which was imminent. When Van De Water dropped the end of his -cigar and suggested that they should go into the drawing-room and not -waste the evening in doing badly what they could do well at their clubs -from morning till night, John would have been willing to stay a little -longer. He was very tired. Three or four glasses of wine would have -warmed him and revived him earlier, but he had not broken down in his -resolution yet--and coffee and cigars were not bad substitutes, after -all. The chair was comfortable, it was warm and the lights were soft. He -rose rather regretfully and followed the other men through the house to -join the ladies. - -Without hesitation, since it had to be done, he went up to Katharine at -once. She had managed to keep a little apart from the rest, and in the -changing of places and positions which followed the entrance of the men, -she backed by degrees towards a corner in which there were two vacant -easy chairs, one on each side of a little table covered with bits of -rare old silver-work, and half shielded from the rest of the room by the -end of a grand piano. It would have been too remote a seat for two -persons who wished to flirt unnoticed, but Katharine knew perfectly well -that most of her friends believed her to be engaged to marry John -Ralston, and was quite sure of being left to talk with him in peace if -she chose to sit down with him in a corner. - -Gravely, now, and with no inclination to let his lips twist -contemptuously, John sat down beside her, drawing his chair in front of -the small table, and waiting patiently while she settled herself. - -“It was impossible to talk at table,” she said nervously, and with a -slight tremor in her voice. - -“Yes--with all those people,” assented John. - -A short silence followed. Katharine seemed to be choosing her words. She -looked calm enough, he thought, and he expected that she would begin to -make a deliberate explanation. All at once she put out her hand -spasmodically, drew it back again, and began to turn over and handle a -tiny fish of Norwegian silver which lay among the other things on the -table. - -“It’s all been a terrible misunderstanding--I don’t know where to -begin,” she said, rather helplessly. - -“Tell me what became of my letter,” answered John, quietly. “That’s the -important thing for me to know.” - -“Yes--of course--well, in the first place, it was put into papa’s hands -this morning just as he was going down town.” - -“Did he keep it?” asked Ralston, his anger rising suddenly in his eyes. - -“No--that is--he didn’t mean to. He thought I was asleep--you see he had -read those things in the papers, and was angry and recognized your -handwriting--and he thought--you know the handwriting really was rather -shaky, Jack.” - -“I’ve no doubt. It wasn’t easy to write at all, just then.” - -“Oh, Jack dear! If I’d only known, or guessed--” - -“Then you wouldn’t have needed to believe a little,” answered John. -“What did your father do with the letter?” - -“He had it in his pocket all day, and brought it home with him in the -evening. You see--I’d been out--at the Crowdies’--and then I came home -and shut myself up. I was so miserable--and then I fell asleep.” - -“You were so miserable that you fell asleep,” repeated Ralston, cruelly. -“I see.” - -“Jack! Please--please listen to me--” - -“Yes. I beg your pardon, Katharine. I’m out of temper. I didn’t mean to -be rude.” - -“No, dear. Please don’t. I can’t bear it.” Her lip quivered. “Jack,” she -began again, after a moment, “please don’t say anything till I’ve told -you all I have to say. If you do--no--I can’t help it--I’m crying now.” - -Her eyes were full of tears, and she turned her face away quickly to -recover her self-control. John was pained, but just then he could find -nothing to say. He bent his head and looked at his hand, affecting not -to see how much moved she was. - -A moment later she turned to him, and the tears seemed to be gone again, -though they were, perhaps, not far away. Strong women can make such -efforts in great need. - -“I went into my mother’s room on my way down to the carriage to come -here,” she continued. “Papa came in, bringing your letter. He had not -opened it, of course--he only wanted to show me that he had received it, -and he said he would destroy it after showing it to me. I looked at -it--and oh, the handwriting was so shaky, and there were spots on the -envelope--Jack--I didn’t want to read it. That’s the truth. I let him -burn it. I turned over the ashes to see that there was nothing left. -There--I’ve told you the truth. How could I know--oh, how could I know?” - -John glanced at her and then looked down again, not trusting himself to -speak yet. The thought that she had not even wished to read that letter, -and that she had stood calmly by while her father destroyed it, -deliberately turning over the ashes afterwards, was almost too much to -be borne with equanimity. Again he remembered what it had cost him to -write it, and how he had felt that, having written it, Katharine, at -least, would be loyal to him, whatever the world might say. He would -have been a little more than human if he could have then and there -smiled, held out his hand, and freely forgiven and promised to forget. - -And yet she, too, had some justice on her side, though she was ready and -willing to forget it all, and to bear far more of blame than she -deserved. Russell Vanbrugh had told her that a man might easily be -convicted on such evidence. Yet in her heart she knew that her disbelief -had waited for no proofs last night, but had established itself supreme -as her disappointment at John’s absence from the ball. - -“Jack,” she began again, seeing that he did not speak, “say -something--say that you’ll try to forgive me. It’s breaking my heart.” - -“I’ll try,” answered John, in a voice without meaning. - -“Ah--not that way, dear!” answered Katharine, with a breaking sigh. “Be -kind--for the sake of all that has been!” - -There was a deep and touching quaver in the words. He could say nothing -yet. - -“Of all that might have been, Jack--it was only yesterday morning that -we were married--dear--and now--” - -He lifted his face and looked long into her eyes--she saw nothing but -regret, coldness, interrogation in his. And still he was silent, and -still she pleaded for forgiveness. - -“But it can’t be undone, now. It can never be undone--and I’m your wife, -though I have distrusted you, and been cruel and heartless and unkind. -Don’t you see how it all was, dear? Can’t you be weak for a moment, just -to understand me a little bit? Won’t you believe me when I tell you how -I hate myself and despise myself and wish that I could--oh, I don’t -know!--I wish I could wash it all away, if it were with my heart’s -blood! I’d give it, every drop, for you, now--dear -one--sweetheart--forgive me! forgive me!” - -“Don’t, Katharine--please don’t,” said John, in an uncertain tone, and -looking away from her again. - -“But you must,” she cried in her low and pleading voice, leaning far -forward, so that she spoke very close to his averted face. “It’s my -life--it’s all I have! Jack--haven’t women done as bad things and been -forgiven and been loved, too, after all was over? No--I know--oh, God! -If I had but known before!” - -“Don’t talk like that, Katharine!” said Ralston, distressed, if not -moved. “What’s done is done, and we can’t undo it. I made a bad mistake -myself--” - -“You, Jack? What? Yesterday?” She thought he spoke of their marriage. - -“No--the night before--at the Thirlwalls’, when I told you that I -sometimes drank--and all that--” - -“Oh, no!” exclaimed Katharine. “You were so right. It was the bravest -thing you ever did!” - -“And this is the result,” said John, bitterly. “I put it all into your -head then. You’d never thought about it before. And of course things -looked badly--about yesterday--and you took it for granted. Isn’t that -the truth?” - -“No, dear. It’s not--you’re mistaken. Because I thought you brave, night -before last, was no reason why I should have thought you a coward -yesterday. No--don’t make excuses for me, even in that way. There are -none--I want none--I ask for none. Only say that you’ll try to forgive -me--but not as you said it just now. Mean it, Jack! Oh, try to mean it, -if you ever loved me!” - -Ralston had not doubted her sincerity for a moment, after he had caught -sight of her face when he had finished telling his story at the -dinner-table. She loved him with all her heart, and her grief for what -she had done was real and deep. But he had been badly hurt. Love was -half numb, and would not wake, though his tears were in her voice. - -Nevertheless, she had moved John so far that he made an effort to meet -her, as it were, and to stretch out his hand to hers across the gulf -that divided them. - -“Katharine,” he said, at last, “don’t think me hard and unfeeling. You -managed to hurt me pretty badly, that’s all. Just when I was down, you -turned your back on me, and I cared. I suppose that if I didn’t love -you, I shouldn’t have cared at all, or not so much. Shouldn’t you think -it strange if I’d been perfectly indifferent, and if I were to say to -you now--‘Oh, never mind--it’s all right--it wasn’t anything’? It seems -to me that would just show that I’d never loved you, and that I had -acted like a blackguard in marrying you yesterday morning. Wouldn’t it?” - -Katharine looked at him, and a gleam of hope came into her eyes. She -nodded twice in silence, with close-set lips, waiting to hear what more -he would say. - -“I don’t like to talk of forgiveness and that sort of thing between you -and me, either,” he continued. “I don’t think it’s a question of -forgiveness. You’re not a child, and I’m not your father. I can’t -exactly forgive--in that sense. I never knew precisely what the word -meant, anyhow. They say ‘forgive and forget’--but if forgiving an injury -isn’t forgetting it, what is it? Love bears, but doesn’t need to -forgive, it seems to me. The forgiveness consists in the bearing. Well, -you don’t mean to make me bear anything more, do you?” - -A smile came into his face, not a very gentle one, but nevertheless a -smile. Katharine’s hand went out quickly and touched his own. - -“No, dear, never,” she said simply. - -“Well--don’t. Perhaps I couldn’t bear much more just now. You see, I’ve -loved you very much.” - -“Don’t say it as though it were past, Jack,” said Katharine, softly. - -“No--I was thinking of the past, that’s all.” - -He paused a moment. His heart was beating a little faster now, and -tender words were not so far from his lips as they had been five minutes -earlier. He could be silent and still be cold. But she had made him feel -that she loved him dearly, and her voice waked the music in his own as -he spoke. - -“It was because I loved you so, that I felt it all,” he said. “A little -more than you thought I could--dear.” - -It was he, now, who put out his hand and touched a fold of her gown -which was near him, as she had touched his arm. The tears came back to -Katharine’s eyes suddenly and unexpectedly, but they did not burn as -they had burned before. - -“I’ve never loved any one else,” he continued presently. “Yes--and I -know you’ve not. But I’m older, and I know men who have been in -love--what they call being in love--twice and three times at my age. -I’ve not. I’ve never cared for any one but you, and I don’t want to. -I’ve been a failure in a good many ways, but I shan’t be in that one -way. I shall always love you--just the same.” - -Katharine caught happily at the three little words. - -“Just the same--as though all this had never happened, Jack?” she asked, -bending towards him, and looking into his brown eyes. “If you’ll say -that again, dear, I shall be quite happy.” - -“Yes--in a way--just the same,” answered Ralston, as though weighing his -words. - -Katharine’s face fell. - -“There’s a reservation, dear--I knew there would be,” she said, with a -sigh. - -“No,” answered Ralston. “Only I didn’t want to say more than just what I -meant. I’ve been angry myself--I was angry at dinner--perhaps I was -angry still when I sat down here. I don’t know. I didn’t mean to be. -It’s hard to say exactly what I do mean. I love you--just the same as -ever. Only we’ve both been very angry and shall never forget that we -have been, though we may wonder some day why we were. Do you understand? -It’s not very clear, but I’m not good at talking.” - -“Yes.” Katharine’s face grew brighter again. “Yes,” she repeated, a -moment later; “it’s what I feel--only I wish that you might not feel it, -because it’s all my fault--all of it. And yet--oh, Jack! It seems to me -that I never loved you as I do now--somehow, you seem dearer to me since -I’ve hurt you, and you’ve forgiven me--but I wasn’t to say that!” - -“No, dear--don’t talk of forgiveness. Tell me you love me--I’d rather -hear it.” - -“So would I--from you, Jack!” - -Some one had sat down at the piano. The keyboard was away from them, so -that they could not see who it was, but as Katharine spoke a chord was -struck, then two or three more followed, and the first bars of a waltz -rang through the room. It was the same which the orchestra had been -playing on the previous evening, just when Katharine had left the -Assembly rooms with Hester Crowdie. - -“They were playing that last night,” she said, leaning toward him once -more in the shadow of the piano. “I was so unhappy--last night--” - -No one was looking at them in their corner. John Ralston caught her hand -in his, pressed it almost sharply, and then held it a moment. - -“I love you with all my heart,” he said. - -The deep grey eyes melted as they met his, and the beautiful mouth -quivered. - -“I want to kiss you, dear,” said Katharine. “Then I shall know. Do you -think anybody will see?” - - * * * * * - -That is the story of those five days, from Monday afternoon to Friday -evening, in reality little more than four times twenty-four hours. It -has been a long story, and if it has not been well told, the fault lies -with him who has told it, and may or may not be pardoned, according to -the kindness of those whose patience has brought them thus far. And if -there be any whose patience will carry them further, they shall be -satisfied before long, unless the writer be meanwhile gathered among -those who tell no tales. - -For there is much more to be said about John Ralston and Katharine, and -about all the other people who have entered into their lives. For -instance, it may occur to some one to wonder whether, after this last -evening, John and Katharine declared their marriage at once, or whether -they were obliged to keep the secret much longer, and some may ask -whether John Ralston’s resolution held good against more of such -temptations as he had resisted on Wednesday night at the Thirlwalls’ -dance. Some may like to know whether old Robert Lauderdale lived many -years longer, and, if he died, what became of the vast Lauderdale -fortune; whether it turned out to be true that Alexander Junior was -rich, or, at least, not nearly so poor as he represented himself to be; -whether Walter Crowdie had another of those strange attacks which had so -terrified his wife on Monday night; whether he and Paul Griggs, the -veteran man of letters, were really bound by some common tie of a former -history or not, and, finally, perhaps, whether Charlotte Slayback got -divorced from Benjamin Slayback of Nevada, or not. There is also a -pretty little tale to be told about the three Misses Miner, Frank’s -old-maid sisters. And some few there may be who will care to know what -Katharine’s convictions ultimately became and remained, when, after -passing through this five days’ storm, she found time once more for -thought and meditation. All these things may interest a few patient -readers, but the main question here raised and not yet answered is -whether that hasty, secret marriage between Katharine and John turned -out to have been really such a piece of folly as it seemed, or whether -the lovers were ultimately glad that they had done as they did. It is -assuredly very rash to be married secretly, and some of the reasons -given by Katharine when she persuaded John to take the step were not -very valid ones, as he, at least, was well aware at the time. But, on -the other hand, such true love as they really bore one another is good, -and a rare thing in the world, and when men and women feel such love, -having felt it long, and knowing it, they may be right to do such things -to make sure of not being parted; and they may live to look each into -the other’s eyes and say, long afterwards, ‘Thank God that we were not -afraid.’ But this must not be asserted of them positively by others -without proof. - -For better, or for worse, Katharine Lauderdale is Katharine Ralston, and -must be left sitting behind the piano with her husband after the Van De -Waters’ dinner-party. And if she is the centre of any interest, or even -of any idle speculation for such as have read these pages of her -history, they have not been written in vain. At all events, she has -made a strange beginning in life, and almost unawares she has been near -some of the evil things which lie so close to the good, at the root of -all that is human. But youth does not see the bad sights in its path. -Its young eyes look onward, and sometimes upward, and it passes by on -the other side. - - -THE END. - - * * * * * - - -F. Marion Crawford’s Novels. - -NEW UNIFORM AND COMPLETE EDITION. - -12mo. Cloth. $1.00 each. - - -SARACINESCA. - -“The work has two distinct merits, either of which would serve to make -it great,--that of telling a perfect story in a perfect way, and of -giving a graphic picture of Roman society in the last days of the Pope’s -temporal power.... The story is exquisitely told.”--_Boston Traveller._ - - -SANT’ ILARIO. - -A Sequel to _SARACINESCA_. - -“A singularly powerful and beautiful story.... It fulfils every -requirement of artistic fiction. It brings out what is most impressive -in human action, without owing any of its effectiveness to -sensationalism or artifice. It is natural, fluent in evolution, -accordant with experience, graphic in description, penetrating in -analysis, and absorbing in interest.”--_New York Tribune._ - - -DON ORSINO. - -A Sequel to _SARACINESCA_ and _SANT’ ILARIO_. - -“Perhaps the cleverest novel of the year.... There is not a dull -paragraph in the book, and the reader may be assured that once begun, -the story of _Don Orsino_ will fascinate him until its close.”--_The -Critic._ - - -PIETRO CHISLERI. - -“The imaginative richness, the marvellous ingenuity of plot, the power -and subtlety of the portrayal of character, the charm of the romantic -environment,--the entire atmosphere, indeed,--rank this novel at once -among the great creations.”--_The Boston Budget._ - - -A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. - -“It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of its kind as this brief -and vivid story.... It is doubly a success, being full of human -sympathy, as well as thoroughly artistic in its nice balancing of the -unusual with the commonplace, the clever juxtaposition of innocence and -guilt, comedy and tragedy, simplicity and intrigue.”--_Critic._ - - -MACMILLAN & CO., - -66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. - - * * * * * - -MR. ISAACS. - -A Tale of Modern India. - -“Under an unpretentious title we have here the most brilliant novel, or -rather romance, that has been given to the world for a very long -time.”--_The American._ - - -DR. CLAUDIUS. - -A True Story. - -“It by no means belies the promises of its predecessor. The story, an -exceedingly improbable and romantic one, is told with much skill; the -characters are strongly marked without any suspicion of caricature, and -the author’s ideas on social and political subjects are often brilliant -and always striking. It is no exaggeration to say that there is not a -dull page in the book, which is peculiarly adapted for the recreation of -student or thinker.”--_Living Church._ - - -TO LEEWARD. - -“A story of remarkable power.”--_The Review of Reviews._ - -“The four characters with whose fortunes this novel deals, are, perhaps, -the most brilliantly executed portraits in the whole of Mr. Crawford’s -long picture gallery, while for subtle insight into the springs of human -passion and for swift dramatic action none of the novels surpasses this -one.”--_The News and Courier._ - - -THE THREE FATES. - -“Mr. Crawford has manifestly brought his best qualities as a student of -human nature and his finest resources as a master of an original and -picturesque style to bear upon this story. Taken for all in all it is -one of the most pleasing of all his productions in fiction, and it -affords a view of certain phases of American, or perhaps we should say -of New York, life that have not hitherto been treated with anything like -the same adequacy and felicity.”--_Boston Beacon._ - - -A CIGARETTE-MAKER’S ROMANCE. - -“The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has Mr. Crawford done more -brilliant realistic work than here. But his realism is only the case and -cover for those intense feelings which, placed under no matter what -humble conditions, produce the most dramatic and the most tragic -situations.... This is a secret of genius, to take the most coarse and -common material, the meanest surroundings, the most sordid material -prospects, and out of the vehement passions which sometimes dominate all -human beings to build up with these poor elements, scenes, and passages, -the dramatic and emotional power of which at once enforce attention and -awaken the profoundest interest.”--_New York Tribune._ - - -AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN. - - -MACMILLAN & CO., - -66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. - - * * * * * - -THE WITCH OF PRAGUE. - -A Fantastic Tale. - -Illustrated by W. J. HENNESSY. - -“The artistic skill with which this extraordinary story is constructed -and carried out is admirable and delightful.... Mr. Crawford has scored -a decided triumph, for the interest of the tale is sustained -throughout.... A very remarkable, powerful, and interesting -story.”--_New York Tribune._ - - -GREIFENSTEIN. - -“ ...Another notable contribution to the literature of the day. It -possesses originality in its conception and is a work of unusual -ability. Its interest is sustained to the close, and it is an advance -even on the previous work of this talented author. Like all Mr. -Crawford’s work this novel is crisp, clear, and vigorous, and will be -read with a great deal of interest.”--_New York Evening Telegram._ - - -WITH THE IMMORTALS. - -“The strange central idea of the story could have occurred only to a -writer whose mind was very sensitive to the current of modern thought -and progress, while its execution, the setting it forth in proper -literary clothing, could be successfully attempted only by one whose -active literary ability should be fully equalled by his power of -assimilative knowledge both literary and scientific, and no less by his -courage and capacity for hard work. The book will be found to have a -fascination entirely new for the habitual reader of novels. Indeed, Mr. -Crawford has succeeded in taking his readers quite above the ordinary -plane of novel interest.”--_Boston Advertiser._ - - -ZOROASTER. - -“It is a drama in the force of its situations and in the poetry and -dignity of its language; but its men and women are not men and women of -a play. By the naturalness of their conversation and behavior they seem -to live and lay hold of our human sympathy more than the same characters -on a stage could possibly do.”--_The New York Times._ - - -A ROMAN SINGER. - -“One of the earliest and best works of this famous novelist.... None but -a genuine artist could have made so true a picture of human life, -crossed by human passions and interwoven with human weakness. It is a -perfect specimen of literary art.”--_The Newark Advertiser._ - - -PAUL PATOFF. - - -MACMILLAN & CO., - -66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. - - * * * * * - -KHALED. - -A Story of Arabia. - -“Throughout the fascinating story runs the subtlest analysis, suggested -rather than elaborately worked out, of human passion and motive, the -building out and development of the character of the woman who becomes -the hero’s wife and whose love he finally wins being an especially acute -and highly finished example of the story-teller’s art.... That it is -beautifully written and holds the interest of the reader, fanciful as it -all is, to the very end, none who know the depth and artistic finish of -Mr. Crawford’s work need be told.”--_The Chicago Times._ - - -CHILDREN OF THE KING. - -“One of the most artistic and exquisitely finished pieces of work that -Crawford has produced. The picturesque setting, Calabria and its -surroundings, the beautiful Sorrento and the Gulf of Salermo, with the -bewitching accessories that climate, sea, and sky afford, give Mr. -Crawford rich opportunities to show his rare descriptive powers. As a -whole the book is strong and beautiful through its simplicity, and ranks -among the choicest of the author’s many fine productions.”--_Public -Opinion._ - - -MARZIO’S CRUCIFIX. - -“This work belongs to the highest department of character-painting in -words.”--_The Churchman._ - -“We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr. Crawford possesses in -an extraordinary degree the art of constructing a story. His sense of -proportion is just, and his narrative flows along with ease and -perspicuity. It is as if it could not have been written otherwise, so -naturally does the story unfold itself, and so logical and consistent is -the sequence of incident after incident. As a story _Marzio’s Crucifix_ -is perfectly constructed.”--_New York Commercial Advertiser._ - - -MARION DARCHE. - -“Full enough of incident to have furnished material for three or four -stories.... A most interesting and engrossing book. Every page unfolds -new possibilities, and the incidents multiply rapidly.”--_Detroit Free -Press._ - -“We are disposed to rank _Marion Darche_ as the best of Mr. Crawford’s -American stories.”--_The Literary World._ - - -THE NOVEL: What It Is. - -18mo. Cloth. 75 cents. - -“When a master of his craft speaks, the public may well listen with -careful attention, and since no fiction-writer of the day enjoys in this -country a broader or more enlightened popularity than Marion Crawford, -his explanation of _The Novel: What It Is_, will be received with -flattering interest.”--_The Boston Beacon._ - - -MACMILLAN & CO., - -66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Katherine Lauderdale; Vol. 2 of 2, by -F. 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Marion Crawford - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Katherine Lauderdale; Vol. 2 of 2 - -Author: F. Marion Crawford - -Release Date: January 10, 2016 [EBook #50886] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KATHERINE LAUDERDALE; VOL. 2 OF 2 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/cover_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="288" height="450" alt="book-cover image not available" /></a> -</p> - -<p class="cb">KATHARINE LAUDERDALE</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/colophon.png" class="none" width="150" height="45" alt="colophon" /> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_002_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_002_sml.jpg" width="275" height="447" alt="“She was very white as she turned her face to him.”—Vol. -II., p. 314." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">“She was very white as she turned her face to him.”—Vol. -II., <a href="#page_314">314.</a></span> -</div> - -<h1>KATHARINE LAUDERDALE</h1> - -<p class="cb">BY<br /> -F. MARION CRAWFORD<br /> -<small><span class="smcap">Author of “saracinesca,” “Pietro Ghisleri,” etc.</span></small><br /> -<br /><br /> -<span class="smcap">Vol. II</span><br /> -<br /><br /> -<span class="smcap">With Illustrations by Alfred Brennan</span><br /> -<br /> -<span class="eng">New York</span><br /> -MACMILLAN AND CO.<br /> -AND LONDON<br /> -1894<br /> -<br /> -<i>All rights reserved</i><br /> -<br /><small> -<span class="smcap">Copyright</span>, 1893,<br /> -<span class="smcap">By</span> F. MARION CRAWFORD.<br /> -<br /> -<span class="eng">Norwood Press:</span><br /> -J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith.<br /> -Boston, Mass., U.S.A.</small> -</p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td> </td><td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_1">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_23">23</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_45">45</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_67">67</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_89">89</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_114">114</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_135">135</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_157">157</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_178">178</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_202">202</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_225">225</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_247">247</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_269">269</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_291">291</a></td></tr> - -<tr valign="top"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX.</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_315">315</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<h2><a name="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS" id="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS"></a>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Vol. II.</span></h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td> </td><td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td>“ ‘I’m glad to see you, my dear child!’ he said -warmly”</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_3">3</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>“Before he could even raise his head, Ralston was out -of the door and in the street”</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_57">57</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>“She knew that life could never be the same again, if -she could not believe her son”</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_142">142</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>“ ‘That’s good, Crowdie,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It’s -distinctly good’ ”</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_189">189</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>“She was very white as she turned her face to him”</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_314">314</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><a name="page_1" id="page_1"></a></p> - -<h1>KATHARINE LAUDERDALE.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katharine</span> let Ralston accompany her within a block of Robert -Lauderdale’s house and then sent him away.</p> - -<p>“It’s getting late,” she said. “It must be nearly ten o’clock, isn’t it? -Yes. People are all going out at this hour in the morning, and it’s of -no especial use to be seen about together. There’s the Assembly ball -to-night, and of course you’ll come and talk to me, but I shall see -you—or no—I’ll write you a note, with a special delivery stamp, and -post it at the District Post-Office. You’ll get it in less than an hour, -and then you’ll know what uncle Robert says.”</p> - -<p>“I know already what he’ll say,” answered Ralston. “But why mayn’t I -wait for you here?”</p> - -<p>“Now, Jack! Don’t be so ridiculously hopeless about things. And I don’t -want you to wait, for I haven’t the least idea how long it may last, and -as I said, there’s no object in our being seen to meet,<a name="page_2" id="page_2"></a> away up here by -the Park, at this hour. Good-bye.</p> - -<p>“I hate to leave you,” said Ralston, holding out one hand, with a -resigned air, and raising his hat with the other.</p> - -<p>“I like that in you!” exclaimed Katharine, noticing the action. “I like -you to take off your hat to me just the same—though you are my -husband.” She looked at him a moment. “I’m so glad we’ve done it!” she -added with much emphasis, and a faint colour rose in her face.</p> - -<p>Then she turned away and walked quickly in the direction of Robert -Lauderdale’s house, which was at the next corner. As she went she -glanced at the big polished windows which face the Park, to see whether -any one had noticed her. She knew the people who lived in one of the -houses, and she had an idea that others might know her by sight, as the -niece of the great man who had built the whole block. But there were -only two children at one of the windows, flattening their rosy faces -against the pane and drumming on it with fat hands; very smartly dressed -children, with bright eyes and gayly-coloured ribbons.</p> - -<p>As Katharine had expected, Robert Lauderdale was at home, had finished -his breakfast and was in his library attending to his morning letters. -She was ushered in almost immediately, and as she entered the room the -rich man’s secretary stood aside<a name="page_3" id="page_3"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_003_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_003_sml.jpg" width="275" height="452" alt="“ ‘I’m glad to see you, my dear child!’ he said -warmly.”—Vol. II., p. 3." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">“ ‘I’m glad to see you, my dear child!’ he said -warmly.”—Vol. II., <a href="#page_3">3.</a></span> -</div> - -<p><a name="page_4" id="page_4"></a></p> - -<p><a name="page_5" id="page_5"></a></p> - -<p class="nind">to let her pass through the door and then went out—a quiet, faultlessly -dressed young man who had the air of a gentleman. He wore gold-rimmed -spectacles, which looked oddly on his young face.</p> - -<p>Robert Lauderdale did not rise to meet Katharine, as he sat sideways by -a broad table, in an easy position, with one leg crossed over the other -and leaning back in his deep chair. But a bright smile came into his -cheerful old face, and stretching out one long arm he took her hand and -drew her down and gave her a hearty kiss. Still holding her by the hand, -he made her sit in the chair beside him, left vacant by the secretary.</p> - -<p>“I’m glad to see you, my dear child!” he said warmly. “What brings you -so early?”</p> - -<p>He was a big old man and was dressed in a rough tweed of a light colour, -which was very becoming to his fresh complexion. His thick hair had once -been red, but had turned to a bright sandy grey, something like the -sands at Newport. His face was laid out in broad surfaces, rich in -healthy colour and deeply freckled where the skin was white. His keen -blue eyes were small, but very clear and honest, and the eyebrows were -red still, and bushy, with a few white hairs. Two deep, clean furrows -extended from beside the nostrils into the carefully brushed beard, and -there were four wrinkles, and no more, across the broad forehead. No one -would have supposed that Robert<a name="page_6" id="page_6"></a> Lauderdale was much over sixty, but in -reality he was ten years older. His elder brother, the philanthropist, -looked almost as though he might have been his father. It was clear -that, like many of the Lauderdales, the old man had possessed great -physical strength, and that he had preserved his splendid constitutional -vitality even in his old age.</p> - -<p>Katharine did not answer his question immediately. She was by no means -timid, as has been seen, but she felt a little less brave and sure of -herself in the presence of the head of her family than when she had been -with Ralston a few minutes earlier. She was not aware of the fact that -in many ways she dominated the man who was now her husband, and she -would very probably not have wished to believe she did; but she was very -distinctly conscious that she could never, under any imaginable -circumstances, exert any direct influence over her uncle Robert, though -she might persuade him to do much for her. He was by nature himself of -the dominant tribe, and during forty years he had been accustomed to -command with that absolute certainty of being obeyed which few positions -insure as completely as very great wealth does. As she looked at him for -a moment before speaking, the little opening speech she had framed began -to seem absolutely inadequate, and she could not find words wherewith to -compose another at such<a name="page_7" id="page_7"></a> short notice. Being courageous, however, she -did not hesitate long, but characteristically plunged into the very -heart of the matter by telling him just what she felt.</p> - -<p>“I’ve done something very unusual, uncle Robert,” she began. “And I’ve -come to tell you all about it, and I prepared a speech for you. But it -won’t do. Somehow, though I’m not a bit afraid of you—” she smiled as -she met his eyes—“you seem ever so much bigger and stronger than I -thought you were, now that I’ve got here.”</p> - -<p>Uncle Robert laughed and patted her hand as it lay on the desk.</p> - -<p>“Out with it, child!” he exclaimed. “I suppose you’re in trouble, in -some way or other, and you want me to help you. Is that it?”</p> - -<p>“You must help me,” answered Katharine. “Nobody else can. Uncle -Robert—” She paused, though a pause was certainly not necessary in -order to give the plain statement more force. “I’ve just been married to -Jack Ralston.”</p> - -<p>“Good—gracious—heavens!”</p> - -<p>The old man half rose from his seat as he uttered the words, one by one, -in his deep voice. Then he dropped into his chair again and stared at -the young girl in downright amazement.</p> - -<p>“What in the name of common sense induced you to do such a mad thing?” -he asked very quietly, as soon as he had drawn breath.<a name="page_8" id="page_8"></a></p> - -<p>Katharine had expected that he would be surprised, as was rather -natural, and regained her coolness and decision at once.</p> - -<p>“We’ve loved each other ever since we were children,” she said, speaking -calmly and distinctly. “You know all about it, for I’ve told you before -now just how I felt. Everybody opposed it—even my mother, at -last—except you, and you certainly never gave us any encouragement.”</p> - -<p>“I should think not, indeed!” exclaimed old Lauderdale, shaking his -great head and beating a tattoo on the table with his heavy fingers.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know why not, I’m sure,” Katharine answered, with rising -energy. “There’s no reason in the world why we shouldn’t love each -other, and it wouldn’t make the slightest difference to me if there -were. I should love him just the same, and he would love me. He went to -my father last year, as you know, and papa treated him -outrageously—wanted to forbid him to come to the house, but of course -that was absurd. Jack behaved splendidly through it all—even papa had -to acknowledge that, though he didn’t wish to in the least. And I hoped -and hoped, and waited and waited, but things went no better. You know -when papa makes up his mind to a thing, no matter how unreasonable it -is, one might just as well talk to a stone wall. But I hadn’t the -smallest intention of being made miserable for the rest of my life, so I -persuaded Jack to marry me<a name="page_9" id="page_9"></a>—”</p> - -<p>“I suppose he didn’t need much persuasion,” observed the old gentleman, -angrily.</p> - -<p>“You’re quite wrong, uncle Robert! He didn’t want to do it at all. He -had an idea that it wasn’t all right—”</p> - -<p>“Then why in the world did he do it? Oh, I hate that sort of young -fellow, who pretends that he doesn’t want to do a thing because he means -to do it all the time—and knows perfectly well that it’s a low thing to -do!”</p> - -<p>“I won’t let you say that of Jack!” Katharine’s grey eyes began to -flash. “If you knew how hard it was to persuade him! He only consented -at last—and so did the clergyman—because I promised to come and tell -you at once—”</p> - -<p>“That’s just like the young good-for-nothing, too!” muttered the old -man. “Besides—how do I know that you’re really married? How do I know -that you’re not—”</p> - -<p>“Stop, please! There’s the certificate. Please persuade yourself, before -you accuse me of telling falsehoods.”</p> - -<p>Katharine was suddenly very angry, and Robert Lauderdale realized that -he had gone too far in his excitement. But he looked at the certificate -carefully, then took out his note-book and wrote down the main facts -with great care.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t mean to doubt what you told me, child,” he said, while he was -writing. “You’ve<a name="page_10" id="page_10"></a> rather startled me with this piece of news. Human life -is very uncertain,” he added, using the clergyman’s own words, “and it -may be just as well that there should be a note made of this. Hadn’t you -better let me keep the certificate itself? It will be quite safe with my -papers.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would,” answered Katharine, after a moment’s thought.</p> - -<p>The production of the certificate had produced a momentary cessation of -hostilities, so to speak, but the old gentleman had by no means said his -last word yet, nor Katharine either.</p> - -<p>“Go on, my dear,” he resumed gravely. “If I’m to know anything, I should -know everything, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“There’s not very much more to tell,” Katharine replied. “I repeat that -it was all I could do to persuade Jack to take the step. He resisted to -the very last—”</p> - -<p>“Hm! He seems to have taken an active part in the proceedings in spite -of his resistance—”</p> - -<p>“Of course he did, after I had persuaded him to. It was up to that point -that he resisted—and even after everything was ready—even this -morning, when I met him, he told me that I ought not to have come.”</p> - -<p>“His spirit seems to have been willing to have some sense—but the flesh -was weak,” observed the old gentleman, without a smile.<a name="page_11" id="page_11"></a></p> - -<p>“I insist upon taking the whole responsibility,” said Katharine. “It was -I who proposed it, and it was I who made him do it.”</p> - -<p>“You’re evidently the strong-minded member, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“In this—yes. I love him, and I made up my mind that it was right to -love him and that I would marry him. Now I have.”</p> - -<p>“It is impossible to make a more direct statement of an unpleasant -truth. And now that you’ve done it, you mean that your family shall take -the consequences—which shows a strong sense of that responsibility you -mentioned—and so you’ve come to me. Why didn’t you come to me -yesterday? It would have been far more sensible.”</p> - -<p>“I did think of coming yesterday afternoon—and then it rained, and -Charlotte came—”</p> - -<p>“Yes—it rained—I remember.” Robert Lauderdale’s mouth quivered, as -though he should have liked to smile at the utter insignificance of the -shower as compared with the importance of Katharine’s action. “You might -have taken a cab. There’s a stand close by your house, at the Brevoort.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—of course—though I should have had to ask mamma for some -money, and that would have been very awkward, you know. And if I had -really and truly meant to come, I suppose I shouldn’t have minded the -rain.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_12" id="page_12"></a></p> - -<p>“Well—never mind the rain now!” Uncle Robert spoke a little -impatiently. “You didn’t come—and you’ve come to-day, when it’s too -late to do anything—except regret what you’ve done.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t regret it at all—and I don’t intend to,” Katharine answered -firmly.</p> - -<p>“And what do you mean to do in the future? Live with Ralston’s mother? -Is that your idea?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly not. I want you to give Jack something to do, and we’ll live -together, wherever you make him go—if it’s to Alaska.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—that’s it, is it? I begin to understand. I suppose Jack would think -it would simplify matters very much if I gave him a hundred thousand -dollars, wouldn’t he? That would be an even shorter way of giving him -the means to support his family.”</p> - -<p>“Jack wouldn’t take money from you,” answered Katharine, quickly.</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t he? If it were not such a risk, I’d try it, just to convince -you. You seem to have a very exalted idea of Jack Ralston, altogether. -I’ve not. Do you know anything about his life?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I do. I know how you all talk about the chances you’ve given -him—between you. And I know just what they were—to try his hand at -being a lawyer’s clerk first, and a banker’s clerk afterwards, with no -salary and—”</p> - -<p>“If he had stuck to either for a year he would<a name="page_13" id="page_13"></a> have had a very -different sort of chance,” interrupted the old gentleman. “I told him -so. There was little enough expected of him, I’m sure—just to go to an -office every day, as most people do, and write what he was told to -write. It wasn’t much to ask. Take the whole thing to pieces and look at -it. What can he do? What do most men do who must make their way in the -world? He has no exceptional talent, so he can’t go in for art or -literature or that sort of thing. His father wouldn’t educate him for -the navy, where he would have found his level, or where the Admiral’s -name would have helped him. He didn’t get a technical education, which -would have given him a chance to try engineering. There were only two -things left—the law or business. I explained all that to him at the -time. He shook his head and said he wanted something active. That’s just -the way all young men talk who merely don’t want to stay in-doors and -work decently hard, like other people. An active life! What is an active -life? Ranching, I suppose he means, and he thinks he should do well on a -ranch merely because he can ride fairly well. Riding fairly well doesn’t -mean much on a ranch. The men out there can all ride better than he ever -could, and he knows nothing about horses, nor cattle, nor about anything -useful. Besides, with his temper, he’d be shot before he’d been out -there a year<a name="page_14" id="page_14"></a>—”</p> - -<p>“But there are all sorts of other things, and you forget Hamilton -Bright, who began on a ranch—”</p> - -<p>“Ham Bright is made of different stuff. He had been brought up in the -country, too, and his father was a Western man—from Cincinnati, at all -events, though that isn’t West nowadays. No. Jack Ralston could never -succeed at that—and I haven’t a ranch to give him, and I certainly -won’t go and buy land out there now. I repeat that his only chance lay -in law or business. Law would have done better. He had the advantage of -having a degree to begin with, and I would have found him a partner, and -there’s a lot of law connected with real estate which doesn’t need a -genius to work it, and which is fairly profitable. But no! He wanted -something active! That’s exactly what a kitten wants when it runs round -after its own tail—and there’s about as much sense in it. Upon my word, -there is!”</p> - -<p>“You’re very hard on him, uncle Robert. And I don’t think you’re quite -reasonable. It was a good deal the old Admiral’s fault—”</p> - -<p>“I’m not examining the cause, I’m going over the facts,” said old -Lauderdale, impatiently. “I tried him, and I very soon got to the end of -him. He meant to do nothing. It was quite clear from the first. If he’d -been a starving relation it would have been different. I should have -made him work whether he liked it or not. As it was, I gave it up as a -bad job. He wants to be idle, and he has<a name="page_15" id="page_15"></a> the means to be idle if he’s -willing to live on his mother. She has ten thousand dollars a year, and -a house of her own, and they can live very well on that—just as well as -they want to. When his mother dies that’s what Jack will have, and if he -chooses to marry on it—”</p> - -<p>“You seem to forget that he’s married already—”</p> - -<p>“By Jove! I did! But it doesn’t change things in the least. My position -is just the same as it was before. With ten thousand a year Katharine -Ralston couldn’t support a family—”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I could! I’m Katharine Ralston, and I should be—”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense! You’re Katharine Lauderdale. I’m speaking of Jack’s mother. I -suppose you’ll admit that she’s not able to support her son’s wife out -of what she has. It would mean a great change in her way of living. At -present she doesn’t need more. She’s often told me so. If she wanted -money for herself, just to spend on herself, mind you—I’d give -her—well, I won’t say how much. But she doesn’t. It’s for Jack that she -wants it. She’s perfectly honest. She’s just like a man in her way of -talking, anyhow. And I don’t want Jack to be throwing my money into the -streets. I can do more good with it in other ways, and she gives him -more than is good for him, as it is. People seem to think that if a man -has more than a certain amount of money, he’s under a sort of<a name="page_16" id="page_16"></a> moral -obligation to society to throw it out of the window. That’s a point of -view I never could understand, though it comes quite naturally to Jack, -I daresay. But I go back. I want to insist on that circumstance, and I -want you to see the facts just as they are. If I were to settle another -hundred thousand dollars on Jack’s mother, it would be precisely the -same thing, at present, as though I’d settled it on him, or on you. Now -you say he wouldn’t take any money if I offered it to him.”</p> - -<p>“No. He wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t let him if he wanted to.”</p> - -<p>“You needn’t be afraid, my dear. I’ve no intention of doing anything so -good-natured and foolish. If anything could complete Jack’s ruin for all -practical purposes, that would. No, no! I won’t do it. I’ve given Kate -Ralston a good many valuable jewels at one time and another since she -married the Admiral—she’s fond of good stones, you know. If Jack -chooses to go to her and tell her the truth, and if she chooses to sell -them and give him the money, it will keep you very comfortably for a -long time—”</p> - -<p>“How can you suggest such a thing!” cried Katharine, indignantly. “As -though he would ever stoop to think of it!”</p> - -<p>“Well—I hope he wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be pretty, if he did. But I’m a -practical man, my dear, and I’m an old fellow and I’ve seen the<a name="page_17" id="page_17"></a> world -on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean for over seventy years. So I look at -the case from all possible points of view, fair and unfair, as most -people would. But I don’t mean to be unfair to Jack.”</p> - -<p>“I think you are, uncle Robert. If you’ve proved anything, you’ve proved -that he isn’t fit for a ranch—and so you say there’s nothing left but -the law or business. It seems to me that there are ever so many -things—”</p> - -<p>“If you’ll name them, you’ll help me,” said old Lauderdale, seriously.</p> - -<p>“I mean active things—to do with railroads, and all that—” Katharine -stopped, feeling that her knowledge was rather vague.</p> - -<p>“Oh! You mean to talk about railroading. I don’t own any railroads -myself, as I daresay you know, but I’ve picked up some information about -them. Apart from the financing of them—and that’s banking, which Jack -objects to—there’s the law part, which he doesn’t like either, and the -building of them, which he’s too old to learn, and the mechanical part -of them, such as locomotives and rolling stock, which he can’t learn -either—and then there are two places which men covet and for which -there’s an enormous competition amongst the best men for such matters in -the country—I mean the freight agent’s place and the passenger agent’s. -They are two big men, and they understand their business practically, -because<a name="page_18" id="page_18"></a> they’ve learned it practically. To understand freight, a man -must begin by putting on rough clothes and going down to the shed and -handling freight himself, with the common freight men. There are -gentlemen who have done that sort of thing—just as fine gentlemen as -Jack Ralston, but made of quite different stuff. And it takes a very -long time to reach a high position in that way, though it’s worth having -when you get it. Do you understand?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I suppose I do. But one always hears of men going off and -succeeding in some out-of-the-way place—”</p> - -<p>“But you hear very little about the ones who fail, and they’re the -majority. And you hear, still more often, people saying, as they do of -Jack Ralston, that he ought to go away, and show some enterprise, and -get something to do in the West. It’s always the West, because most of -the people who talk know nothing whatever about it. I tell you, -Katharine, my dear, it’s just as hard to start in this country as it is -anywhere else, though men get on faster after they’re once started—and -all this talk about something active and an out-of-door existence is -pure nonsense. It’s nothing else. A man may have luck soon or late or -never, but the safest plan for city-bred men is to begin at a bank. I -did, and I’ve not regretted it. Just as soon as a fellow shows that he -has something in him, <a name="page_19" id="page_19"></a>he’s wanted, and if he has friends, as Jack has, -they’ll help him. But as long as a man hangs about the clubs all day -with a cigarette in his mouth, sensible people, who want workers, will -fight shy of him. Just tell Jack that, the next time you see him. It’s -all I’ve got to say, and if it doesn’t satisfy him nothing can.”</p> - -<p>The old gentleman’s anger had quite disappeared while he was speaking, -though it was ready to burst out again on very small provocation. He -spoke so earnestly, and put matters so plainly, that Katharine began to -feel a blank disappointment closing in between her and her visions of -the future in regard to an occupation for John. For the rest, she would -have been just as determined to marry him after hearing all that her -uncle had to say as she had been before. But she could not help showing -what she felt, in her face and in the tone of her voice.</p> - -<p>“Still—men do succeed, uncle Robert,” she said, clinging rather -desperately to the hope that he had only been lecturing her and had some -pleasant surprise in store.</p> - -<p>“Of course they do, my dear,” he answered. “And it’s possible for Jack -to succeed, too, if he’ll go about it in the right way.”</p> - -<p>“How?” asked Katharine, eagerly, and immediately her face brightened -again.</p> - -<p>“Just as I said. If he’ll show that he can stick<a name="page_20" id="page_20"></a> to any sort of -occupation for a year, I’ll see what can be done.”</p> - -<p>“But that sticking, as you call it—all day at a desk—is just what he -can’t do. He wasn’t made for it, he—”</p> - -<p>“Well then, what is he made for? I wish you would get him to make a -statement explaining his peculiar gifts—”</p> - -<p>“Now don’t be angry again, uncle Robert! This is rather a serious matter -for Jack and me. Do you tell me, in real earnest, quite, quite honestly, -that as far as you know the only way for Jack to earn his living is to -go into an office for a year, to begin with? Is that what you mean?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, child. Upon my word—there, you’ll believe me now, won’t you? -That’s the only way I can see, if he really means to work. My dear—I’m -not a boy, and I’m very fond of you—I’ve no reason for deceiving you, -have I?”</p> - -<p>“No, uncle dear—but you were angry at first, you know.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt. But I’m not angry now, nor are you. We’ve discussed the -matter calmly. And we’re putting out of the question the fact that if I -chose to give Jack anything in the way of money, my cheque-book is in -this drawer, and I have the power to do it—without any inconvenience,” -added the very rich man, thoughtfully. “But you tell me that he would -not accept it. It’s hard to believe,<a name="page_21" id="page_21"></a> but you know him better than I do, -and I accept your statement. I may as well tell you that for the honour -of the family and to get rid of all this nonsense about a secret -marriage I’m perfectly willing to do this. Listen. I’ll invite you -all—the whole family—to my place on the river, and I’ll tell them all -what has happened and we’ll have a sort of ‘post facto’ wedding there, -very quietly, and then announce it to the world. And I’ll settle enough -on you, personally—not on your husband—to give you an income you can -manage to live on comfortably—”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Katharine. “You’re too kind, uncle Robert—and I thank you -with all my heart—just as though we could take it from you—I do, -indeed—”</p> - -<p>“Never mind that, child. But you say you can’t take it. You mean, I -suppose, that if it were your money—if I made it so—Jack would refuse -to live on it. Let’s be quite clear.”</p> - -<p>“That’s exactly it. He would never consent to live on it. He would -feel—he’d be quite right, too—that we had got married first in order -to force money out of you, for the honour of the family, as you said -yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. And it’s particularly hard to force money out of me, too, though -I’m not stingy, my dear. But I must say, if you had meant to do it, you -couldn’t have invented anything more ingenious,<a name="page_22" id="page_22"></a> or more successful. I -couldn’t allow a couple of young Lauderdales to go begging. They’d have -pictures of me in the evening papers, you know. And apart from that, I’m -devilish fond of you—I mean I’m very fond of you—you must excuse an -old bachelor’s English, sometimes. But you won’t take the money, so that -settles it. Then there’s no other way but for Jack to go to work like a -man and stick to it. To give him a salary for doing no work would be -just the same as to give him money without making any pretence about it. -He can have a desk at my lawyer’s, or he can go back to Beman -Brothers’,—just as he prefers. If he’ll do that, and honestly try to -understand what he’s doing, he shan’t regret it. If he’ll do what there -is to be done, I’ll make him succeed. I could make him succeed if he had -‘failure’ written all over him in letters a foot high—because it’s -within the bounds of possibility. But it’s of no use to ask me to do -what’s not possible. I can’t make this country over again. I can’t -create a convenient, active, out-of-door career at a good salary, when -the thing doesn’t exist. In other words, I can’t work miracles, and he -won’t take money, so he must content himself to run on lines of -possibility. My lawyer would do most things for me, and so would Beman -Brothers. Beman, to please me, would make Jack a partner, as he has done -for Ham Bright. But Jack must either work<a name="page_23" id="page_23"></a> or put in capital, and he has -no capital to put in, and won’t take any from me. And to be a partner in -a law firm, a man must have some little experience—something beyond his -bare degree. Do you see it all now, Katharine?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I do,” she answered, with a little sigh. “And meanwhile—uncle -Robert—meanwhile—”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I know—you’re married. That’s the very devil, that marriage -business.”</p> - -<p>He seemed to be thinking it over. There was something so innocently -sincere in his strong way of putting it that Katharine could not help -smiling, even in her distress. But she waited for him to speak, -foreseeing what he would say, and did.</p> - -<p>“There’s nothing for it,” he said, at last. “You won’t take money, and -you can’t live with your mother, and as for telling your father at this -stage—well, you know him! It really wouldn’t be safe. So there’s -nothing for it but—I hate to say it, my dear,” he added kindly.</p> - -<p>“But to keep it a secret, you mean,” she said sadly.</p> - -<p>“You see,” he answered, in a tone that was almost apologetic, “it would -be a mistake, socially, to say you were married, and to go on living -each with your own family—besides, your father would know it like -everybody else. He’d make your life very—unbearable, I should think.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—he would. I know that.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_24" id="page_24"></a></p> - -<p>“Well—come and see me again soon, and we’ll talk it over. You’ll have -to consider it just as a—I don’t know exactly how to put it—a sort of -formal betrothal between yourselves, such as they used to have in old -times. And I suppose I’m the head of the family, though your grandfather -is older than I am. Anyhow, you must consider it as though you were -solemnly engaged, with the approval of the head of the family, and as -though you were to be married, say, next year. Can you do that? Can you -make him look at it in that light, child?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll try, since there’s really nothing else to be done. But oh, uncle -Robert, I wish I’d come before. You’ve been so kind! Why did it rain -yesterday—oh, why did it rain?”</p> - -<p><a name="page_25" id="page_25"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> Katharine left Robert Lauderdale’s house that morning, she felt -that trouble had begun and was not to cease for a long time. She had -entered her uncle’s library full of hope, sure of success and believing -that John Ralston’s future depended only upon the rich man’s good will -and good word. She went out fully convinced at last that he must take -one or the other of the much-despised chances he had neglected and -forthwith do the best he could with it. She thought it was very hard, -but she understood old Lauderdale’s clear statement and she saw that -there was no other way.</p> - -<p>She sympathized deeply with John in his dislike of the daily drudgery, -for which it was quite true that he was little fitted by nature or -training. But she did her best to analyze that unfitness, so as to try -and discover some gift or quality to balance it and neutralize it. And -her first impulse was not to find him at once and tell him what had -happened, but rather to put off the evil moment in which she must tell -him the truth. This was the first sign of weakness which she had -exhibited<a name="page_26" id="page_26"></a> since that Monday afternoon on which she had persuaded him to -take the decisive step.</p> - -<p>She turned into Madison Avenue as soon as she could, for the sake of the -quiet. The morning sun shone full in her eyes as she began to make her -way southwards, and she was glad of the warmth, for she felt cold and -inwardly chilled in mind and body. She had walked far, but she still -walked on, disliking the thought of being penned in with a dozen or more -of unsympathizing individuals for twenty minutes in a horse-car. -Moreover, she instinctively wished to tire herself, as though to bring -down her bodily energy to the low ebb at which her mental activity -seemed to be stagnating. Strong people will understand that desire to -balance mind and body.</p> - -<p>She was quite convinced that her uncle was right. The more she turned -the whole situation over, the clearer what he had said became to her. -The only escape was to accept the money which he was willing to give -her—for the honour of the family. But if neither she nor John would -take that, there was no alternative but for John to go to work in the -ordinary way, and show that he could be steady for at least a year. That -seemed a very long time—as long as a year can seem to a girl of -nineteen, which is saying much.</p> - -<p>Katharine had seen such glorious visions for that year, too, that the -darkness of the future was a<a name="page_27" id="page_27"></a> tangible horror now that they were fading -away. The memory of a dream can be as vivid as the recollection of a -reality. The something which John was to find to do had presented itself -to her mind as a sort of idyllic existence somewhere out of the world, -in which there should be woods and brooks and breezes, and a convenient -town not far away, where things could be got, and a cottage quite unlike -other cottages, and a good deal of shooting and fishing and riding, with -an amount of responsibility for all these things equal in money to six -or seven thousand dollars a year, out of which Katharine was sure that -she could save a small fortune in a few years. It had not been quite -clear to her why the responsibility was to be worth so much in actual -coin of the Republic, but people certainly succeeded very quickly in the -West. Besides, she was quite ready to give up all the luxuries and -amusements of social existence—much more ready to do so than John -Ralston, if she had known the truth.</p> - -<p>It must not be believed that she was utterly visionary and unpractical, -because she had taken this rose-coloured view of the life uncle Robert -was to provide for her and her husband. There are probably a great many -young women in the Eastern cities who imagine just such things to be -quite possible, and quite within the power and gift of a millionaire, in -the American sense of that word,<a name="page_28" id="page_28"></a> which implies the possession of more -than one million, and more often refers in actual use to income than -merely to capital. In Paris, a man who has twenty thousand dollars a -year is called a millionaire. In New York a man with that income is but -just beyond the level of the estimable society poor, and within the -ranks of the ‘fairly well-off.’ The great fortunes being really as -fabulous as those in fairy tales, it is not surprising that the -possession of them should be supposed to bring with it an almost -fabulous power in all directions. Men like Robert Lauderdale, the -administration of whose estates requires a machinery not unlike that of -a small nation’s treasury, are thought to have in their gift all sorts -of remunerative positions, for which the principal qualifications are an -unlimited capacity for enjoying the fresh air and some talent for -fishing. As a matter of fact, though so much richer than ordinary men, -they are so much poorer than all except the very small nations that they -cannot support so many idlers.</p> - -<p>Katharine knew a good deal about life in New York and its possibilities, -but very little of what could be done elsewhere. She was perfectly well -aware of the truth of all that her uncle had told her concerning the -requirements for business or the law, for she had heard such matters -discussed often enough. In her own city she was practical, for she -understood her surroundings as well as<a name="page_29" id="page_29"></a> any young girl could. It was -because she understood them that she dreamed of getting out of them as -soon as practicable, and of beginning that vaguely active and -remunerative existence which, for her, lay west of Illinois and anywhere -beyond that, even to the shores of the Pacific Ocean. John Ralston -himself knew very little about it, but he had rightly judged its -mythical nature when he had told her that Robert Lauderdale would do -nothing for him.</p> - -<p>The sun warmed Katharine as she walked down Madison Avenue, but -everything was black—felt black, she would have said, had she thought -aloud. Ralston would not turn upon her and say, ‘I told you so,’ because -he loved her, but she could see the expression of his face as she looked -forward to the interview. He would nod his head slowly and say nothing. -The corners of his mouth would be drawn down for a moment and his -eyelids would contract a little while he looked away from her. He would -think the matter over during about half a minute, and then, with a look -of determination, he would say that he would try what uncle Robert -proposed. He would not say anything against the plan of keeping the -marriage a secret, now that old Lauderdale knew of it, for he would see -at once that there was absolutely nothing else to be done. They had gone -over the possibilities so often—there was not one which they had not -carefully<a name="page_30" id="page_30"></a> considered. It was all so hopelessly against them still, in -spite of the one great effort Katharine had made that morning.</p> - -<p>She walked more slowly after she had passed the high level above the -railway, where it runs out of the city under ground from the central -station. As she came nearer to the neighbourhood in which John lived, -she felt for the first time in her life that she did not wish to meet -him. Though she did not admit to herself that she feared to tell him the -result of her conversation with her uncle, and though she had no -intention of going to his mother’s house and asking for him, her pace -slackened at the mere idea of being nearer to him.</p> - -<p>Then she realized what she was doing, and with a bitter little smile of -contempt at her own weakness she walked on more briskly. She had often -read in books of that sudden change in the aspect of the outer world -which disappointment brings, but she had never quite believed in it -before. She realized it now. There was no light in anything. The faces -of the people who passed her looked dead and uninteresting. Every house -looked as though a funeral procession might at any moment file out of -its door. The very pavement, drying in patches in the sunshine, felt -cold and unsympathetic under her feet.</p> - -<p>She began to wonder what she had better do,—whether she should write -John Ralston a long letter,<a name="page_31" id="page_31"></a> explaining everything, or whether she -should write him a short one, merely saying that the news was -unfavourable—‘unfavourable’ sounded better than ‘bad’ or -‘disappointing,’ she thought—and asking him to come and see her in the -afternoon. The latter course seemed preferable, and had, moreover, the -advantage of involving fewer practical difficulties, for her command -over her mother tongue was by no means very great when subjected to the -test of black and white, though in conversation it was quite equal to -her requirements on most occasions. She could even entirely avoid the -use of slang, by making a determined effort, for her father detested it, -and her mother’s conversational weaknesses were Southern and of a -different type. But on paper she was never sure of being quite right. -Punctuation was a department which she affected to despise, but which -she inwardly feared, and when alone she admitted that there were words -which she seemed to spell not as they were spelled in books—‘parallel,’ -for instance, ‘psychology’ and ‘responsibility.’ She avoided those -words, which were not very necessary to her, but with a disagreeable -suspicion that there might be others. Had ‘develop’ an ‘e’ at the end of -it, or had it not? She could never remember, and the dictionary lived in -her grandfather’s den, at some distance from her own room. The -difficulties of writing a long letter to John Ralston, whose<a name="page_32" id="page_32"></a> mother had -taught him his English before it could be taught him all wrong at a -fashionable school, rose before her eyes with absurd force, and she -decided forthwith to send for Ralston in the afternoon.</p> - -<p>Having come to a preliminary conclusion, life seemed momentarily a -little easier. She turned out of her way into Fourth Avenue, took a -horse-car, got transferred to a Christopher Street one, and in the -course of time got out at the corner of Clinton Place. She wrote the -shortest possible note to John Ralston, went out again, bought a special -delivery stamp and took the letter up to the Thirteenth Street -Post-Office—instead of dropping it into an ordinary letter-box. She did -everything, in short, to make the message reach its destination as -quickly as possible without employing a messenger.</p> - -<p>Charlotte Slayback appeared at luncheon. She preferred that meal when -she invited herself, because her father was never present, and a certain -amount of peaceful conversation was possible in his absence. It was some -time since she had been in New York, and the glimpse of her old room on -the previous afternoon irresistibly attracted her again. Katharine -hoped, however, that she would not stay long, as Ralston was to come at -three o’clock, this being usually the safest hour for his visits. Mrs. -Lauderdale would then be either at work or out of the house, the -philanthropist<a name="page_33" id="page_33"></a> would be dozing upstairs in a cloud of smoke before a -table covered with reports, and Alexander Junior would be still down -town. In consideration of the importance of getting Charlotte out of the -way, Katharine was more than usually cordial to her—a mistake often -made by young people, who do not seem to understand the very simple fact -that the best way to make people go away is generally to be as -disagreeable as possible.</p> - -<p>The consequence was that Charlotte enjoyed herself immensely, and it -required the sight of her father’s photograph, which stood upon Mrs. -Lauderdale’s writing-table in the library, to keep her from proposing to -spend two or three days in the house after her husband should have gone -back to Washington. But the photograph was there, and it was one taken -by the platinum process, which made the handsome, steely face look more -metallic than ever. Charlotte gazed at it thoughtfully, and could almost -hear the maxims of virtue and economy with which those even lips had -preached her down since she had been a child, and she decided that she -would not stay. Her husband was not to her taste, but he never preached.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lauderdale had for her eldest daughter that sentiment which is -generally described as a mother’s love, and which, as Frank Miner had -once rather coarsely put it, will stand more knocking<a name="page_34" id="page_34"></a> about than old -boots. Charlotte was spoiled, capricious, frivolous in the extreme, -ungrateful beyond description, weak where she should have been strong -and strong where she should have been tender. And Mrs. Lauderdale knew -it all, and loved her in spite of it all, though she disapproved of her -almost at every point. Charlotte had one of those characters of which -people are apt to say that they might have turned out splendidly, if -properly trained, than which no more foolish expression falls from the -lips of commonplace, virtuous humanity. Charlotte, like many women who -resemble her, had received an excellent training. The proof was that, -when she chose to behave herself, no one could seem to be more docile, -more thoughtful and considerate of others or more charming in -conversation. She had only to wish to appear well, as the phrase goes, -and the minutest details necessary to success were absolutely under her -control. What people meant when they said that she might have turned out -splendidly—though they did not at all understand the fact—was that a -woman possessing Charlotte Slayback’s natural gifts and acquired -accomplishments might have been a different person if she had been born -with a very different character—a statement quite startling in its -great simplicity. As it was, there was nothing to be done. Charlotte had -been admirably ‘trained’ in every way—so<a name="page_35" id="page_35"></a> well that she could exhibit -the finest qualities, on occasion, without any perceptible effort, even -when she felt the utmost reluctance to do so. But the occasions were -few, and were determined by questions of personal advantage, and even -more often by mere caprice.</p> - -<p>On that particular day, when she lunched quietly in her old home, her -conduct was little short of angelic, and Katharine found it hard to -realize that she was the same woman who on the previous afternoon had -made such an exhibition of contemptible pettiness and unreasoning -discontent. Katharine, had she known her sister less well, would almost -have been inclined to believe that Benjamin Slayback of Nevada was a -person with whom no wife of ordinary sensibility would possibly live. -But she knew Charlotte very well indeed.</p> - -<p>And as the hands of the clock went round towards three, Charlotte showed -no intention of going away, to Katharine’s infinite annoyance, for she -knew that Ralston would be punctual, and would probably come even a -little before the time she had named. It would not do to let him walk -into the library, after the late scene between him and her mother. The -latter had said nothing more about the matter, but only one day had -intervened since Mrs. Lauderdale had so unexpectedly expressed her total -disapproval of Katharine’s relations<a name="page_36" id="page_36"></a> with John. It was not probable -that Mrs. Lauderdale, who was not a changeable woman, would go back to -her original position in the course of a few hours, and there would -certainly be trouble if John appeared with no particular excuse.</p> - -<p>Katharine, as may be imagined, was by no means in a normal mood, and if -she made herself agreeable to her sister, it was not at first without a -certain effort, which did not decrease, in spite of Charlotte’s own -exceptionally good temper, because as the latter grew more and more -amiable, she also seemed more and more inclined to spend the whole -afternoon where she was.</p> - -<p>Hints about going out, about going upstairs to the room in which Mrs. -Lauderdale painted, about possible visitors, had no effect whatever. -Charlotte was enjoying herself and her mother was delighted to keep her -and listen to her conversation. Katharine thought at last that she -should be reduced to the necessity of waiting in the entry until Ralston -came, in order to send him away again before he could get into the -library by mistake. She hated the plan, which certainly lacked dignity, -and she watched the hands of the clock, growing nervous and absent in -what she said, as she saw that the fatal hour was approaching.</p> - -<p>At twenty minutes to three Charlotte was describing to her mother the -gown worn by the English ambassadress at the last official dinner<a name="page_37" id="page_37"></a> at -the White House. At a quarter to three she was giving an amusing account -of the last filibustering affray in the House, which she had -witnessed—it having been arranged beforehand to take place at a given -point in the proceedings—from the gallery reserved for members’ -families. Five minutes later she was telling anecdotes about a -deputation from the South Sea Islands. Katharine could hardly sit still -as she watched the inexorable hands. At five minutes to three Charlotte -struck the subject of painting, and Katharine felt that it was all over. -Suddenly Charlotte herself glanced at the clock and sprang up.</p> - -<p>“I had forgotten all about poor little Crowdie!” she exclaimed. “He was -coming at three to take me to the Loan Exhibition,” she added, looking -about her for her hat and gloves.</p> - -<p>“Here?” asked Katharine, aghast.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no—at the hotel, of course. I must run as fast as I can. There are -still cabs at the Brevoort House corner, aren’t there? Thank you, my -dear—” Katharine had found all her things and was already tying on the -little veil. “I do hope he’ll wait.”</p> - -<p>“Of course he will!” answered Katharine, with amazing certainty. “You’re -all right, dear—now run!” she added, pushing her sister towards the -door.</p> - -<p>“Do come to dinner, Charlie!” cried Mrs. Lauderdale,<a name="page_38" id="page_38"></a> following her. -“It’s so nice to see something of you!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—she’ll come—but you mustn’t keep her, mamma—she’s awfully -late as it is!”</p> - -<p>From a condition of apparently hopeless apathy, Katharine was suddenly -roused to exert all her energies. It was two minutes to three as she -closed the glass door behind her sister. Fortunately Ralston had not -come before his time.</p> - -<p>“I suppose you’re going to work now, mamma?” Katharine suggested, doing -her best to speak calmly, as she turned to her mother, who was standing -in the door of the library.</p> - -<p>She had never before wished that Ralston were an unpunctual man, nor -that her mother, to whom she was devotedly attached, were at the bottom -of the sea.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes! I suppose so,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale. “How delightful -Charlotte was to-day, wasn’t she?”</p> - -<p>Her face was fresh and rested. She leaned against the doorpost as though -deciding whether to go upstairs at once or to go back into the library. -With a movement natural to her she raised her graceful arms, folding her -hands together behind her head, and leaning back against the woodwork, -looking lazily at Katharine as she did so. She felt that small -difficulty, at the moment, of going back to the daily occupation after -spending an<a name="page_39" id="page_39"></a> exceptionally pleasant hour in some one’s company, which is -familiar to all hard workers. Katharine stood still, trying to hide her -anxiety. The clock must be just going to strike, she thought.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter, child? You seem nervous and worried about -something.” She asked the question with a certain curiosity.</p> - -<p>“Do I?” asked Katharine, trying to affect indifference.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lauderdale did not move. In the half light of the doorway she was -still very beautiful, as she stood there trying to make up her mind to -go to her work. Katharine was in despair, and turned over the cards that -lay in a deep dish on the table, reading the names mechanically.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” continued her mother. “You look as though you were expecting -something—or somebody.”</p> - -<p>The clock struck, and almost at the same instant Katharine heard -Ralston’s quick, light tread on the stone steps outside the house. She -had a sudden inspiration.</p> - -<p>“There’s a visitor coming, mother!” she whispered quickly. “Run away, -and I’ll tell Annie not to let him in.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lauderdale, fortunately, did not care to receive any one, but -instead of going upstairs she merely nodded, just as the bell rang, and -retired into the library again, shutting the door behind<a name="page_40" id="page_40"></a> her. Katharine -was left alone in the entry, and she could see the dark, indistinct -shape of John Ralston through the ground-glass pane of the front door. -She hesitated an instant, doubting whether it would not be wisest to -open the door herself, send him away, and then, slipping on her things, -to follow him a moment later into the street. But in the same instant -she reflected that her mother had very possibly gone to the window to -see who the visitor had been when he should descend the steps again. -Most women do that in houses where it is possible. Then, too, her mother -would expect to hear Annie’s footsteps passing the library, as the girl -went to the front door.</p> - -<p>There was the dining-room, and it could be reached from the entry by -passing through the pantry. Annie was devoted to Katharine, and at a -whispered word would lead Ralston silently thither. The closed room -between the dining-room and the library would effectually cut off the -sound of voices. But that, too, struck Katharine as being beneath -her—to confide in a servant! She could not do it, and was further -justified by the reflection that even if she followed that course, her -mother, who was doubtless at the window, would not see Ralston go away, -and would naturally conclude that the visitor had remained in the house, -whoever he might be.</p> - -<p>Katharine stood irresolute, watching Ralston’s<a name="page_41" id="page_41"></a> shadow on the pane, and -listening to Annie’s rapidly approaching tread from the regions of the -pantry at the end of the entry. A moment later and the girl was by her -side.</p> - -<p>“If it’s Mr. Ralston, don’t shut the door again till I’ve spoken to -him,” she said, in a low voice. “My mother isn’t receiving, if it’s a -visitor.”</p> - -<p>She stood behind Annie as the latter opened the door. John was there, as -she had expected, and Annie stepped back. Katharine raised her finger to -her lips, warning him not to speak. He looked surprised, but stood -bareheaded on the threshold.</p> - -<p>“You must go away at once, Jack,” she whispered. “My mother is in the -library, looking out of the window, and I can’t possibly see you alone. -Wait for me near the door at the Assembly to-night. Go, dear—it’s -impossible now. I’ll tell you afterwards.”</p> - -<p>In her anxiety not to rouse her mother’s suspicions, she shut the door -almost before he had nodded his assent. She scarcely saw the blank look -that came into his face, and the utter disappointment in his eyes.</p> - -<p>Seeing that the door was shut, Annie turned and went away. Katharine -hesitated a moment, passed her hand over her brow, glanced mechanically -once more at the cards in the china dish on the table and then went into -the library. To her surprise her mother was not there, but the folding -door<a name="page_42" id="page_42"></a> which led to the dark drawing-room was half rolled back, and it -was clear that Mrs. Lauderdale had gone through the dining-room, and had -probably reached her own apartment by the back staircase of the house. -Katharine was on the point of running into the street and calling -Ralston back. She hesitated a moment, and then going hastily to the -window threw up the sash and looked out, hoping that he might be still -within hearing. But looking eastward, towards Fifth Avenue, he was not -to be seen amongst the moving pedestrians, of whom there were many just -then. She turned to see whether he had taken the other direction, and -saw him at once, but already far down the street, walking fast, with his -head bent low and his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He was -evidently going to take the elevated road up town.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Jack—I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed softly to herself, still looking -after him as he disappeared in the distance.</p> - -<p>Then she drew down the window again, and went and sat in her accustomed -place in the small armchair opposite to her mother’s sofa. She thought -very uncharitably of Charlotte during the next quarter of an hour, but -she promised herself to get into a corner with Ralston that evening, at -the great ball, and to explain all the circumstances to him as minutely -as they have been explained here. She was angry with her mother, too, -for not<a name="page_43" id="page_43"></a> having gone up the front staircase, as she might just as well -have done, but she was very glad she had not condescended to the -manœuvre of introducing John into the dining-room by the back way, as -she would have probably just met Mrs. Lauderdale as the latter passed -through. On the whole, it seemed to Katharine that she had done as -wisely as the peculiarly difficult circumstances had allowed, and that -although there was much to regret, she had done nothing of which she -needed to repent.</p> - -<p>It seemed to her, too, as she began to recover from the immediate -annoyance of failure, that she had gained several hours more than she -had expected, in which to think over what she should say to Ralston when -they met. And she at once set herself the task of recalling everything -that Robert Lauderdale had said to her, with the intention of repeating -it as accurately as possible, since she could not expect to say it any -better than he had said it himself. It was necessary that Ralston should -understand it, as she had understood it, and should see that although -uncle Robert was quite ready to be generous he could not undertake to -perform miracles. Those had been the old gentleman’s own words.</p> - -<p>Then she began to wonder whether, after all, it would not be better to -accept what he offered—the small, settled income which was so good to<a name="page_44" id="page_44"></a> -think of—and to get rid of all this secrecy, which oppressed her much -more since she had been told that it must last, than when she had -expected that it would involve at most the delay of a week. The deep -depression which she began to feel at her heart, now that she was alone -again, made the simple means of escape from all her anxieties look very -tempting to her, and she dwelt on it. If she begged Ralston to forget -his pride for her sake, as she was willing to forget her own for his, -and to let her take the money, he would surely yield. Once together, -openly married before the world, things would be so much easier. He and -she could talk all day, unhindered and unobserved, and plan the future -at their leisure, and it was not possible that with all the joint -intelligence they could bring to bear upon the problem, it should still -remain unsolved.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, Ralston had gone up town, very much more disappointed than -Katharine knew. Strange to say, their marriage seemed far more important -in his eyes than in hers, and he had lived all day, since they had -parted at ten o’clock in the morning, in nervous anticipation of seeing -her again before night. He had gone home at once, and had spent the -hours alone, for his mother had gone out to luncheon. Until the -messenger with Katharine’s specially stamped letter rang at the door, he -would not have gone out of<a name="page_45" id="page_45"></a> the house for any consideration, and after -he had read it he sat counting the minutes until he could reasonably -expect to use up the remaining time in walking to Clinton Place. As it -was, he had reached the corner a quarter of an hour before the time, and -his extreme punctuality was to be accounted for by the fact that he had -set his watch with the Lauderdales’ library clock,—as he always did -nowadays,—and that he looked at it every thirty seconds, as he walked -up and down the street, timing himself so exactly that the hands were -precisely at the hour of three when he took hold of the bell.</p> - -<p>There are few small disappointments in the world comparable with that of -a man who has been told by the woman he loves to come at a certain hour, -who appears at her door with military punctuality and who is told to go -away again instantly, no adequate excuse being given for the summary -dismissal. Men all know that, but few women realize it.</p> - -<p>“Considering the rather unusual situation,” thought Ralston, angrily, -“she might have managed to get her mother out of the way for half an -hour. Besides, her mother wouldn’t have stoned me to death, if she had -let me come in—and, after last night, I shouldn’t think she would care -very much for the sort of privacy one has in a ball-room.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_46" id="page_46"></a></p> - -<p>He had waited all day to see her, and he had nothing to do until the -evening, when he had to go to a dinner-party before the Assembly ball. -He naturally thought of his club, as a quiet place where he could be -alone with his annoyances and disappointments between three and four -o’clock, and he took the elevated road as the shortest way of getting -there.<a name="page_47" id="page_47"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Ralston</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_48" id="page_48"></a> 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<a name="page_49" id="page_49"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.<a name="page_50" id="page_50"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Hallo, Jack!” he cried, cheerily. “I knew those were your legs all the -time.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. Why should I?” Miner went on with his letter, having -evidently interrupted himself in the midst of a sentence.</p> - -<p>Ralston wished something would happen. He felt suddenly inclined to -throw something at Miner,<a name="page_51" id="page_51"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to drink,” answered Ralston, gloomily, and, out of pure -contrariety, he took up his paper again.</p> - -<p>Miner looked long and steadily at him, closed his letter, put it into -his pocket and crossed the room.</p> - -<p>“I say, Jack,” he said, in an absurdly solemn tone, “are you ill, old -man?”</p> - -<p>“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.<a name="page_52" id="page_52"></a></p> - -<p>“There’s something wrong, anyhow,” said Miner, thoughtfully. “Never knew -you to refuse to drink before. I’ll be damned, you know!”</p> - -<p>“I haven’t a doubt of it, my dear fellow. I always told you so.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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!”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“I’m going to stay here,” answered Ralston, without a smile. “Go ahead -and get your drink.”</p> - -<p>“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!”</p> - -<p><a name="page_53" id="page_53"></a></p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“That’s an old, cold chestnut,” retorted Miner, turning to go, but not -really in the least annoyed.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Lauderdale wishes to speak to you at the telephone, sir,” said the -servant.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Which Mr. Lauderdale?” asked Ralston, with a sudden frown. “Mr. -Alexander Lauderdale Junior?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, sir. The gentleman’s at the telephone, sir.”</p> - -<p>This seemed to be added as a gentle hint not to<a name="page_54" id="page_54"></a> keep any one of the -name of Lauderdale waiting too long.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.<a name="page_55" id="page_55"></a> Crowdie seemed excessively irritated about something.</p> - -<p>“Confound that fellow!” he exclaimed, giving vent to his feelings as he -turned and saw Miner close upon him.</p> - -<p>“Who? Me?” enquired the little man, with a laugh. “Everybody’s purple -with rage in this club to-day—I’m going home.”</p> - -<p>“You? No—is that you, Frank? No—I mean that everlasting Ralston.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! What’s he done to you? What’s the matter with Ralston?”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—then he is drunk, is he?” asked Crowdie, with a disagreeable sneer -on his red lips.</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” answered Miner, quite carelessly.<a name="page_56" id="page_56"></a> “At all events, he -refused to drink—that’s always a bad sign with him.”</p> - -<p>“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!”</p> - -<p>“What are you two squabbling about?” enquired Hamilton Bright, coming -suddenly upon them out of the cloak-room.</p> - -<p>“We’re not squabbling—we’re cursing Ralston,” answered Miner.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Is he as bad as that, Frank?” asked Bright, gravely. “Where is he?”</p> - -<p>“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<a name="page_57" id="page_57"></a> -wanted to make a joke. I thought it might do Crowdie good—”</p> - -<p>“Well, it’s a very bad one,” said Bright. “He’s at the telephone, you -say?”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“All right, Ham!” he exclaimed. “Everybody gets into my way to-day. Let -go, man! I’m in a hurry!”</p> - -<p><a name="page_58" id="page_58"></a></p> - -<p>“Wait a bit,” said Bright. “I’ll come with you—”</p> - -<p>“No—you can’t. Let me go, Ham! What the deuce are you holding me for?”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“I’m going with you, Jack, whether you like it or not,” said the latter, -with mistaken firmness in his good intentions.</p> - -<p>“You’re not, I can tell you!” answered Ralston, in a lower tone. “Just -let me go—or there’ll be trouble here.”</p> - -<p>He was furious at the delay, but Bright’s powerful hand did not relax -its grasp on his arm.</p> - -<p>“Jack, old man,” said Bright, in a coaxing tone, “just come upstairs for -a quarter of an hour, and get quiet—”</p> - -<p>“Oh—that’s it, is it? You think I’m screwed. I’m not. Let me -go—once—twice—”</p> - -<p>Ralston’s face was now white with anger. The<a name="page_59" id="page_59"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_004_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_004_sml.jpg" width="277" height="448" alt="“Before he could even raise his head, Ralston was out of -the door and in the street.”—Vol. II., 57." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">“Before he could even raise his head, Ralston was out of -the door and in the street.”—Vol. II., <a href="#page_57">57.</a></span> -</div> - -<p><a name="page_60" id="page_60"></a></p> - -<p><a name="page_61" id="page_61"></a></p> - -<p class="nind">unjust accusation was the last drop. He was growing dangerous, but -Bright, in the pride of his superior strength, still held him firmly.</p> - -<p>“Take care!” said Ralston, almost in a whisper. “I’ve counted two.” He -paused a full two seconds. “Three! There you go!”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Look here, Bright,” he said gravely, watching Bright’s back. “This sort -of thing can’t go on, you know.”</p> - -<p>Bright said nothing, but continued to dust himself, though there was not -the least mark on his clothes.</p> - -<p>“Upon my word,” observed Crowdie, walking slowly up and down in his -ungraceful way, “I<a name="page_62" id="page_62"></a> 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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>Bright’s big shoulders squared themselves all at once and he faced -about, apparently quite cool again.</p> - -<p>“I say,” he began, “did anybody see that but you two?” He looked up and -down the deserted hall.</p> - -<p>“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!”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Look here,” said Bright to them. “If you say anything about what you -saw just now, you’ll<a name="page_63" id="page_63"></a> 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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“That’s nonsense, Walter, and you know it is,” -answered Bright, curtly, and he turned to Miner with a look of enquiry.</p> - -<p><a name="page_64" id="page_64"></a></p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“What’s a pilot’s two fingers?” asked Bright. “I’ll accept your -hospitality to that modest extent, anyhow. Show us.”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p><a name="page_65" id="page_65"></a></p> - -<p>“A drop of maraschino, thanks,” said the painter.</p> - -<p>“Maraschino!” Miner made a wry face at the thought of the sugary stuff. -“All right then, come in!”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_66" id="page_66"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_67" id="page_67"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_68" id="page_68"></a> action upon such a character. Ralston was -undoubtedly a dangerous man to exasperate at five o’clock on that -Thursday afternoon.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_69" id="page_69"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_70" id="page_70"></a> -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.<a name="page_71" id="page_71"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Ralston</span> 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.</p> - -<p>“So you’re married,” said Robert Lauderdale, abruptly opening the -conversation.</p> - -<p>“Then you’ve seen Katharine,” answered the young man. “I wasn’t sure you -had.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_72" id="page_72"></a></p> - -<p>“Hasn’t she told you?”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” ejaculated the old man. “That rather alters the case.”</p> - -<p>“How?” enquired Ralston, whose bad temper made him instinctively choose -to understand as little as possible of what was said.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“What things?” asked Ralston, doggedly.</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>Robert Lauderdale looked at him in some surprise, for the tone of his -voice sounded unaccountably hostile.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t ask you to come for the sake of quarrelling with you, Jack,” -he replied.</p> - -<p>“No. I didn’t suppose so.”</p> - -<p>“But you seem to be in a confoundedly bad temper all the same,” observed -the old gentleman, and<a name="page_73" id="page_73"></a> his bushy eyebrows moved oddly above his bright -old eyes.</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>The latter suddenly sniffed the air discontentedly, and frowned.</p> - -<p>“It’s those abominable cocktails you’re always drinking, Jack,” he said.</p> - -<p>“I’ve not been drinking any,” answered Ralston, momentarily forgetting -the forgetfulness which had so angered him ten minutes earlier.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense!” cried the old man, angrily. “Do you think that I’m in my -dotage, Jack? It’s whiskey. I can smell it!”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Ralston paused. “It’s true—on my way here, I began to drink -something and then put it down.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>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.<a name="page_74" id="page_74"></a></p> - -<p>“If you’ve sent for me to lecture me on my habits, I shall go,” he said, -moving as though about to rise.</p> - -<p>“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!”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“That’s what I sent for you about,” he said.</p> - -<p>Ralston turned suddenly and faced him.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” he asked sharply.</p> - -<p>“Take it, and see.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“It’s not for you. It’s a matter of business. Take it!”</p> - -<p>Ralston shifted his hat into his left hand and<a name="page_75" id="page_75"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>“It’s a curiosity, at all events,” he said with contempt, laying it on -the table.</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” cried his uncle, growing redder as Ralston turned -white.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—would you?” The old gentleman looked at Ralston with a sort of -fierce, contemptuous unbelief.</p> - -<p>“Yes—I would. So would Katharine. I daresay she told you so.”</p> - -<p>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.<a name="page_76" id="page_76"></a></p> - -<p>‘Pay to the order of John Ralston one million dollars, Robert -Lauderdale.’</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“That’s a curiosity, too,” he said, almost unconsciously. “I never saw -one.”</p> - -<p>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.<a name="page_77" id="page_77"></a></p> - -<p>“That was a million of dollars,” he said, in an odd voice, as the shreds -fell into the basket.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“You’re either tipsy—or you’re a better man than I took you for,” said -Robert Lauderdale, slowly regaining his composure.</p> - -<p>“You’ve suggested already that I am probably drunk,” answered Ralston, -brutally. “I’ll leave you to consider the matter. Good evening.”</p> - -<p>He went towards the door. Old Lauderdale looked after him a moment and -then rose, heavily, as big old men do.</p> - -<p>“Jack! Come back! Don’t be a fool, my boy!”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>Ralston shrank from his touch, not because he<a name="page_78" id="page_78"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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<a name="page_79" id="page_79"></a> -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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“You’re an insolent young vagabond!” he cried, breaking into a fresh fit -of anger. “You’re insulting me in my own house.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_80" id="page_80"></a></p> - -<p>“You’ve been insulting me in your own house for the last quarter of an -hour,” retorted Ralston.</p> - -<p>“And you’re throwing away the last chance you’ll ever get from me—”</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t much of a chance—for a gentleman,” sneered the young man, -interrupting him.</p> - -<p>“Confound it! Can’t you let me speak? I say—” He hesitated, losing the -thread of his intended speech in his anger.</p> - -<p>“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!”</p> - -<p>“John!” roared the old man, shaking him by the arm. “Be silent, sir! I -won’t submit to such language!”</p> - -<p>“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—”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_81" id="page_81"></a></p> - -<p>“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—”</p> - -<p>“By the Eternal—this is too much—you young—puppy! You graceless, -ungrateful—”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_82" id="page_82"></a> upon the -polished wooden floor. The young man stooped as he spoke the last words, -and picked it up.</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“No—I daresay not,” answered Ralston, coldly.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_83" id="page_83"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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,<a name="page_84" id="page_84"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_85" id="page_85"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_86" id="page_86"></a> length upon a heap of building material piled -upon the pavement.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.<a name="page_87" id="page_87"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_88" id="page_88"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_89" id="page_89"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_90" id="page_90"></a> -difficulty the name in black letters. He was in Tompkins Square.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Before long he reached a horse-car track and waited for the car to come -up, without the least<a name="page_91" id="page_91"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>He had two more intervals of consciousness.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_92" id="page_92"></a> he saw a vivid flash of light, and -then he was unconscious again.</p> - -<p>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.<a name="page_93" id="page_93"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katharine</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_94" id="page_94"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>At last, however, Katharine determined to speak<a name="page_95" id="page_95"></a> 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<a name="page_96" id="page_96"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.<a name="page_97" id="page_97"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>“Well, child, have you come back to me?” asked Mrs. Lauderdale, with a -smile.</p> - -<p>There was nothing affected in her manner, for she had too long been -first, yet she knew that her<a name="page_98" id="page_98"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>“You’re perfectly beautiful to-night, mother!” she exclaimed, in genuine -admiration.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, at last. “I’ve not seen him. I don’t believe he’s here. -In fact—” she was a<a name="page_99" id="page_99"></a> truthful woman—“in fact, I’m quite sure he’s not. -Did you expect him?”</p> - -<p>“Of course,” answered Katharine, in a low voice. “He always comes.”</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a> that she -should tell Katharine nothing, which was, after all, the wisest plan.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“I saw you talking to Mrs. Crowdie,” said Mrs. Lauderdale. “She’s -charming, isn’t she?”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“By the bye, where is she?” asked Katharine,<a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a> in the momentary pause -which followed. “I was looking for her.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. How can you tell that she is looking for her husband at this -distance?” Katharine laughed.</p> - -<p>“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—”</p> - -<p>“What did Mr. Crowdie have in Paris?” asked Katharine, with sudden -interest, and interrupting him.</p> - -<p>“Oh—he was subject to bad colds in winter,” answered Mr. Griggs, -coolly. “Lungs affected, I<a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a> 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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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.<a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a></p> - -<p>“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—”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Hester, what is it?” asked Katharine, bending nearer to her and -laying a hand on hers.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Not well? Is he ill? Where is he? At home?” Katharine asked the -questions all in a breath, with no suspicion that Hester had softened -the truth almost altogether into something else.</p> - -<p>“I suppose he’s at home, since he’s not here,” answered Mrs. Crowdie,<a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a> -wishing that she had said so at first and had said nothing more.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Hester! What is it? I know it’s something dreadful!” cried -Katharine. “I shall go and ask Mr. Crowdie if you won’t tell me.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t!” exclaimed Mrs. Crowdie, so quickly and so loudly that the -people near her turned to see what was the matter.</p> - -<p>“You’ve told me, now—he must be very ill, or you wouldn’t speak like -that!” Katharine’s lips began to turn white, and she half rose from her -seat.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Crowdie drew her back again very gently.</p> - -<p>“No, dear—no, I assure—I give you my word it’s not that, dear—oh, I’m -so sorry I said anything!” Katharine yielded, and resumed her seat.</p> - -<p>“Hester, what is it?” she asked very gravely for the third time. “You’re -my best friend—the only friend I have besides him. If it’s anything -bad, I’d much rather hear it from you. But I can’t stand this suspense. -I shall ask everybody until somebody tells me the truth.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Crowdie seemed to reflect for a moment before answering, but even -while she was thinking of what she should say, her passionate eyes -sought for her husband’s pale face in the crowd—the pale face and the -red lips that so many women thought repulsive.</p> - -<p>“Dear,” she said at last, “it’s foolish to make<a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a> such a fuss and to -frighten you. That sort of thing has happened to almost all men at one -time or another—really, you know! You mustn’t blame Jack too much—”</p> - -<p>“For what? For what? Speak, Hester! Don’t try to—”</p> - -<p>“Katharine darling, Walter says that Jack was—well—you know—just a -little far gone—and they had some trouble with him at the club. I don’t -know—it seems that my brother tried to hold him for some reason or -other—it’s not quite clear—and Jack threw Ham down, there in the hall -of the club, before a lot of people—Katharine dearest, I’m so sorry I -spoke!”</p> - -<p>Katharine was leaning back against the cushion, her hands folded -together, and her face set like a mask; but she said nothing, and -scarcely seemed to be listening, though she heard every word.</p> - -<p>“Of course, dear,” continued Mrs. Crowdie, “I know how you love him—but -you mustn’t think any the worse of him for this. Ham just told me it -wasn’t—well—it wasn’t as bad as Walter made out, and he was very angry -with Walter for telling me—as though he would keep anything from me!”</p> - -<p>She stopped again, being much more inclined to talk of Crowdie than of -Ralston, and to defend his indiscretion. Katharine did not move nor -change her position, and her eyes looked straight<a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a> before her, though it -was clear that they saw nothing.</p> - -<p>“I’m glad it was you who told me,” she said in a low, monotonous tone.</p> - -<p>“So am I,” answered her friend, sympathetically. “And I’m sure it’s not -half as bad as they—”</p> - -<p>“They all know it,” continued Katharine, not heeding her. “I can see it -in their eyes when they look at me.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, Katharine—nobody but Walter and Ham—”</p> - -<p>“Your husband told my mother, too. She spoke very oddly. He’s been -telling every one. Why does he want to make trouble? Does he hate Jack -so?”</p> - -<p>“Hate him? No, indeed! I think he’s rather fond of him—”</p> - -<p>“It’s a very treacherous sort of fondness, then,” answered Katharine, -with a bitter little laugh, and changing her position at last, so that -she looked into her friend’s face.</p> - -<p>“Katharine!” exclaimed Hester. “How can you talk like that—telling me -that Walter is treacherous—”</p> - -<p>“Oh—you mustn’t mind what I say—I’m a little upset—I didn’t mean to -hurt you, dear.”</p> - -<p>Katharine rose, and without another word she left her friend and began -to go up the side<a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a> of the room alone, looking for some one as she went. -In a moment one of her numerous young adorers was by her side. He had -seen her talking to Mrs. Crowdie, and had watched his opportunity.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Katharine, absently, and without looking at him. “I don’t -want to dance, thanks. I want to find my cousin, Hamilton Bright. Have -you seen him?”</p> - -<p>“Oh—ah—yes!” answered the young man, with an imitation of the advanced -English manner of twenty years ago, which seems to have become the ideal -of our gilded youth of to-day. “He’s in the corner under the -balcony—he’s been—er—rather leathering into Crowdie—you -know—er—for talking about Jack Ralston’s last, all over the place—I -daresay you’ve heard of it, Miss Lauderdale—being—er—a cousin of your -own, too. No end game, that Ralston chap!”</p> - -<p>Katharine lost her temper suddenly. She stopped and looked the young -dandy in the eyes. He never forgot the look of hers, nor the paleness of -her lips as she spoke.</p> - -<p>“You’re rather young to speak like that of older men, Mr. Van De Water,” -she said.</p> - -<p>She coolly turned her back on the annihilated youth and walked away from -him alone, almost as surprised at what she had done as he was. He, poor -boy, got very red in the face, stood still,<a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a> helped himself into -countenance by sticking a single glass in his eye and then went in -search of his dearest friend, the man who had just discovered that -extraordinary tailor in New Burlington Street, you know.</p> - -<p>Katharine had been half stunned by what Hester Crowdie had told her, -which she felt instinctively was not more than a moiety of the truth. -She had barely recovered her self-possession when she was met by what -rang like an insult in her ears. It was no wonder that her blood boiled. -Without looking to the right or to the left, she went forward till she -was under the great balcony, and there, by one of the pillars, she came -upon Bright and Crowdie talking together in low, excited tones.</p> - -<p>Bright’s big shoulders slowly heaved as in his anger he took about twice -as much breath as he needed into his lungs at every sentence. His fresh, -pink face was red, and his bright blue eyes flashed visibly. What the -young dandy had said was evidently true. He was still ‘leathering into’ -Crowdie with all his might, which was considerable.</p> - -<p>Crowdie, perfectly cool and collected, leaned against the wooden pillar -with a disagreeable sneer on his red mouth. One hand was in his pocket; -the other hung by his side, and his fingers quietly tapped a little -measure upon the fluted column. Almost every one has that trick of -tapping upon<a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a> something in moments of anxiety or uncertainty, but the -way in which it is done is very characteristic of the individual. -Crowdie’s pointed white fingers did it delicately, drawing back lightly -from contact with the wood, as a woman’s might, or as though he were -playing upon a fine instrument.</p> - -<p>“It’s just like you, Walter,” Bright was saying, to go about telling the -thing to all the women. Didn’t I tell you this afternoon that I was the -principal person concerned, that it was my business and not yours and -that if I wished it kept quiet, nobody need tell? And you said yourself -that you hoped Hester might not hear it, and then the very first thing I -find is that you’ve told her and cousin Emma and probably Katharine -herself—”</p> - -<p>“No, I’ve not told Katharine,” said Crowdie, calmly. “I shan’t, because -she loves him. The Lord knows why! Drunken beast! I shall leave the club -myself, since he’s not to be turned out—”</p> - -<p>Crowdie stopped suddenly, for he was more timid than most men, and his -face plainly expressed fear at that moment—but not of Hamilton Bright. -Katharine Lauderdale was looking at him over Bright’s shoulder and had -plainly heard what he had said. A man’s fear of woman under certain -circumstances exceeds his utmost possible fear of man. The painter knew -at once that he had accidentally done Katharine something like a mortal -injury. He felt as a man must feel who has accidentally<a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a> shot some one -while playing with a loaded pistol.</p> - -<p>As for Katharine, this was the third blow she had received within five -minutes. The fact that she was in a measure prepared for it had not -diminished its force. It had the effect, however, of quenching her -rising anger instead of further inflaming it, as young Van De Water’s -foolish remarks had done. She begun to feel that she had a real calamity -to face—something against which mere anger would have no effect. She -heard every word Crowdie said, and each struck her with cruel precision -in the same aching spot. But she drew herself up proudly as she came -between the two men. There was something almost queenly in the quiet -dignity with which she affected to ignore what she had heard, even -trying to give her white lips the shadow of a civil smile as she spoke.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Crowdie, I wish to speak to Hamilton a moment—you don’t mind, do -you?”</p> - -<p>Crowdie looked at her with undisguised amazement and admiration. He -uttered some polite but half inaudible words and moved away, glad, -perhaps, to get out of the sphere of Bright’s invective. Bright -understood very well that Katharine had heard, and admired her calmness -almost as much as Crowdie did, though he did not know as much as the -latter concerning Katharine’s relations with<a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a> Ralston. Hester Crowdie, -who told her husband everything, had told him most of what Katharine had -confided to her, not considering it a betrayal of confidence, because -she trusted him implicitly. No day of disenchantment had yet come for -her.</p> - -<p>“Won’t you come and sit down?” asked Bright, rather anxiously. “There’s -a corner there.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Katharine, moving in the direction of the vacant seats.</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid you heard what that brute said,” Bright remarked before they -had reached the place. “If I’d seen you coming—”</p> - -<p>“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” Katharine answered. Then they -sat down side by side. “It’s much too serious a matter to be angry -about,” she continued, settling herself and looking at his face, and -feeling that it was a relief to see a pair of honest blue eyes at last. -“That’s why I come to you. It happened to you, it seems. Everybody is -talking about it, and I have some right to know—” She hesitated and -then continued. “He’s a near relation and all that, of course, and -whatever he does makes a difference to us all—my mother has heard, -too—I’m sure Mr. Crowdie told her. Didn’t he?”</p> - -<p>“I believe so,” answered Bright. “He’s just like a—oh, well! I’ll swear -at him when I’m alone.”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad you’re angry with him,” said Katharine,<a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a> and her eyes flashed -a little. “It’s so mean! But that’s not the question. I want to know -from your own lips what happened—and why he’s not here. I have a right -to know because—because we were going to dance the cotillion -together—and besides—”</p> - -<p>She hesitated again, and stopped altogether this time.</p> - -<p>“It’s very natural, I’m sure,” said Bright, who was not the type of men -who seek confidences. “Crowdie has made it all out much worse than it -was. He’s a—I mean—I wish I’d met him when I was driving cattle in the -Nacimiento Valley!”</p> - -<p>Katharine had never seen Bright so angry before, and the sight was very -soothing and comforting to her. She fully concurred in Bright’s -last-expressed wish.</p> - -<p>“You’re Jack’s best friend, aren’t you?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh, well—a friend—he always says he hasn’t any. But I daresay I’d do -as much for him as most of them, though, if I had to. I always liked the -fellow for his dash, and we generally get on very well together. He’s -just a trifle lively sometimes, and he doesn’t go well on the curb when -he’s had—when he’s too lively—”</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you say when he drinks?” asked Katharine, biting on the -words, as it were, though she forced herself to say them.<a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a></p> - -<p>“Well, he doesn’t drink exactly,” said Bright. “He’s got an awfully -strong head and a cast-iron constitution, but he’s a queer chap. He gets -melancholy, and thinks he’s a failure and tries to cheer himself with -cocktails. And then, you see, having such a nerve, he doesn’t know -exactly how many he takes; and there’s a limit, of course—and the last -one does the trick. Then he won’t take anything to speak of for days -together. He got a little too much on board last Monday—but that was -excusable, and I hadn’t seen him that way for a long time. I daresay you -heard of it? He saved a boy’s life between a lot of carts and -horse-cars, and got a bad fall; and then, quite naturally—just as I -should have done myself—he swallowed a big dose of something, and it -went to his head. But he went straight home in a cab, so I suppose it -was all right. It was a pretty brave thing he did—talk of baseball! It -was one of the smartest bits of fielding I ever saw—the way he caught -up the little chap, and the dog and the perambulator—forgot nothing, -though it was a close shave. Oh—he’s brave enough! It’s a pity he can’t -find anything to do.”</p> - -<p>“Monday,” repeated Katharine, thoughtfully. “Yes—I heard about it. Go -on, please, Ham—about to-day. I want to hear everything there is.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—Crowdie talks like a fool about it. I suppose Jack was a little -depressed, or something,<a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a> and had been trying to screw himself up a bit. -Anyway, he looked rather wild, and I tried to persuade him to stay a -little while before going out of the club—it was in the hall, you know. -I behaved like an ass myself—you know I’m awfully obstinate. He really -did look a little wild, though! I held his arm—just like that, you -know—” he laid his broad hand upon Katharine’s glove—“and then, -somehow, we got fooling together—there in the hall—and he tripped me -up on my back, and ran out. It was all over in a minute; and I was -rather angry at the time, because Crowdie and little Frank Miner were -there, and a couple of servants. But I give you my word, I didn’t say -anything beyond making them all four swear that they wouldn’t tell—”</p> - -<p>“And this is the result!” said Katharine, with a sigh. “What was that he -said about being turned out of the club?”</p> - -<p>“Crowdie? Oh—some nonsense or other! He felt his ladyship offended -because there had been a bit of a wrestling match in the hall of his -club, that’s all, and said he meant to leave it—”</p> - -<p>“No—but about Jack being turned out—”</p> - -<p>“It’s all nonsense of Crowdie’s. Men are turned out of a club for -cheating at cards, and that sort of thing. Besides, Jack’s popular with -most of the men. I don’t believe you could get a committee to sit on his -offences—not if he locked the<a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a> oldest member up in the ice-chest, and -threw the billiard-table out of the window. He says he has no -friends—but it’s all bosh, you know—everybody likes him, except that -doughy brother-in-law of mine!”</p> - -<p>Katharine was momentarily comforted by Bright’s account of the matter, -delivered in his familiar, uncompromising fashion. But she was very far -from regaining her composure. She saw that Bright was purposely making -light of the matter; and in the course of the silence, which lasted -several minutes after he had finished speaking, it all looked worse than -it had looked before she had known the exact truth.</p> - -<p>She felt, too, an instinct of repulsion from Ralston, which she had -never known, nor dreamed possible. Could he not have controlled himself -a few hours longer? It was their wedding day. Twelve hours had not -passed from the time when they had left the church together until he had -been drunk—positively drunk, to the point of knocking down his best -friend in such a place as a club. She could not deny the facts. Even -Hamilton Bright, kind—more than kind, devoted—did not attempt to -conceal the fact that Ralston had been what he called ‘lively.’ And if -Bright could not try to make him out to have been sober, who could?</p> - -<p>And they had been married that morning! If he had been sober—the word -cut her like a whip<a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>—if he had been sober, they would at that very -moment have been sitting together—planning their future—perhaps in -that very corner.</p> - -<p>She did not know all yet, either. The clock was striking twelve. It was -about at that time that John Ralston was brought into his mother’s house -by a couple of policemen, who had found his card-case in his pocket, and -had the sense—with the hope of a handsome fee—to bring him home, -insensible, stunned almost to death with the blow he had received.</p> - -<p>They had waked him roughly, the conductor and the other man, who was -really a prize fighter, at the end of the run, in front of the horse-car -stables, and John had struck out before he was awake, as some excitable -men do. The fight had followed as a matter of course, out in the snow. -The professional had not meant to hurt him, but had lost his temper when -John had reached him and cut his lip, and a right-handed counter had -settled the matter—a heavy right-hander just under John’s left ear.</p> - -<p>The policemen said they had picked him up out of a drunken brawl. -According to them, everybody was drunk—Ralston, the prize fighter,—who -had paid five dollars to be left in peace after the adventure,—the -conductor, the driver and every living thing on the scene of action, -including the wretched horses of the car.<a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a></p> - -<p>There was a short account of the affair in the morning papers, but only -one or two of them mentioned Ralston’s name.</p> - -<p>Katharine had yet much to learn about the doings on her wedding day, -when she suddenly announced her intention of going home before the ball -was half over. Hester Crowdie took her, in her own carriage; and Mrs. -Lauderdale and Crowdie stayed till the end.</p> - -<p>Now against all this chain of evidence, including that of several men -who had met John in Fifth Avenue about six o’clock, with no overcoat and -his hat badly smashed, against evidence that would have hanged a man ten -times over in a murder case, stood the plain fact, which nobody but -Ralston knew, and which no one would ever believe—the plain fact that -he had drunk nothing at all.<a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the grey dawn of Friday morning Katharine woke from broken sleep to -face the reality of what she had done twenty-four hours earlier. It had -snowed very heavily during the night, and her first conscious perception -was of that strange, cold glare which the snow reflects, and which makes -even a bedroom feel like a chilly outer hall into which the daylight -penetrates through thick panes of ground glass.</p> - -<p>She had slept very little, and against her will, losing consciousness -from time to time out of sheer exhaustion, and roused again by the cruel -reuniting of the train of thought. Those who have received a wound by -which a principal nerve has been divided, know how intense is the -suffering when the severed cords begin to grow together, with agonizing -slowness, day by day and week by week, convulsing the whole frame of the -man in their meeting. Katharine felt something like that each time that -the merciful curtains of sleep were suddenly torn asunder between -herself and the truth of the present.</p> - -<p>The pain was combined of many elements, too,<a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a> and each hurt her in its -own way. There was the shame of the thing, first, the burning, scarlet -shame—the thought of it had a colour for her. John Ralston was -disgraced in the eyes of all the world. Even the smooth-faced dandy, -fresh from college, young Van De Water, might sneer at him and welcome, -and feel superior to him, for never having gone so far in folly. Now if -such men as Van De Water knew the story, it was but a question of hours, -and all society must know it, too. Society would set down John Ralston -as a hopeless case. Katharine wondered, with a sickening chill, whether -the virtuous—like her father—would turn their backs on Ralston and -refuse to know him. She did not know. But Ralston was her husband.</p> - -<p>The thought almost drove her mad. There was that condition of the -inevitable in her position which gives fate its hold over men’s minds. -She could not escape. She could not go back to the point where she had -been yesterday morning, and begin her life again. As she had begun it, -so it must go on to the very end, ‘until death them should part’—the -life of a spotless girl married to a man who was the very incarnation of -a disgusting vice. In those first moments it would have been a human -satisfaction to have been free to blame some one besides herself for -what she had done.<a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a></p> - -<p>But even now, when every bitter thought seemed to rise up against John -Ralston, she could not say that the fault had been his if she had bound -herself to him. To the very last he had resisted. This was Friday -morning, and on the Wednesday night at the Thirlwalls’ he had told her -that he could not be sure of himself. By and by, perhaps, that brave act -of his might begin to tell in his favour with her, but not yet. The -faces, the expressions, the words, of those from whom she had learned -the story of his doings were before her eyes and present in her hearing -now, as she lay wide awake in the early morning, staring with hot eyes -at the cold grey ceiling of her room.</p> - -<p>It was only yesterday that her sister Charlotte had sat there, lamenting -her imaginary woes. How Katharine had despised her! Had she not -deliberately chosen, of her own free will, and was she not bound to -stand by her choice, out of mere self-respect? And Katharine had felt -then that, come what might, for good or ill, better or worse, honour or -dishonour, she was glad that she had married John Ralston and that she -would face all imaginable deaths to help him, even a little. But -now—now, it was different. He had failed her at the very outset. It was -not that others had turned upon him, despising him wholly for a partial -fault. The public disgrace made it all worse than it might have been, -but it was only secondary,<a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a> after all. The keenest pain was from the -thrust that had entered Katharine’s own heart. It had been with him as -though she had not existed. He had not been strong enough, for her sake, -on their wedding day—the day of days to her—to keep himself sober from -three o’clock in the afternoon until ten o’clock at night. Only seven -hours, Katharine repeated to herself in the cold snow-glare of the early -morning—seven little hours; her lips were hot and dry with anger, and -her hands were cold, as she thought of it. It was not only the weakness -of him, contemptible as that was—if it had at least been weakness for -something less brutal, less beastly, less degrading. Katharine chose the -strongest words she could think of, and smote him with them in her -heart. Was he not her husband, and had she not the right to hate and -despise what he had done? It was bad enough, as she said it, and as it -appeared to most people that morning. There was not a link missing in -the evidence, from the moment when John had begun to lose his temper -with Miner at the club, until he had been brought home insensible to his -mother’s house by a couple of policemen. His relations and his best -friends were all convinced that he had been very drunk, and there was no -reason why society in general should be more merciful than his own -people. Robert Lauderdale said nothing, but when he saw the paragraph -<a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>in a morning paper describing ‘Mr. John R——’s drunken encounter with -a professional pugilist,’ he regarded the statement as an elucidatory -comment on his interview with his great-nephew. No one spoke of the -matter in Robert Lauderdale’s presence, but the old gentleman felt that -it was a distinct shame to the whole family, and he inwardly expressed -himself strongly. The only one who tried to make matters look a little -better than every one believed they were, was Hamilton Bright. He could -not deny the facts, but he put on a cheerful countenance and made the -best of them, laughing good-humouredly at John’s misfortune, and asking -every one who ventured an unfavourable comment whether John was the only -man alive on that day in the city of New York who had once been a little -lively, recommending the beardless critics of his friend’s conduct to go -out and drive cattle in the Nacimiento Valley if they wished to -understand the real properties of alcohol, and making the older ones -feel uncomfortable by reminding them vividly of the errors of their -youth. But no one else said anything in Ralston’s favour. He was down -just then, and it was as well to hit him when everybody was doing the -same thing.</p> - -<p>Katharine tried to make up her mind as to what she should do, and she -did not find it an easy matter. It would be useless to deny the fact -that what she felt for Ralston on that morning<a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a> bore little resemblance -to love. She remembered vaguely, and with wonder, how she had promised -to stand by him and help him to her utmost to overcome his weakness. How -was she to help him now? How could she play a part and conceal the -anger, the pain, the shame that boiled and burned in her? If he should -come to her, what should she say? She had promised that she would never -refer to the matter in any way, when it had seemed but the shadow of a -possibility. But it had turned into the reality so soon, and into such a -reality—far more repulsive than anything of which she had dreamed. -Besides, she added in her heart, it was unpardonable on that day of all -days. Married she was, but forgive she could not and would not. Wounded -love is less merciful than any hatred, and Katharine could not help -deepening the wound by recalling every circumstance of the previous -evening, from the moment when she had looked in vain for John’s face in -the crowded room, until she had broken down and asked Hester Crowdie to -bring her home.</p> - -<p>She rose at last to face the day, undecided, worn out with fatigue, and -scared, had she been willing to admit the fact, by the possibilities of -the next twelve hours. Half dressed, she paused and sat down to think it -all over again—all she knew, for she had yet to learn the end of the -story.</p> - -<p>She had been married just four and twenty<a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a> hours. Yesterday, at that -very time, life had been before her, joyous, hopeful, merry. All that -was to be had glistened with gold and gleamed with silver, with the -silver of dreamland and the gold of hope, having love set as a jewel in -the midst. To-day the precious things were but dross and tinsel and -cheap glass. For it was all over, and there was no returning. Real life -was beginning, began, had begun—the reality of an existence not defined -except in the extent of its suffering, but desperately limited in the -possibilities of its happiness.</p> - -<p>Katharine tried to think it over in some other way. The snow-glare was -more grey than ever, and her eyes ached with it, whichever way she -turned. The room was cold, and her teeth chattered as she sat there, -half dressed. Then, when she let in the hot air from the furnace, it was -dry and unbearable. And she tried hard to find some other way in which -to save her breaking heart—if so be that she might look at it so as not -to see the break, and so, perhaps—if there were mercy in heaven, beyond -that aching snow-glare—that by not seeing she might feel a little less, -only a little less. It was hard that she should have to feel so much and -so very bitterly, and all at once. But there was no other way. Instead -of facing life with John Ralston, she had now to face life and John -Ralston. How could she guess what he<a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a> might do next? A drunken man has -little control of his faculties—John might suddenly publish in the club -the fact that he was her husband.</p> - -<p>He was not the same John Ralston whom she had married yesterday morning, -and whom she had seen yesterday afternoon for one moment at her door. -The hours had changed him. Instead of his face there was a horrible -mask; instead of his straight, elastic figure there was the reeling, -delapidated body of the drunken wretch her father had once shown her in -the streets. How could she love that thing? It was not even a man. She -loathed it and hated it, for it had broken her life. She remembered -having once broken a thermometer when she had been a little girl. She -remembered the jagged edge of glass, and how the bright mercury had all -run out and lost itself in tiny drops in the carpet. She recalled it -vividly, and she felt that she was like the broken thermometer, and the -idea was not ridiculous to her, as it must be to any one else, because -she was badly hurt.</p> - -<p>Vague ideas of a long and painful sacrifice rose before her—of -something which must inevitably be begun and ended, like an execution. -She had never understood what the inevitable meant until to-day.</p> - -<p>Then, all at once, the great question presented itself clearly, the -great query, the enormous interrogation of which we are all aware, more -or less<a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a> dimly, more or less clearly—the question which is like the -death-rattle in the throat of the dying nineteenth century,—‘What is it -all for?’</p> - -<p>It came in a rush of passionate disappointment and anger and pain. It -had come to Katharine before then, and she had faced it with the easy -answer, that it was for love—that it was all for love of John -Ralston—life, its thoughts, its deeds, its hopes, its many fears—all -for him, so far as Katharine Lauderdale was concerned. Love made God -true, and heaven a fact, the angels her guardians now and her companions -hereafter. And her love had been so great that it had seemed to demand a -wider wealth of heavenly things wherewith to frame it. God was hardly -good enough nor heaven broad enough.</p> - -<p>But if this were to be the end, what had it all meant? She stood before -the window and looked at the grey sky till the reflection from the dead -white snow beneath her window and on the opposite roof was painful. Yet -the little physical pain was a relief. She turned, quite suddenly, and -fell upon her knees beside the corner of the toilet table, and buried -her face in her hands and became conscious of prayer.</p> - -<p>That seems to be the only way of describing what she felt. The wave of -pain beat upon her agonized heart, and though the wave could not speak -words, yet the surging and the moaning,<a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a> and the forward rushing, and -the backward, whispering ebb, were as the sounds of many prayers.</p> - -<p>Was God good? How could she tell? Was He kind? She did not know. -Merciful? What would be mercy to her? God was there—somewhere beyond -the snow-glare that hurt so, and the girl’s breaking heart cried to Him, -quite incoherently, and expecting nothing, but consciously, though it -knew more of its own bitterness than of God’s goodness, just then.</p> - -<p>Momentarily the great question sank back into the outer darkness with -which it was concerned, and little by little the religious idea of a -sacrifice to be made was restored with greater stability than before. -She had chosen her own burden, her own way of suffering, and she must -bear all as well as she could. The waves of pain beat and crashed -against her heart—she wondered, childishly, whether it were broken yet. -She knew it was breaking, because it hurt her so.</p> - -<p>There was no connected thread of thought in the torn tissue of her mind, -any more than there was any coherence in the few words which from time -to time tried to form themselves on her lips without her knowledge. So -long as she had been lying still and staring at the grey ceiling, the -storm had been brooding. It had burst now, and she was as helpless in it -as though it had been a real storm on a real sea, and she alone on a -driving wreck.<a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a></p> - -<p>She lifted her face and wrung her hands together. It was as though some -one from behind had taken a turn of rough rope round her breast—some -one who was very strong—and as though the rope were tightening fast. -Soon she should not be able to draw breath against it. As she felt it -crushing her, she knew that the hideous picture her mind had made of -John was coming before her eyes again. In a moment it must be there. -This time she felt as though she must scream when she saw it. But when -it came she made no sound. She only dropped her head again, and her -forehead beat upon the back of her hands and her fingers scratched and -drew the cover of the toilet table. Then the picture was drowned in the -tide of pain—as though it had fallen flat upon the dark sands between -her and the cruel surf of her immense suffering that roared up to crash -against her heart again. It must break this time, she thought. It could -not last forever—nor even all day long. God was there—somewhere.</p> - -<p>A lull came, and she said something aloud. It seemed to her that she had -forgotten words and had to make new ones—although those she spoke were -old and good. With the sound of her own voice came a little courage, and -enough determination to make her rise from her knees and face daylight -again.</p> - -<p>Mechanically, as she continued to dress, she<a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a> looked at herself in the -mirror. Her features did not seem to be her own. She remembered to have -seen a plaster cast from a death mask, in a museum, and her face made -her think of that. There were no lines in it, but there were shadows -where the lines would be some day. The grey eyes had no light in them, -and scarcely seemed alive. Her colour was that of wax, and there was -something unnatural in the strong black brows and lashes.</p> - -<p>The door opened at that moment, and Mrs. Lauderdale entered the room. -She seemed none the worse for having danced till morning, and the -freshness which had come back to her had not disappeared again. She -stood still for a moment, looking at Katharine’s face as the latter -turned towards her with an enquiring glance, in which there was -something of fear and something of shyness. A nervous thoroughbred has -the same look, if some one unexpectedly enters its box. Mrs. Lauderdale -had a newspaper in her hand.</p> - -<p>“How you look, child!” she exclaimed, as she came forward. “Haven’t you -slept? Or what is the matter?”</p> - -<p>She kissed Katharine affectionately, without waiting for an answer.</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t wonder,” she added, a moment later, as though speaking to -herself. “I’ve been reading this—”</p> - -<p>She paused and hesitated, as though not sure<a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a> whether she should give -Katharine the paper or not, and she glanced once more at the paragraph -before deciding.</p> - -<p>“What is it about?” Katharine asked, in a tired voice. “Read it.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—but I ought to tell you first. You know, last night—you asked me -about Jack Ralston, and I wouldn’t tell you what I had heard. Then I saw -that somebody else had told you—you really ought to be more careful, -dear! Everybody was noticing it.”</p> - -<p>“What?”</p> - -<p>“Why—your face! It’s of no use to advertise the fact that you are -interested in Jack’s doings. They don’t seem to have been very -creditable—it’s just as well that he didn’t try to come to the ball in -his condition. Do you know what he was doing, late last night, just -about supper-time? I’m so glad I spoke to you both the other day. -Imagine the mere idea of marrying a man who gets into drunken brawls -with prize fighters and is taken home by the police—”</p> - -<p>“Stop—please! Don’t talk like that!” Katharine was trembling visibly.</p> - -<p>“My dear child! It’s far better that I should tell you—it’s in the -papers this morning. That sort of thing can’t be concealed, you know. -The first person you meet will talk to you about it.”</p> - -<p>Katharine had turned from her and was facing<a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a> the mirror, steadying -herself with her hands upon the dressing table.</p> - -<p>“And as for behaving as you did last night—he’s not worth it. One might -forgive him for being idle and all that—but men who get tipsy in the -streets and fight horse-car conductors and pugilists are not exactly the -kind of people one wants to meet in society—to dance with, for -instance. Just listen to this—”</p> - -<p>“Mother!”</p> - -<p>“No—I want you to hear it. You can judge for yourself. ‘Mr. John R——, -a well-known young gentleman about town and a near relation of—’ ”</p> - -<p>“Mother—please don’t!” cried Katharine, bending over the table as -though she could not hold up her head.</p> - -<p>“ ‘—one of our financial magnates,’ ” continued Mrs. Lauderdale, -inexorably, “and the hero of more than one midnight adventure, has at -last met his match in the person of Tam Shelton, the famous light-weight -pugilist. An entirety unadvertised and scantily attended encounter took -place between these two gentlemen last night between eleven and twelve -o’clock, in consequence of a dispute which had arisen in a horse-car. It -appears that the representative of the four hundred had mistaken the -public conveyance for his own comfortable quarters, and suddenly feeling -very tired had naturally proceeded to go to bed—’ ”</p> - -<p><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a></p> - -<p>With a very quick motion Katharine turned, took the paper from her -mother’s hands and tore the doubled fourfold sheet through twice, almost -without any apparent effort, before Mrs. Lauderdale could interfere. She -said nothing as she tossed the torn bits under the table, but her eyes -had suddenly got life in them again.</p> - -<p>“Katharine!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale, in great annoyance. “How can you -be so rude?”</p> - -<p>“And how can you be so unkind, mother?” asked Katharine, facing her. -“Don’t you know what I’m suffering?”</p> - -<p>“It’s better to know everything, and have it over,” answered Mrs. -Lauderdale, with astonishing indifference. “It only seemed to me that as -every one would be discussing this abominable affair, you should know -beforehand just what the facts were. I don’t in the least wish to hurt -your feelings—but now that it’s all over with Jack, you may as well -know.”</p> - -<p>“What may I as well know? That you hate him? That you have suddenly -changed your mind—”</p> - -<p>“My dear, I’ll merely ask you whether a man who does such things is -respectable. Yes, or no?”</p> - -<p>“That’s not the question,” answered Katharine, with rising anger. -“Something strange has happened to you. Until last Tuesday you never -said anything against him. Then you changed, all in a<a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a> moment—just as -you would take off one pair of gloves and put on another. You used to -understand me—and now—oh, mother!”</p> - -<p>Her voice shook, and she turned away again. The little momentary flame -of her anger was swept out of existence by the returning tide of pain.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lauderdale’s whole character seemed to have changed, as her -daughter said that it had, between one day and the next. A strong new -passion had risen up in the very midst of it and had torn it to shreds, -as it were. Even now, as she gazed at Katharine, she was conscious that -she envied the girl for being able to suffer without looking old. She -hated herself for it, but she could not resist it, any more than she -could help glancing at her own reflection in the mirror that morning to -see whether her face showed any fatigue after the long ball. This at -least was satisfactory, for she was as brilliantly fresh as ever. She -could hardly understand how she could have seemed so utterly broken down -and weary on Monday night and all day on Tuesday, but she could never -forget how she had then looked, and the fear of it was continually upon -her. Nevertheless she loved Katharine still. The conflict between her -love and her envy made her seem oddly inconsequent and almost frivolous. -Katharine fancied that her mother was growing to be like Charlotte. The -appealing tone of <a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>the girl’s last words rang in Mrs. Lauderdale’s ears -and accused her. She stretched out her hand and tried to draw Katharine -towards her, affectionately, as she often did when she was seated and -the girl was standing.</p> - -<p>“Katharine, dear child,” she began, “I’m not changed to you—it’s -only—”</p> - -<p>“Yes—it’s only Jack!” answered Katharine, bitterly.</p> - -<p>“We won’t talk of him, darling,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, softly, and -trying to soothe her. “You see, I didn’t know how badly you felt about -it—”</p> - -<p>“You might have guessed. You know that I love him—you never knew how -much!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sweetheart, but now—”</p> - -<p>“There is no ‘but’—it’s the passion of my life—the first, the last, -and the only one!”</p> - -<p>“You’re so young, my darling, that it seems to you as though there could -never be anything else—”</p> - -<p>“Seems! I know.”</p> - -<p>Though Mrs. Lauderdale had already repented of what she had done and -really wished to be sympathetic, she could not help smiling faintly at -the absolute conviction with which Katharine spoke. There was something -so young and whole-hearted in the tone as well as in those words that -only found an echo far back in the forgotten fields of the older<a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a> -woman’s understanding. She hardly knew what to answer, and patted -Katharine’s head gently while she sought for something to say. But -Katharine resented the affectionate manner, being in no humour to -appreciate anything which had a savour of artificiality about it. She -withdrew her hand and faced her mother again.</p> - -<p>“I know all that you can tell me,” she said. “I know all there is to be -known, without reading that vile thing. But I don’t know what I shall -do—I shall decide. And, please—mother—if you care for me at -all—don’t talk about it. It’s hard enough, as it is—just the thing, -without any words.”</p> - -<p>She spoke with an effort, almost forcing the syllables from her lips, -for she was suffering terribly just then. She wished that her mother -would go away, and leave her to herself, if only for half an hour. She -had so much more to think of than any one could know, or guess—except -old Robert Lauderdale and Jack himself.</p> - -<p>“Well, child—as you like,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, feeling that she had -made a series of mistakes. “I’m sure I don’t care to talk about it in -the least, but I can’t prevent your father from saying what he pleases. -Of course he began to make remarks about your not coming to breakfast -this morning. I didn’t go down myself until he had nearly finished, and -he seemed hurt at our neglecting<a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a> him. And then, he had been reading the -paper, and so the question came up. But, dearest, don’t think I’m unkind -and heartless and all that sort of thing. I love you dearly, child. -Don’t you believe me?”</p> - -<p>She put her arm round Katharine’s neck and kissed her.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes!” Katharine answered wearily. “I’m sure you do.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lauderdale looked into her face long and earnestly.</p> - -<p>“It’s quite wonderful!” she exclaimed at last. “You’re a little -pale—but, after all, you’re just as pretty as ever this morning.”</p> - -<p>“Am I?” asked Katharine, indifferently. “I don’t feel pretty.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, well—that will all go away,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, withdrawing -her arm and turning towards the door. “Yes,” she repeated thoughtfully, -as though to herself, “that will all go away. You’re so young—still—so -young!”</p> - -<p>Her head sank forward a little as she went out and she did not look back -at her daughter.</p> - -<p>Katharine drew a long breath of relief when she found herself alone. The -interview had not lasted many minutes, but it had seemed endless. She -looked at the torn pieces of the newspaper which lay on the floor, and -she shuddered a little and turned from them uneasily, half afraid that -some<a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a> supernatural power might force her to stoop down and pick them up, -and fit them together and read the paragraph to the end. She sat down to -try and collect her thoughts.</p> - -<p>But she grew more and more confused as she reviewed the past and tried -to call up the future. For instance, if John Ralston came to the house -that afternoon, to explain, to defend himself, to ask forgiveness of -her, what should she say to him? Could she send him away without a word -of hope? And if not, what hope should she give him? And hope of what? He -was her husband. He had a right to claim her if he pleased—before every -one.</p> - -<p>The words all seemed to be gradually losing their meaning for her. The -bells of the horse-cars as they passed through Clinton Place sang queer -little songs to her, and the snow-glare made her eyes ache. There was no -longer any apparent reason why the day should go on, nor why it should -end. She did not know what time it was, and she did not care to look. -What difference did it make?</p> - -<p>Her ball gown was lying on the sofa, as she had laid it when she had -come home. She looked at it and wondered vaguely whether she should ever -again take the trouble to put on such a thing, and to go and show -herself amongst a crowd of people who were perfectly indifferent to her.</p> - -<p>On reflection, for she seriously tried to reflect, it seemed more -probable that John would write before<a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a> coming, and this would give her -an opportunity of answering. It would be easier to write than to speak. -But if she wrote, what should she say? It was just as hard to decide, -and the words would look more unkind on paper, perhaps, than she could -possibly make them sound.</p> - -<p>Was it her duty to speak harshly? She asked herself the question quite -suddenly, and it startled her. If her heart were really broken, she -thought, there could be nothing for her to do but to say once what she -thought and then begin the weary life that lay before her—an endless -stretch of glaring snow, and endless jingling of horse-car bells.</p> - -<p>She rose suddenly and roused herself, conscious that she was almost -losing her senses. The monstrous incongruity of the thoughts that -crossed her brain frightened her. She pressed her hand to her forehead -and with characteristic strength determined there and then to occupy -herself in some way or other during the day. To sit there in her room -much longer would either drive her mad or make her break down -completely. She feared the mere thought of those tears in which some -women find relief, almost as much as the idea of becoming insane, which -presented itself vividly as a possibility just then. Whatever was to -happen during the day, she must at any cost have control over her -outward actions. She stood for one moment with her hands clasped to her -brows, and then turned and left the room.<a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">On</span> the present occasion John Ralston deserved very much more sympathy -than he got from the world at large, which would have found it very hard -to believe the truth about his doings on the afternoon and night of -Thursday. He was still unconscious when he was carried into the house by -the two policemen and deposited upon his own bed. When he opened his -eyes, they met his mother’s, staring down upon him with an expression in -which grief, fear and disgust were all struggling for the mastery. She -was standing by his bedside, bending over him, and rubbing something on -his temples from time to time. He was but just conscious that he was at -home at last, and that she was with him, and he smiled faintly at her -and closed his eyes again.</p> - -<p>He had hardly done so, however, when he realized what a look was in her -face. He was not really injured in any way, he was perfectly sober, and -he was very hungry. As soon as the effect of the last blow began to wear -off, his brain worked clearly enough. He understood at once that his -mother must suppose him to be intoxicated. It<a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a> was no wonder if she did, -as he knew. He was in a far worse plight now than he had been on Monday -afternoon, as far as appearances were concerned. His clothes were -drenched with the wet snow, his hat had altogether disappeared in the -fight, his head was bruised, and his face was ghastly pale. He kept his -eyes shut for a while and tried to recall what had happened last. But it -was not at all clear to him why he had been fighting with the man who -wore the fur collar and the chain, nor why he had wandered to Tompkins -Square. Those were the two facts which recalled themselves most vividly -at first, in a quite disconnected fashion. Next came the vision of -Robert Lauderdale and the recollection of the violent gesture with which -the latter had accidentally knocked John’s hat out of his hand; and -after that he recalled the scene at the club. It seemed to him that he -had been through a series of violent struggles which had no connection -with each other. His head ached terribly and he should have liked to be -left in the dark to try and go to sleep. Then, as he lay there, he knew -that his mother was still looking at him with that expression in which -disgust seemed to him to be uppermost. It flashed across his mind -instantly that she must naturally think he had been drinking. But though -his memory of what had happened was very imperfect, and though he was -dizzy and faint, he knew very well<a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a> that he was sober, and he realized -that he must impress the fact upon his mother at any cost, immediately, -both for his own sake and for hers. He opened his eyes once more and -looked at her, wondering how his voice would sound when he should speak.</p> - -<p>“Mother dear—” he began. Then he paused, watching her face.</p> - -<p>But her expression did not unbend. It was quite clear now that she -believed the very worst of him, and he wondered whether the mere fact of -his speaking connectedly would persuade her that he was telling the -truth.</p> - -<p>“Don’t try to talk,” she said in a low, hard voice. “I don’t want to -know anything about your doings.”</p> - -<p>“Mother—I’m perfectly sober,” said John Ralston, quietly. “I want you -to listen to me, please, and persuade yourself.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston drew herself up to her full height as she stood beside him. -Her even lips curled scornfully, and the lines of temper deepened into -soft, straight furrows in her keen face.</p> - -<p>“You may be half sober now,” she answered with profound contempt. -“You’re so strong—it’s impossible to tell.”</p> - -<p>“So you don’t believe me,” said John, who was prepared for her -incredulity. “But you must—somehow. My head aches badly, and I can’t -talk<a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a> very well, but I must make you believe me. It’s—it’s very -important that you should, mother.”</p> - -<p>This time she said nothing. She left the bedside and moved about the -room, stopping before the dressing table and mechanically putting the -brushes and other small objects quite straight. If she had felt that it -were safe to leave him alone she would have left him at once and would -have locked herself into her own room. For she was very angry, and she -believed that her anger was justified. So long as he had been -unconscious, she had felt a certain fear for his safety which made a -link with the love she bore him. But, as usual, his iron constitution -seemed to have triumphed. She remembered clearly how, on Monday -afternoon, he had evidently been the worse for drink when he had entered -her room, and yet how, in less than an hour, he had reappeared -apparently quite sober. He was very strong, and there was no knowing -what he could do. She had forgiven him that once, but it was not in her -nature to forgive easily, and she told herself that this time it would -be impossible. He had disgraced himself and her.</p> - -<p>She continued to turn away from him. He watched her, and saw how -desperate the situation was growing. He knew well enough that there -would be some talk about him on the morrow and that it would come to -Katharine’s ears, in explanation<a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a> of his absence from the Assembly ball. -His mind worked rapidly and energetically now, for it was quite clear to -him that he had no time to lose. If he should fall asleep without having -persuaded his mother that he was quite himself, he could never, in all -his life, succeed in destroying the fatal impression she must carry with -her. While she was turning from him he made a great effort, and putting -his feet to the ground, sat upon the edge of his bed. His head swam for -a moment, but he steadied himself with both hands and faced the light, -thinking that the brilliant glare might help him.</p> - -<p>“You must believe me, now,” he said, “or you never will. I’ve had rather -a bad day of it, and another accident, and a fight with a better man -than myself, so that I’m rather battered. But I haven’t been drinking.”</p> - -<p>“Look at yourself!” answered Mrs. Ralston, scornfully. “Look at yourself -in the glass and see whether you have any chance of convincing me of -that. Since you’re not killed, and not injured, I shall leave you to -yourself. I hope you won’t talk about it to-morrow. This is the second -time within four days. It’s just a little more than I can bear. If you -can’t live like a gentleman, you had better go away and live in the way -you prefer—somewhere else.”</p> - -<p>As she spoke, her anger began to take hold of<a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a> her, and her voice fell -to a lower pitch, growing concentrated and cruel.</p> - -<p>“You’re unjust, though you don’t mean to be,” said John. “But, as I -said, it’s very important that you should recognize the truth. All sorts -of things have happened to me, and many people will say that I had been -drinking. And now that it’s over I want you to establish the fact that I -have not. It’s quite natural that you should think as you do, of course. -But—”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad you admit that, at least,” interrupted Mrs. Ralston. “Nothing -you can possibly say or do can convince me that you’ve been sober. You -may be now—you’re such a curiously organized man. But you’ve not been -all day.”</p> - -<p>“Mother, I swear to you that I have!”</p> - -<p>“Stop, John!” cried Mrs. Ralston, crossing the room suddenly and -standing before him. “I won’t let you—you shan’t! We’ve not all been -good in the family, but we’ve told the truth. If you were sober you -wouldn’t—”</p> - -<p>John Ralston was accustomed to be believed when he made a statement, -even if he did not swear to it. His virtues were not many, and were not -very serviceable, on the whole; but he was a truthful man, and his anger -rose, even against his own mother, when he saw that she refused to -believe him. He forgot his bruises and his mortal weariness, and sprang -to his feet before her. Their eyes met steadily, as he spoke.<a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a></p> - -<p>“I give you my sacred word of honour, mother.”</p> - -<p>He saw a startled look come into his mother’s eyes, and they seemed to -waver for a moment and then grow steady again. Then, without warning, -she turned from him once more, and went and seated herself in a small -arm-chair by the fire. She sat with her elbow resting on her knee, while -her hand supported her chin, and she stared at the smouldering embers as -though in deep thought.</p> - -<p>Her principal belief was in the code of honour, and in the absolute -sanctity of everything connected with it, and she had brought up her son -in that belief, and in the practice of what it meant. He did not give -his word lightly. She did not at that moment recall any occasion upon -which he had given it in her hearing, and she knew what value he set -upon it.</p> - -<p>The evidence of her senses, on the other hand, was strong, and that of -her reason was stronger still. It did not seem conceivable that he could -be telling the truth. It was not possible that as his sober, natural -self he should have got into the condition in which he had been brought -home to her. But it was quite within the bounds of possibility, she -thought, that he should have succeeded in steadying himself so far as to -be able to speak connectedly. In that case he had lied to her, when he -had given his word of honour, a moment ago.<a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a></p> - -<p>She tried to look at it fairly, for it was a question quite as grave in -her estimation as one of life or death. She would far rather have known -him dead than dishonourable, and his honour was arraigned at her -tribunal in that moment. Her impulse was to believe him, to go back to -him, and kiss him, and ask his forgiveness for having accused him -wrongly. But the evidence stood between him and her as a wall of ice. -The physical impression of horror and disgust was too strong. The -outward tokens were too clear. Even the honesty of his whole life from -his childhood could not face and overcome them.</p> - -<p>And so he must have lied to her. It was a conviction, and she could not -help it. And then she, too, felt that iron hands were tightening a band -round her breast, and that she could not bear much more. There was but -one small, pitiful excuse for him. In spite of his quiet tones, he might -be so far gone as not to know what he was saying when he spoke. It was a -forlorn hope, a mere straw, a poor little chance of life for her -mother’s love. She knew that life could never be the same again, if she -could not believe her son.</p> - -<p>The struggle went on in silence. She did not move from her seat nor -change her position. Her eyelids scarcely quivered as she gazed steadily -at the coals of the dying wood fire. Behind her,<a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_005_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_005_sml.jpg" width="280" height="442" alt="“She knew that life could never be the same again, if she -could not believe her son.”—Vol. II., p. 142." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">“She knew that life could never be the same again, if she -could not believe her son.”—Vol. II., <a href="#page_142">142.</a></span> -</div> - -<p><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a></p> - -<p><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a></p> - -<p>John Ralston slowly paced the room, following the pattern of the carpet, -and glancing at her from time to time, unconscious of pain or fatigue, -for he knew as well as she herself that his soul was in the balance of -her soul’s justice. But the silence was becoming intolerable to him. As -for her, she could not have told whether minutes or hours had passed -since he had spoken. The trial was going against him, and she almost -wished that she might never hear his voice again.</p> - -<p>The questions and the arguments and the evidence chased each other -through her brain faster and faster, and ever in the same vicious -circle, till she was almost distracted, though she sat there quite -motionless and outwardly calm. At last she dropped both hands upon her -knees; her head fell forward upon her breast, and a short, quick sound, -neither a sigh nor a groan, escaped her lips. It was finished. The last -argument had failed; the last hope was gone. Her son had disgraced -himself—that was little; he had lied on his word of honour—that was -greater and worse than death.</p> - -<p>“Mother, you’ve always believed me,” said John, standing still behind -her and looking down at her bent head.</p> - -<p>“Until now,” she answered, in a low, heart-broken voice.</p> - -<p>John turned away sharply, and began to pace the floor again with -quickening steps. He knew<a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a> as well as she what it must mean if he did -not convince her then and there. In a few hours it would be too late. -All sorts of mad and foolish ideas crossed his mind, but he rejected -them one after the other. They were all ridiculous before the magnitude -of her conviction. He had never seen her as she was now, not even when -his father had died. He grew more and more desperate as the minutes -passed. If his voice, his manner, his calm asseveration of the truth -could not convince her, he asked himself if anything could. And if not, -what could convince Katharine to-morrow? His recollections were all -coming back vividly to him now. He remembered everything that had -happened since the early morning. Strange to say,—and it is a -well-known peculiarity of such cases,—he recalled distinctly the -circumstances of his fall in the dark, and the absence of all knowledge -of the direction he was taking afterwards. He knew, now, how he had -wandered for hours in the great city, and he remembered many things he -had seen, all of which were perfectly familiar, and each of which, at -any other time, would have told him well enough whither he was going. He -reconstructed every detail without effort. He even knew that when he had -fallen over the heap of building material he had hurt one of his -fingers, a fact which he had not noticed at the time. He looked at his -hand now to convince himself. The<a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a> finger was badly scratched, and the -nail was torn to the quick.</p> - -<p>“Will nothing make you change your mind?” he asked, stopping in the -middle of the room. “Will nothing I can do convince you?”</p> - -<p>“It would be hard,” answered Mrs. Ralston, shaking her head.</p> - -<p>“I’ve done all I can, then,” said John. “There’s nothing more to be -said. You believe that I can lie to you and give you my word for a lie. -Is that it?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say it, please—it’s bad enough without any more words.” She -rested her chin upon her hand once more and stared at the fire.</p> - -<p>“There is one thing more,” answered John, suddenly. “I think I can make -you believe me still.”</p> - -<p>A bitter smile twisted Mrs. Ralston’s even lips, but she did not move -nor speak.</p> - -<p>“Will you believe the statement of a good doctor on his oath?” asked -John, quietly.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston looked up at him suddenly. There was a strange expression -in her eyes, something like hope, but with a little distrust.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, after a moment’s thought. “I would believe that.”</p> - -<p>“Most people would,” answered John, with sudden coldness. “Will you send -for a doctor? Or shall I go myself?”</p> - -<p>“Are you in earnest?” asked Mrs. Ralston, rising slowly from her seat -and looking at him.<a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a></p> - -<p>“I’m in earnest—yes. You seem to be. It’s rather a serious matter to -doubt my word of honour—even for my mother.”</p> - -<p>Being quite sure of himself, he spoke very bitterly and coldly. The time -for appealing to her kindness, her love, or her belief in him was over, -and the sense of approaching triumph was thrilling, after the -humiliation he had suffered in silence. Mrs. Ralston, strange to say, -hesitated.</p> - -<p>“It’s very late to send for any one now,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Very well; I’ll go myself,” answered John. “The man should come, if it -were within five minutes of the Last Judgment. Will you go to your room -for a moment, mother, while I dress? I can’t go as I am.”</p> - -<p>“No. I’ll send some one.” She stood still, watching his face. “I’ll ring -for a messenger,” she said, and left the room.</p> - -<p>By this time her conviction was so deep seated that she had many reasons -for not letting him leave the house, nor even change his clothes. He was -very strong. It was evident, too, that he had completely regained -possession of his faculties, and she believed that he was capable, at -short notice, of so restoring his appearance as to deceive the keenest -doctor. She remembered what had happened on Monday, and resolved that -the physician should see him just as he was. It did not<a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a> strike her, in -her experience, that a doctor does not judge such matters as a woman -does.</p> - -<p>During her brief absence from the room, John was thinking of very -different matters. It did not even strike him that he might smooth his -hair or wash his soiled and blood-stained hands, and he continued to -pace the room under strong excitement.</p> - -<p>“Doctor Routh will come, I think,” said Mrs. Ralston, as she came in.</p> - -<p>She sat down where she had been sitting before, in the small easy chair -before the fire. She leaned back and folded her hands, in the attitude -of a person resigned to await events. John merely nodded as she spoke, -and did not stop walking up and down. He was thinking of the future now, -for he knew that he had made sure of the present. He was weighing the -chances of discretion on the part of the two men who had been witnesses -of his struggle with Bright in the hall of the club. As for Bright -himself, though he was the injured party, John knew that he could be -trusted to be silent. He might never forgive John, but he could not -gossip about what had happened. Frank Miner would probably follow -Bright’s lead. The dangerous man was Crowdie, who would tell what he had -seen, most probably to Katharine herself, and that very night. He might -account for his absence from the dinner-party to which he had been -engaged,<a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a> and from the ball, on the ground of an accident. People might -say what they pleased about that, but it would be hard to make any one -believe that he had been sober when he had so suddenly lost his temper -and tripped up the pacific Hamilton Bright in the afternoon.</p> - -<p>He knew, of course, that his mother’s testimony would have counted for -nothing, even if she had believed him, and bitterly as he resented her -unbelief, he recognized that it was bringing about a good result. No one -could doubt the evidence of such a man as Doctor Routh, and the latter -would of course be ready at any time to repeat his statement, if it were -necessary to clear John’s reputation.</p> - -<p>But when he thought of Katharine, his instinct told him that matters -could not be so easily settled. It was quite true that he was in no way -to blame for having fallen over a heap of stones in a dark street, but -he knew how anxiously she must have waited for him at the ball, and what -she must have felt if, as he suspected, Crowdie had given her his own -version of what had taken place in the afternoon. It was not yet so late -but that he might have found her still at the Assembly rooms, and so far -as his strength was concerned, he would have gone there even at that -hour. Tough as he was, a few hours, more or less, of fatigue and effort -would make little difference to him, though he had scarcely touched food -that day. He was one of<a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a> those men who are not dependent for their -strength on the last meal they happen to have eaten, as the majority -are, and who break down under a fast of twenty-four hours. In spite of -all he had been through, moreover, his determined abstinence during the -last days was beginning to tell favourably on him, for he was young, and -his nerves had a boundless recuperative elasticity. Hungry and tired and -bruised as he was, and accustomed as he had always been to swallow a -stimulant when the machinery was slackened, he did not now feel that -craving at all as he had felt it on the previous night, when he had -stood in the corner at the Thirlwalls’ dance. That seemed to have been a -turning-point with him. He had thought so at the time, and he was sure -of it now. He felt that just as he was he could dress himself, and go to -the Assembly if he pleased, and that he should not break down.</p> - -<p>But his appearance was against him, as he was obliged to admit when he -looked at himself in the mirror. His face was swollen and bruised, his -eyes were sunken and haggard, and his skin was almost livid in its -sallow whiteness. Others would judge him as his mother had judged, and -Katharine might be the first to do so. On the whole, it seemed wisest to -write to her early in the morning, and to explain exactly what had -happened. In the course of the day he could go and see her.<a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a></p> - -<p>He had reached this conclusion, when the sound of wheels, grating out of -the snow against the curb-stone of the pavement, interrupted his -meditations, and he stopped in his walk. At the same moment Mrs. Ralston -rose from her seat.</p> - -<p>“I’ll let him in,” she said briefly, as John advanced towards the door.</p> - -<p>“Let me go,” he said. “Why not?” he asked, as she pushed past him.</p> - -<p>“Because—I’d rather not. Stay here!” In a moment she was descending the -stairs.</p> - -<p>John listened at the open door, and heard the latch turned, and -immediately afterwards the sound of a man’s voice, which he recognized -as that of Doctor Routh. The doctor had been one of the Admiral’s -firmest friends, and was, moreover, a man of very great reputation in -New York. It was improbable that, except for some matter of life and -death, any one but Mrs. Ralston could have got him to leave his fireside -at midnight and in such weather.</p> - -<p>“It’s an awful night, Mrs. Ralston,” John heard him say, and the words -were accompanied by a stamping of feet, followed by the unmistakable -soft noise of india-rubber overshoes kicked off, one after the other, -upon the marble floor of the entry.</p> - -<p>John retired into his room again, leaving the door open, and waited -before the fireplace. Far down below he could hear the voices of his -mother<a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a> and Doctor Routh. They were evidently talking the matter over -before coming up. Then their soft tread upon the carpeted stairs told -him that they were on their way to his room.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston entered first, and stood aside to let the doctor pass her -before she closed the door. Doctor Routh was enormously tall. He wore a -long white beard, and carried his head very much bent forward. His eyes -were of the very dark blue which is sometimes called violet, and when he -was looking directly in front of him, the white was visible below the -iris. He had delicate hands, but was otherwise rough in appearance, and -walked with a heavy tread and a long stride, as a strong man marches -with a load on his back.</p> - -<p>He stopped before John, looked keenly at him, and smiled. He had known -him since he had been a boy.</p> - -<p>“Well, young man,” he said, “you look pretty badly used up. What’s the -matter with you?”</p> - -<p>“Have I been drinking, doctor? That’s the question.” John did not smile -as he shook hands.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” answered the physician. “Let me look at you.”</p> - -<p>He was holding the young man’s hand, and pressing it gently, as though -to judge of its temperature. He made him sit down under the bright -gas-light by the dressing table, and began to examine him carefully.<a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a></p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston turned her back to them both, and leaned against the -mantelpiece. There was something horrible to her in the idea of such an -examination for such a purpose. There was something far more horrible -still in the verdict which she knew must fall from the doctor’s lips -within the next five minutes—the words which must assure her that John -had lied to her on his word of honour. She had no hope now. She had -watched the doctor nervously when he had entered the room, and when he -had spoken to John she had seen the smile on his face. There had been no -doubt in his mind from the first, and he was amused—probably at the -bare idea that any one could look as John looked who had not been very -drunk indeed within the last few hours. Presently he would look grave -and shake his head, and probably give John a bit of good advice about -his habits. She turned her face to the wall above the mantelpiece and -waited. It could not take long, she thought. Then it came.</p> - -<p>“If you’re not careful, my boy—” the doctor began, and stopped.</p> - -<p>“What?” asked John, rather anxiously.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston felt as though she must stop her ears to keep out the sound -of the next words. Yet she knew that she must hear them before it was -all over. -<a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a> -“You’ll injure yourself,” said Doctor Routh, completing his sentence -very slowly and thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>“That’s of no consequence,” answered John. “What I want to know is, -whether I have been drinking or not. Yes or no?”</p> - -<p>“Drinking?” Doctor Routh laughed contemptuously. “You know as well as I -do that you haven’t had a drop of anything like drink all day. But -you’ve had nothing to eat, either, for some reason or other—and -starvation’s a precious deal worse than drinking any day. Drinking be -damned! You’re starving—that’s what’s the matter with you. Excuse me, -Mrs. Ralston, forgot you were there—”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston had heard every word. Her hands dropped together inertly -upon the mantelpiece, and she turned her head slowly toward the two men. -Her face had a dazed expression, as though she were waking from a dream.</p> - -<p>“Never mind the starvation, doctor,” said John, with a hard laugh. -“There’s a Bible somewhere in the room. Perhaps you won’t mind swearing -on it that I’m sober—before my mother, please.”</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t think any sane person would need any swearing to convince -them!” Doctor Routh seemed to be growing suddenly angry. “You’ve been -badly knocked about, and you’ve been starving yourself for days—or -weeks, very likely. You’ve had a concussion of the brain that would<a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a> -have laid up most people for a week, and would have killed some that I -know. You’re as thin as razor edges all over—there’s nothing to you but -bone and muscle and nerve. You ought to be fed and put to bed and looked -after, and then you ought to be sent out West to drive cattle, or go to -sea before the mast for two or three years. Your lungs are your weak -point. That’s apt to be the trouble with thoroughbreds in this country. -Oh—they’re sound enough—enough for the present, but you can’t go on -like this. You’ll give out when you don’t expect it. Drinking? No! I -should think a little whiskey and water would do you good!”</p> - -<p>While he was speaking, Mrs. Ralston came slowly forward, listening to -every word he said, in wide-eyed wonder. At last she laid her hand upon -his arm. He felt the slight pressure and looked down into her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Doctor Routh—on your word of honour?” she asked in a low voice.</p> - -<p>John laughed very bitterly, rose from his chair, and crossed the room. -The old man’s eyes flashed suddenly, and he drew himself up.</p> - -<p>“My dear Mrs. Ralston, I don’t know what has happened to you, nor what -you have got into your head. But if you’re not satisfied that I’m enough -of a doctor to tell whether a man is drunk or sober, send for some one -in whom you’ve more confidence.<a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a> I’m not used to going about swearing my -professional opinion on Bibles and things, nor to giving my word of -honour that I’m in earnest when I’ve said what I think about a patient. -But I’ll tell you—if I had fifty words of honour and the whole Bible -House to swear on—well, I’ll say more—if it were a case of a trial, -I’d give my solemn evidence in court that Master John Ralston has had -nothing to drink. Upon my word, Mrs. Ralston! Talk of making mountains -of mole-hills! You’re making a dozen Himalayas out of nothing at all, it -seems to me. Your boy’s starving, Mrs. Ralston, and I daresay he takes -too much champagne and too many cocktails occasionally. But he’s not -been doing it to-day, nor yesterday, nor the day before. That is my -opinion as a doctor. Want my word of honour and the Bible again? Go to -bed! Getting your old friend away from his books and his pipe and his -fire at this hour, on such a night as this! You ought to be ashamed of -yourself, young lady! Well—if I’ve done you any good, I’m not -sorry—but don’t do it again. Good night—and get that young fellow out -of this as soon as you can. He’s not fit for this sort of life, anyhow. -Don’t take thoroughbreds for cart horses—they stand it for a bit, and -then they go crack! Good night—no, I know my way all right—don’t come -down.”</p> - -<p>John followed him, however, but before he left<a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a> the room he glanced at -his mother’s face. Her eyes were cast down, and her lips seemed to -tremble a little. She did not even say good night to Doctor Routh.<a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was nearly one o’clock when John Ralston let Doctor Routh out of the -house and returned to his own room. He found his mother standing there, -opposite the door, as he entered, and her eyes had met his even before -he had passed the threshold. She came forward to meet him, and without a -word laid her two hands upon his shoulders and hid her face against his -torn coat. He put one arm around her and gently stroked her head with -the other hand, but he looked straight before him at the bright globe of -the gas-light, and said nothing.</p> - -<p>There was an unsettled expression on his pale face. He did not wish to -seem triumphant, and he did wish that his anger against her might -subside immediately and be altogether forgotten. But although he had -enough control of his outward self to say nothing and to touch her -tenderly, the part of him that had been so deeply wounded was not to be -healed in a moment. Her doubt—more, her openly and scornfully outspoken -disbelief had been the very last straw that day. It had been hard, just -when he had been doing his best to reform, to be accused by every one, -from<a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a> Hamilton Bright, his friend, to the people on the horse-car; but -it had been hardest of all to be accused by his mother, and not to be -believed even on his pledged word. That was a very different matter.</p> - -<p>To a man of a naturally melancholic and brooding temper, as John Ralston -was, illusions have a very great value. Such men have few of them, as a -rule, and regard them as possessions with which no one has any right to -interfere. They ask little or nothing of the world at large, except to -be allowed to follow their own inclinations and worship their own idols -in their own way. But of their idols they ask much, and often give them -little in return except acts of idolatry. And the first thing they ask, -whether they express the demand openly or not, is that their idols -should believe in them in spite of every one and everything. They are -not, as a rule, capricious men. They cannot replace one object of -adoration by another, at short notice. Perhaps the foundation of such -characters is a sort of honourable selfishness, a desire to keep what -they care for to themselves, beyond the reach of every one else, -together with an inward conviction that their love is eminently worth -having from the mere fact that they do not bestow it lightly. When the -idol expresses a human and pardonable doubt in their sincerity, an -illusion is injured, if not destroyed—even when that doubt is well<a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a> -founded. But when the doubt is groundless, it makes a bad wound which -leaves an ugly scar, if it ever heals at all.</p> - -<p>John Ralston was very like his mother, and she knew it and understood -instinctively that words could be of no use. There was nothing to be -done but to throw herself upon his mercy, as it were, and to trust that -he would forgive an injury which nothing could repair. And John -understood this, and did his best to meet her half way, for he loved her -very much. But he could not help the expression on his face, not being -good at masking nor at playing any part. She, womanly, could have done -that better than he.</p> - -<p>She wished to act no comedy, however. The thing was real and true, and -she was distressed beyond measure. She looked up at his face and saw -what was in his mind, and she knew that for the present she could do -nothing. Then she gently kissed the sleeve of his coat, and withdrew her -hands from him.</p> - -<p>“You’re wet, Jack,” she said, trying to speak naturally. “Go to bed, and -I’ll bring you something to eat and something hot to drink.”</p> - -<p>“No, mother—thank you. I don’t want anything. But I think I’ll go to -bed. Good night.”</p> - -<p>“Let me bring you something—”</p> - -<p>“No, thank you. I’d rather not. It’s all right, mother. Don’t worry.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a></p> - -<p>It was hard to say even that little, just then, but he did as well as he -could. Then he kissed her on the forehead and opened the door for her. -She bent her head low as she passed him, but she did not look up.</p> - -<p>Half an hour later, when John was about to put out his light, he heard -the little clinking of glasses and silver on a tray outside his door. -Then there was a knock.</p> - -<p>“I’ve brought you something to eat, Jack,” said his mother’s voice. -“Just what I could find—”</p> - -<p>John turned as he was crossing the room—a gaunt figure in his loose, -striped flannels—and hesitated a moment before he spoke.</p> - -<p>“Oh—thank you, very much,” he answered. “Would you kindly set it down? -I’ll take it in presently. It’s very good of you, mother—thank -you—good night again.”</p> - -<p>He heard her set down the tray, and the things rattled and clinked.</p> - -<p>“It’s here, when you want it,” said the voice.</p> - -<p>He fancied there was a sigh after the words, and two or three seconds -passed before the sound of softly departing footsteps followed. He -listened, with a weary look in his eyes, then went to the fireplace and -leaned against the mantelpiece for a moment. As though making an effort, -he turned again and went to the door and opened it and brought in the -tray. There were dainty things on<a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a> it, daintily arranged. There was also -a small decanter of whiskey, a pint of claret and a little jug of hot -water. John set the tray upon one end of his writing table and looked at -it, with an odd, sour smile. He was really so tired that he wanted -neither food nor drink, and the sight of both in abundance was almost -nauseous to him. He reflected that the servant would take away the -things in the morning, and that his mother would never know whether he -had taken what she had brought him or not, unless she asked him, which -was impossible. He took up the tray again, set it down on the floor, in -a corner, and instead of going to bed seated himself at his writing -table.</p> - -<p>It seemed best to write to Katharine and send his letter early in the -morning. It was hard work, and he could scarcely see the words he wrote, -for the pain in his head was becoming excruciating. It was necessarily a -long letter, too, and a complicated one, and his command of the English -language seemed gone from him. Nevertheless, he plodded on diligently, -telling as nearly as he could remember what had happened to him since he -had left Katharine’s door at three o’clock in the afternoon, up to the -moment when Doctor Routh had pronounced his verdict. It was not well -written, but on the whole it was a thoroughly clear account of events, -so far as he himself could be said to know what had happened to him. He -addressed the letter<a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a> and put a special delivery stamp upon it, thinking -that this would be a means of sending it to its destination quickly -without attracting so much attention to it as though he should send a -messenger himself. Then he put out the gas, drew up the shades, so that -the morning light should wake him early, in spite of his exhaustion, and -at last went to bed.</p> - -<p>It was unfortunate that the messenger who took the specially stamped -letter to Clinton Place on the following morning should have rung the -bell exactly when he did, that is to say, at the precise moment when -Alexander Junior was putting on his overcoat and overshoes in the entry. -It was natural enough that Mr. Lauderdale should open the door himself -and confront the boy, who held up the letter to him with the little book -in which the receipt was to be signed. It was the worse for the boy, -because Katharine would have given him five or ten cents for himself, -whereas Alexander Junior signed the receipt, handed it back and shut the -door in the boy’s face. And it was very much the worse for John Ralston, -since Mr. Lauderdale, having looked at the handwriting and recognized -it, put the letter into his pocket without a word to any one and went -down town for the day.</p> - -<p>Now it was his intention to do the thing which was right according to -his point of view. He was as honourable a man, in his own unprejudiced -opinion,<a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a> as any living, and he would no more have forfeited his right -to congratulate himself upon his uprightness than he would have given -ten cents to the messenger boy, or a holiday to a clerk, or a -subscription for anything except his pew in church. The latter was -really a subscription to his own character, and therefore not an -extravagance. It would never have entered into his mind that he could -possibly break the seal of Ralston’s specially stamped envelope. The -letter was as safe in his pocket as though it had been put away in his -own box at the Safe Deposit—where there were so many curious things of -which no one but Alexander Junior knew anything. But he did not intend -that his daughter should ever read it either. He disapproved of John -from the very bottom of his heart, partly because he did, which was an -excellent reason, partly because there could be no question as to John’s -mode of life, and partly because he had once lost his temper when John -had managed to keep his own. So far as he allowed himself to swear, he -had sworn that John should never marry Katharine—unless, indeed, John -should inherit a much larger share of Robert Lauderdale’s money than was -just, in which case justice itself would make it right to enter into a -matrimonial alliance with the millions. Meanwhile, however, Robert the -Rich was an exceedingly healthy old man.</p> - -<p>Under present circumstances, therefore, if accident<a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a> threw into his -hands one of Ralston’s letters to Katharine, it was clearly the duty of -such a perfectly upright and well-conducted father as Alexander Junior -to hinder it from reaching its destination. Only one question as to his -conduct presented itself to his mind, and he occupied the day in solving -it. Should he quietly destroy the letter and say nothing about it to any -one, or should he tell Katharine that he had it, and burn it in her -presence after showing her that it was unopened? His conscience played -an important part in his life, though Robert Lauderdale secretly -believed that he had none at all; and his conscience bade him be quite -frank about what he had done, and destroy the letter under Katharine’s -own eyes. He took it from his pocket as he sat in his brilliantly -polished chair before his shiny table, under the vivid snow-glare which -fell upon him through his magnificent plate-glass windows. He looked at -it again, turned it over thoughtfully, and returned it at last to his -pocket, where it remained until he came home late in the afternoon. -While he sipped his glass of iced water at luncheon time, he prepared a -little speech, which he repeated to himself several times in the course -of the day.</p> - -<p>In the meantime Katharine, not suspecting that John had written to her, -and of course utterly ignorant of the truth about his doings on the -preceding day, felt that she must find some occupation,<a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a> no matter how -trivial, to take her mind out of the strong current of painful thought -which must at last draw her down into the very vortex of despair’s own -whirlpool. It seemed to her that she had never before even faintly -guessed the meaning of pain nor the unknown extent of possible mental -suffering. As for forming any resolution, or even distinguishing the -direction of her probable course in the immediate future, she was -utterly incapable of any such effort or thought. The longing for total -annihilation was perhaps uppermost among her instincts just then, as it -often is with men and women who have been at once bitterly disappointed -and deeply wounded, and who find themselves in a position from which no -escape seems possible. Katharine wished with all her young heart that -the world were a lighted candle and that she could blow it out.</p> - -<p>It must not be believed, however, that her love for John Ralston had -disappeared as suddenly and totally as she should have liked to -extinguish the universe. It had not been of sudden growth nor of -capricious blooming. Its roots were deep, its stem was strong, its -flowers were sweet—and the blight which had fallen upon it was the more -cruel. A frostbitten rose-tree is a sadder sight than a withered -mushroom or a blade of dried grass. It was real, honest, unsuspecting, -strong, maidenly love, and it stood there still in the midst of her -heart, hanging<a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a> its head in the cold, while she gazed at it and -wondered, and choked with anguish. But she could not lift her hand to -prop it, nor to cover it and warm it again, still less to root it up and -burn it.</p> - -<p>She could only try to escape from seeing it, and she resolutely set -about making the attempt. She left her room and went downstairs, -treading more softly as she passed the door of the room in which her -mother worked during the morning hours. She did not wish to see her -again at present, and as she descended she could not help thinking with -wonder of the sudden and unaccountable change in their relations.</p> - -<p>She entered the library, but though it was warm, it had that chilly look -about it which rooms principally used in the evening generally have when -there is no fire in them. The snow-glare was on everything, too, and -made it worse. She stood a moment in hesitation before the writing -table, and laid her hand uncertainly upon a sheet of writing paper. But -she realized that she could not write to John, and she turned away -almost immediately.</p> - -<p>What could she have written? It was easy to talk to herself of a letter; -it was quite another matter to find words, or even to discover the -meaning of her own thoughts. She did not wish to see him. If she wished -anything, it was that she might never see him again. Nothing could have -been much worse than to meet him just then, and talking<a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a> on paper was -next to talking in fact. It all rushed back upon her as she moved away, -and she paused a moment and steadied herself against her favourite chair -by the empty fireplace. Then she raised her head again, proudly, and -left the room, looking straight before her.</p> - -<p>There was nothing to be done but to go out. The loneliness of the house -was absolutely intolerable, and she could not wander about in such an -aimless fashion all day long. Again she went upstairs to her room to put -on her hat and things. Mechanically she took the hat she had worn on the -previous day, but as she stood before the mirror and caught sight of it, -she suddenly took it from her head again and threw it behind her with a -passionate gesture, stared at herself a moment and then buried her face -in her hands. She had unconsciously put on the same frock as -yesterday—the frock in which she had been married—it was the rough -grey woollen one she had been wearing every day. And there were the same -simple little ornaments, the small silver pin at her throat, the tiny -gold bar of her thin watch chain at the third button from the top—the -hat had made it complete—just as she had been married. She could not -bear that.</p> - -<p>A few moments later she rose, and without looking at herself in the -glass, began to change her clothes. She dressed herself entirely in -black, put<a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a> on a black hat and a gold pin, and took a new pair of brown -gloves from a drawer. There was a relief, now, in her altered -appearance, as she fastened her veil. She felt that she could behave -differently if she could get rid of the outward things which reminded -her of yesterday. It is not wise to reflect contemptuously upon the -smallness of things which influence passionate people at great moments -in their lives. It needs less to send a fast express off the track, if -the obstacle be just so placed as to cause an accident, than it does to -upset a freight train going at twelve miles an hour.</p> - -<p>Katharine descended the stairs again with a firm step, holding her head -higher than before, and with quite a different look in her eyes. She had -put on a sort of shell with her black clothes. It seemed to conceal her -real self from the outer world, the self that had worn rough grey -woollen and a silver pin and had been married to John Ralston yesterday -morning. She did not even take the trouble to tread softly as she passed -her mother’s studio, for she felt able to face any one, all at once. If -John himself had been standing in the entry below, and if she had come -upon him suddenly, she should have known how to meet him, and what to -say. She would have hurt him, and she would have been glad of it, with -all of her. What right had John Ralston to ruin her life?</p> - -<p>But John was not there, nor was there any possibility<a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a> of her meeting -him that morning. He had shut himself up in his room and was waiting for -her answer to the letter which Alexander Lauderdale had taken down town -in his pocket, and which he meant to burn before her eyes that evening -after delivering his little speech. It was not probable that John would -go out of the house until he was convinced that no answer was to be -expected.</p> - -<p>Katharine went out into the street and paused on the last step. The snow -was deep everywhere, and wet and clinging. No attempt had as yet been -made to clear it away, though the horse-cars had ploughed their black -channel through, and it had been shovelled off the pavements before some -of the houses. There was a slushy muddiness about it where it was not -still white, which promised ill for a walk. Katharine knew exactly what -Washington Square would be like on such a morning. The little birds -would all be draggled and cold, the leafless twigs would be dripping, -the paths would be impracticable, and all the American boys would be -snowballing the Italian and French boys from South Fifth Avenue. The -University Building would look more than usual like a sepulchre to let, -and Waverley Place would be more savagely respectable than ever, as its -quiet red brick houses fronted the snow. Overhead the sky was of a -uniform grey. It was impossible to tell from any increase of light where -the sun ought to be. The air was damp and cold,<a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a> and all the noises of -the street were muffled. Far away and out of sight, a hand-organ was -playing ‘Ah quell’ amore ond’ardo’—an air which Katharine most -especially and heartily detested. There was something ghostly in the -sound, as though the wretched instrument were grinding itself to death -out of sheer weariness. Katharine thought that if the world were making -music in its orbit that morning, the noise must be as melancholy and as -jarring as that of the miserable hurdy-gurdy. She thought vaguely, too, -of the poor old man who has stood every day for years with his back to -the railings on the south side of West Fourteenth Street, before you -come to Sixth Avenue, feebly turning the handle of a little box which -seems to be full of broken strings, which something stirs up into a -scarcely audible jangle at every sixth or seventh revolution. He has -yellowish grey hair, long and thick, and is generally bareheaded. She -felt inclined to go and see whether he were there now, in the wet snow, -with his torn shoes and his blind eyes, that could not feel the glare. -She found herself thinking of all the many familiar figures of distress, -just below the surface of the golden stream as it were, looking up out -of it with pitiful appealing faces, and without which New York could not -be itself. Her father said they made a good living out of their starving -appearance, and firmly refused to encourage what he called pauperism<a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a> by -what other people called charity. Even if they were really poor, he -said, they probably deserved to be, and were only reaping the fruit of -their own improvidence, a deduction which did not appeal to Katharine.</p> - -<p>She turned eastwards and would have walked up to Fourteenth Street in -order to give the hurdy-gurdy beggar something, had she not remembered -almost immediately that she had no money with her. She never had any -except what her mother gave her for her small expenses, and during the -last few days she had not cared to ask for any. In very economically -conducted families the reluctance to ask for small sums is generally -either the sign of a quarrel or the highest expression of sympathetic -consideration. Every family has its private barometer in which money -takes the place of mercury.</p> - -<p>Katharine suddenly remembered that she had promised Crowdie another -sitting at eleven o’clock on Friday. It was the day and it was the hour, -and though by no means sure that she would enter the house when she -reached Lafayette Place, she turned in that direction and walked on, -picking her way across the streets as well as she could. The last time -she had gone to Crowdie’s she had gone with John, who had left her at -the door in order to go in search of a clergyman. She remembered that, -as she went along, and she chose the<a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a> side of the street opposite to the -one on which she had gone with Ralston.</p> - -<p>At the door of Crowdie’s house, she hesitated again. Crowdie was one of -the gossips. It was he who had told the story of John’s quarrel with -Bright. It seemed as though he must be more repulsive to her than ever. -On the other hand, she realized that if she failed to appear as she had -promised, he would naturally connect her absence with what had happened -to Ralston. He could hardly be blamed for that, she thought, but she -would not have such a story repeated if she could help it. She felt very -brave, and very unlike the Katharine Lauderdale of two hours earlier, -and after a moment’s thought, she rang the bell and was admitted -immediately.</p> - -<p>Hester Crowdie was just coming down the stairs, and greeted Katharine -before reaching her. She seemed annoyed about something, Katharine -thought. There was a little bright colour in her pale cheeks, and her -dark eyes gleamed angrily.</p> - -<p>“I’m so glad you’ve come!” she exclaimed, helping her friend to take off -her heavy coat. “Come in with me for a minute, won’t you?”</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter?” asked Katharine, going with her into the little -front room. “You look angry.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—it’s nothing! I’m so foolish, you know. It’s silly of me. Sit -down.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a></p> - -<p>“What is it, dear?” asked Katharine, affectionately, as she sat down -beside Hester upon a little sofa. “Have you and he been quarrelling?”</p> - -<p>“Quarrelling!” Hester laughed gaily. “No, indeed. That’s impossible! -No—we were all by ourselves—Walter was singing over his work, and I -was just lying amongst the cushions and listening and thinking how -heavenly it was—and that stupid Mr. Griggs came in and spoiled it all. -So I came away in disgust. I was so angry, just for a minute—I could -have killed him!”</p> - -<p>“Poor dear!” Katharine could not help smiling at the story.</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course, you laugh at me. Everybody does. But what do I care? I -love him—and I love his voice, and I love to be all alone with him up -there under the sky—and at night, too, when there’s a full moon—you -have no idea how beautiful it is. And then I always think that the snowy -days, when I can’t go out on foot, belong especially to me. You’re -different—I knew you were coming at eleven—but that horrid Mr. -Griggs!”</p> - -<p>“Poor Mr. Griggs! If he could only hear you!”</p> - -<p>“Walter pretends to like him. That’s one of the few points on which we -shall never agree. There’s nothing against him, I know, and he’s rather -modest, considering how he has been talked about—and all that. But one -doesn’t like one’s <a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>husband’s old friends to come—bothering—you know, -and getting in the way when one wants to be alone with him. Oh, no! I’ve -nothing against the poor man—only that I hate him! How are you, -dearest, after the ball, last night? You seemed awfully tired when I -brought you home. As for me, I’m worn out. I never closed my eyes till -Walter came home—he danced the cotillion with your mother. Didn’t you -think he was looking ill? I did. There was one moment when I was just a -little afraid that—you know—that something might happen to him—as it -did the other day—did you notice anything?”</p> - -<p>“No,” answered Katharine, thoughtfully. “He’s naturally pale. Don’t you -think that just happened once, and isn’t likely to occur again? He’s -been perfectly well ever since Monday, hasn’t he?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—perfectly. But you know it’s always on my mind, now. I want to -be with him more than ever. I suppose that accounts for my being so -angry with poor Mr. Griggs. I think I’d ask him to stay to luncheon if I -were sure he’d go away the minute it’s over. Shouldn’t you like to stay, -dear? Shall I ask him? That will just make four. Do! I shall feel that -I’ve atoned for being so horrid about him. I wish you would!”</p> - -<p>Katharine did not answer at once. The vision of her luncheon at home -rose disagreeably before her—there would be her mother and her -grandfather,<a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a> and probably Charlotte. The latter was quite sure to have -heard something about John, and would, of course, seize the occasion to -make unpleasant remarks. This consideration was a decisive argument.</p> - -<p>“Dear,” she said at last, “if you really want me, I think I will stay. -Only—I don’t want to be in the way, like Mr. Griggs. You must send me -away when you’ve had enough of me.”</p> - -<p>“Katharine! What an idea! I only wish you would stay forever.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, you don’t!” answered Katharine, with a smile.</p> - -<p>Hester rang the bell, and the immaculate and magnificent Fletcher -appeared to receive her orders about the luncheon. Katharine meanwhile -began to wonder at herself. She was so unlike what she had been a few -hours earlier, in the early morning, alone in her room. She wondered -whether, after all, she were not heartless, or whether the memory of all -that had lately happened to her might not be softened, like that of a -bad dream, which is horrible while it lasts, and at which one laughs at -breakfast, knowing that it has had no reality. Had her marriage any -reality? Last night, before the ball, the question would have seemed -blasphemous. It presented itself quite naturally just now. What value -had that contract? What power had the words of any man, priest or -layman, to tie her<a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a> forever to one who had not the common decency to -behave like a gentleman, and to keep his appointment with her on the -same evening—on the evening of their wedding day? Was there a -mysterious magic in the mere words, which made them like a witch’s spell -in a fairy story? She had not seen him since. What was he doing? Had he -not even enough respect for her to send her a line of apology? Merely -what any man would have sent who had missed an appointment? Had she sold -her soul into bondage for the term of her natural life by uttering two -words—‘I will’? It was only her soul, after all. She had not seen his -face save for a moment at her own door in the afternoon. Did he think -that since they had been married he need not have even the most common -consideration for her? It seemed so. What had she dreamed, what had she -imagined during all those weeks and months before last Monday, while she -had been making up her mind that she would sacrifice anything and -everything for the sake of making him happy? She could not be mistaken, -now, for she was thinking it all over quite coldly during these two -minutes, while Hester was speaking to the butler. She was more than -cold. She was indifferent. She could have gone back to her room and put -on her grey frock, and the little silver pin again, and could have -looked at herself in the mirror for an hour without any sensation<a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a> but -that of wonder—amazement at her own folly.</p> - -<p>Talk of love! There was love between Walter Crowdie and his wife. Hester -could not be with any one for five minutes without speaking of him, and -as for Crowdie himself, he was infatuated. Everybody said so. Katharine -pardoned him his pale face, his red lips, and the incomprehensible -repulsion she felt for him, because he loved his wife.<a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katharine</span> and Hester went up to the studio together, and Hester opened -the door.</p> - -<p>“I’ve brought your sitter, Walter,” she said, announcing Katharine. -“I’ve come back with a reinforcement.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Lauderdale, how do you do?” Crowdie came forward. “Do you know -Mr. Griggs?” he asked in a low voice.</p> - -<p>“Yes, he was introduced to me last night,” explained Katharine in an -undertone, and bending her head graciously as the elderly man bowed from -a distance.</p> - -<p>“Oh! that’s very nice,” observed Crowdie. “I didn’t know whether you had -met. I hate introducing people. They’re apt to remember it against one. -Griggs is an old friend, Miss Lauderdale.”</p> - -<p>Katharine looked at the painter and thought he was less repulsive than -usual.</p> - -<p>“I know,” she answered. “Do you really want me to sit this morning, Mr. -Crowdie? You know, we said Friday—”</p> - -<p>“Of course I do! There’s your chair, all ready for you—just where it -was last time. And the<a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a> thing—it isn’t a picture yet—is in the corner -here. Hester, dear, just help Miss Lauderdale to take off her hat, won’t -you?”</p> - -<p>He crossed the room as he spoke, and began to wheel up the easel on -which Katharine’s portrait stood. Griggs said nothing, but watched the -two women as they stood together, trying to understand the very opposite -impressions they made upon him, and wondering with an excess of cynicism -which Crowdie thought the more beautiful. For his own part, he fancied -that he should prefer Hester’s face and Katharine’s character, as he -judged it from her appearance.</p> - -<p>Presently Katharine seated herself, trying to assume the pose she had -taken at the first sitting. Crowdie disappeared behind the curtain in -search of paint and brushes, and Hester sat down on the edge of a huge -divan. As there was no chair except Katharine’s, Griggs seated himself -on the divan beside Mrs. Crowdie.</p> - -<p>“There’s never more than one chair here,” she explained. “It’s for the -sitter, or the buyer, or the lion-hunter, according to the time of day. -Other people must sit on the divan or on the floor.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” answered Griggs. “I see.”</p> - -<p>Katharine did not think the answer a very brilliant one for a man of -such reputation. Hitherto she had not had much experience of lions. -Crowdie came back with his palette and paints.<a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a></p> - -<p>“That’s almost it,” he said, looking at Katharine. “A little more to the -left, I think—just the shade of a shadow!”</p> - -<p>“So?” asked Katharine, turning her head a very little.</p> - -<p>“Yes—only for a moment—while I look at you. Afterwards you needn’t -keep so very still.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I know. The same as last time.”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, Hester remembered that she had not yet asked Griggs to stay -to luncheon, though she had taken it for granted that he would.</p> - -<p>“Won’t you stay and lunch with us?” she asked. “Miss Lauderdale says she -will, and I’ve told them to set a place for you. We shall be four. Do, -if you can!”</p> - -<p>“You’re awfully kind, Mrs. Crowdie,” answered Griggs. “I wish I could. I -believe I have an engagement.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course you have. But that’s no reason.” Hester spoke with great -conviction. “I daresay you made that particular engagement very much -against your will. At all events, you mean to stay, because you only say -you ‘believe’ you’re engaged. If you didn’t mean to stay, you would say -at once that you ‘had’ an engagement which you couldn’t break. Wouldn’t -you? Therefore you will.”</p> - -<p>“That’s a remarkable piece of logic,” observed Griggs, smiling.<a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a></p> - -<p>“Besides, you’re a lion just now, because you’ve been away so long. So -you can break as many engagements as you please—it won’t make any -difference.”</p> - -<p>“There’s a plain and unadorned contempt for social rules in that, which -appeals to me. Thanks; if you’ll let me, I’ll stay.”</p> - -<p>“Of course!” Hester laughed. “You see I’m married to a lion, so I know -just what lions do. Walter, Katharine and Mr. Griggs are going to stay -to luncheon.”</p> - -<p>“I’m delighted,” answered Crowdie, from behind his easel. He was putting -in background with an enormous brush. “I say, Griggs—” he began again.</p> - -<p>“Well?”</p> - -<p>“Do you like Rockaways or Blue Points? I’m sure Hester has forgotten.”</p> - -<p>“ ‘When love was the pearl of’ my ‘oyster,’ I used to prefer Blue -Points,” answered Griggs, meditatively.</p> - -<p>“So does Walter,” said Mrs. Crowdie.</p> - -<p>“Was that a quotation—or what?” asked Katharine, speaking to Crowdie in -an undertone.</p> - -<p>“Swinburne,” answered the painter, indistinctly, for he had one of his -brushes between his teeth.</p> - -<p>“Not that it makes any difference what a man eats,” observed Griggs in -the same thoughtful tone. “I once lived for five weeks on ship biscuit -and raw apples.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a></p> - -<p>“Good heavens!” laughed Hester. “Where was that? In a shipwreck?”</p> - -<p>“No; in New York. It wasn’t bad. I used to eat a pound a day—there were -twelve to a pound of the white pilot-bread, and four apples.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to say that you were deliberately starving yourself? What -for?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no! I had no money, and I wanted to write a book, so that I -couldn’t get anything for my work till it was done. It wasn’t like -little jobs that one’s paid for at once.”</p> - -<p>“How funny!” exclaimed Hester. “Did you hear that, Walter?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes; but he’s done all sorts of things.”</p> - -<p>“Were you ever as hard up as that, Walter?”</p> - -<p>“Not for so long; but I’ve had my days. Haven’t I, Griggs? Do you -remember—in Paris—when we tried to make an omelet without eggs, by the -recipe out of the ‘Noble Booke of Cookerie,’ and I wanted to colour it -with yellow ochre, and you said it was poisonous? I’ve often thought -that if we’d had some saffron, it would have turned out better.”</p> - -<p>“You cooked it too much,” answered Griggs, gravely. “It tasted like an -old binding of a book—all parchment and leathery. There’s nothing in -that recipe anyhow. You can’t make an omelet without eggs. I got hold of -the book again, and copied it out and persuaded the great man at<a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a> -Voisin’s to try it. But he couldn’t do anything with it. It wasn’t much -better than ours.”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad to know that,” said Crowdie. “I’ve often thought of it and -wondered whether we hadn’t made some mistake.”</p> - -<p>Katharine was amused by what the two men said. She had supposed that a -famous painter and a well-known writer, who probably did not spend a -morning together more than two or three times a year, would talk -profoundly of literature and art. But it was interesting, nevertheless, -to hear them speak of little incidents which threw a side-light on their -former lives.</p> - -<p>“Do people who succeed always have such a dreadfully hard time of it?” -she asked, addressing the question to both men.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I suppose most of them do,” answered Crowdie, indifferently.</p> - -<p>“ ‘Jordan’s a hard road to travel,’ ” observed Griggs, mechanically.</p> - -<p>“Sing it, Walter—it is so funny!” suggested Hester.</p> - -<p>“What?” asked the painter.</p> - -<p>“ ‘Jordan’s a hard road’—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I can’t sing and paint. Besides, we’re driving Miss Lauderdale -distracted. Aren’t we, Miss Lauderdale?”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. I like to hear you two talk—as you wouldn’t to a reporter, -for instance. Tell me<a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a> something more about what you did in Paris. Did -you live together?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear, no! Griggs was a sort of little great man already in those -days, and he used to stay at Meurice’s—except when he had no money, and -then he used to sleep in the Calais train—he got nearly ten hours in -that way—and he had a free pass—coming back to Paris in time for -breakfast. He got smashed once, and then he gave it up.”</p> - -<p>“That’s pure invention, Crowdie,” said Griggs.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know it is. But it sounds well, and we always used to say it was -true because you were perpetually rushing backwards and forwards. Oh, -no, Miss Lauderdale—Griggs had begun to ‘arrive’ then, but I was only a -student. You don’t suppose we’re the same age, do you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Walter!” exclaimed Hester, as though the suggestion were an insult.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Griggs is—how old are you, Griggs? I’ve forgotten. About fifty, -aren’t you?”</p> - -<p>“About fifty thousand, or thereabouts,” answered the literary man, with -a good-humoured smile.</p> - -<p>Katharine looked at him, turning completely round, for he and Mrs. -Crowdie were sitting on the divan behind her. She thought his face was -old, especially the eyes and the upper part, but his figure had the -sinewy elasticity of youth even as he sat there, bending forward, with -his hands folded on his knees. She wished she might be with him<a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a> alone -for a while, for she longed to make him talk about himself.</p> - -<p>“You always seemed the same age, to me, even then,” said Crowdie.</p> - -<p>“Does Mr. Crowdie mean that you were never young, Mr. Griggs?” asked -Katharine, who had resumed her pose and was facing the artist.</p> - -<p>“We neither of us mean anything,” said Crowdie, with a soft laugh.</p> - -<p>“That’s reassuring!” exclaimed Katharine, a little annoyed, for Crowdie -laughed as though he knew more about Griggs than he could or would tell.</p> - -<p>“I believe it’s the truth,” said Griggs himself. “We don’t mean anything -especial, except a little chaff. It’s so nice to be idiotic and not to -have to make speeches.”</p> - -<p>“I hate speeches,” said Katharine. “But what I began by asking was this. -Must people necessarily have a very hard time in order to succeed at -anything? You’re both successful men—you ought to know.”</p> - -<p>“They say that the wives of great men have the hardest time,” said -Griggs. “What do you think, Mrs. Crowdie?”</p> - -<p>“Be reasonable!” exclaimed Hester. “Answer Miss Lauderdale’s -question—if any one can, you can.”</p> - -<p>“It depends—” answered Griggs, thoughtfully. “Christopher Columbus<a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t mean Christopher Columbus, nor any one like him!” Katharine -laughed, but a little impatiently. “I mean modern people, like you two.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—modern people. I see.” Mr. Griggs spoke in a very absent tone.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be so hopelessly dull, Griggs!” protested Crowdie. “You’re here -to amuse Miss Lauderdale.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I know I am. I was thinking just then. Please don’t think me rude, -Miss Lauderdale. You asked rather a big question.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—I didn’t mean to put you to the trouble of thinking—”</p> - -<p>“By the bye, Miss Lauderdale,” interrupted Crowdie, “you’re all in black -to-day, and on Wednesday you were in grey. It makes a good deal of -difference, you know, if we are to go on. Which is to be in the picture? -We must decide now, if you don’t mind.”</p> - -<p>“What a fellow you are, Crowdie!” exclaimed Griggs.</p> - -<p>“I’ll have it black, if it’s the same to you,” said Katharine, answering -the painter’s question.</p> - -<p>“What are you abusing me for, Griggs?” asked Crowdie, looking round his -easel.</p> - -<p>“For interrupting. You always do. Miss Lauderdale asked me a question, -and you sprang at me like a fiery and untamed wild-cat because I didn’t<a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a> -answer it—and then you interrupt and begin to talk about dress.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t suppose you had finished thinking already,” answered Crowdie, -calmly. “It generally takes you longer. All right. Go ahead. The -curtain’s up! The anchor’s weighed—all sorts of things! I’m listening. -Miss Lauderdale, if you could look at me for one moment—”</p> - -<p>“There you go again!” exclaimed Griggs.</p> - -<p>“Bless your old heart, man—I’m working, and you’re doing nothing. I -have the right of way. Haven’t I, Miss Lauderdale?”</p> - -<p>“Of course,” answered Katharine. “But I want to hear Mr. Griggs—”</p> - -<p>“ ‘Griggs on Struggles’—it sounds like the title of a law book,” -observed Crowdie.</p> - -<p>“You seem playful this morning,” said Griggs. “What makes you so -terribly pleasant?”</p> - -<p>“The sight of you, my dear fellow, writhing under Miss Lauderdale’s -questions.”</p> - -<p>“Doesn’t Mr. Griggs like to be asked general questions?” enquired -Katharine, innocently.</p> - -<p>“It’s not that, Miss Lauderdale,” said Griggs, answering her question. -“It’s not that. I’m a fidgety old person, I suppose, and I don’t like to -answer at random, and your question is a very big one. Not as a matter -of fact. It’s perfectly easy to say yes, or no, just as one feels about -it, or according to one’s own experience. In that way, I should<a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a> be -inclined to say that it’s a matter of accident and -circumstances—whether men who succeed have to go through many material -difficulties or not. You don’t hear much of all those who struggle and -never succeed, or who are heard of for a moment and then sink. They’re -by far the most numerous. Lots of successful men have never been poor, -if that’s what you mean by hard times—even in art and literature. -Michael Angelo, Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, Chaucer, Montaigne, Goethe, -Byron—you can name any number who never went through anything like what -nine students out of ten in Paris, for instance, suffer cheerfully. It -certainly does not follow that because a man is great he must have -starved at one time or another. The very greatest seem, as a rule, to -have had fairly comfortable homes with everything they could need, -unless they had extravagant tastes. That’s the material view of the -question. The answer is reasonable enough. It’s a disadvantage to begin -very poor, because energy is used up in fighting poverty which might be -used in attacking intellectual difficulties. No doubt the average man, -whose faculties are not extraordinary to begin with, may develop them -wonderfully, and even be very successful—from sheer necessity, sheer -hunger; when, if he were comfortably off, he would do nothing in the -world but lie on his back in the sunshine, and smoke a pipe, and -criticise other people. But to a man who<a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_006_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_006_sml.jpg" width="280" height="451" alt="“ ‘That’s good, Crowdie,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It’s -distinctly good.’ ”—Vol. II., p. 189." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">“ ‘That’s good, Crowdie,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It’s -distinctly good.’ ”—Vol. II., <a href="#page_189">189.</a></span> -</div> - -<p><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a></p> - -<p><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a></p> - -<p class="nind">is naturally so highly gifted that he would produce good work under any -circumstances, poverty is a drawback.”</p> - -<p>“You didn’t know what you were going to get, Miss Lauderdale, when you -prevailed on Griggs to answer a serious question,” said Crowdie, as -Griggs paused a moment. “He’s a didactic old bird, when he mounts his -hobby.”</p> - -<p>“There’s something wrong about that metaphor, Crowdie,” observed Griggs. -“Bird mounting hobby—you know.”</p> - -<p>“Did you never see a crow on a cow’s back?” enquired Crowdie, unmoved. -“Or on a sheep? It’s funny when he gets his claws caught in the wool.”</p> - -<p>“Go on, please, Mr. Griggs,” said Katharine. “It’s very interesting. -What’s the other side of the question?”</p> - -<p>“Oh—I don’t know!” Griggs rose abruptly from his seat and began to pace -the room. “It’s lots of things, I suppose. Things we don’t understand -and never shall—in this world.”</p> - -<p>“But in the other world, perhaps,” suggested Crowdie, with a smile which -Katharine did not like.</p> - -<p>“The other world is the inside of this one,” said Griggs, coming up to -the easel and looking at the painting. “That’s good, Crowdie,” he said, -thoughtfully. “It’s distinctly good. I mean that it’s like,<a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a> that’s all. -Of course, I don’t know anything about painting—that’s your business.”</p> - -<p>“Of course it is,” answered Crowdie; “I didn’t ask you to criticise. But -I’m glad if you think it’s like.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. Don’t mind my telling you, Crowdie—Miss Lauderdale, I hope you’ll -forgive me—there’s a slight irregularity in the pupil of Miss -Lauderdale’s right eye—it isn’t exactly round. It affects the -expression. Do you see?”</p> - -<p>“I never noticed it,” said Katharine in surprise.</p> - -<p>“By Jove—you’re right!” exclaimed Crowdie. “What eyes you have, -Griggs!”</p> - -<p>“It doesn’t affect your sight in the least,” said Griggs, “and nobody -would notice it, but it affects the expression all the same.”</p> - -<p>“You saw it at once,” remarked Katharine.</p> - -<p>“Oh—Griggs sees everything,” answered Crowdie. “He probably observed -the fact last night when he was introduced to you, and has been thinking -about it ever since.”</p> - -<p>“Now you’ve interrupted him again,” said Katharine. “Do sit down again, -Mr. Griggs, and go on with what you were saying—about the other side of -the question.”</p> - -<p>“The question of success?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—and difficulties—and all that.”</p> - -<p>“Delightfully vague—‘all that’! I can only give you an idea of what I -mean. The question of<a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a> success involves its own value, and the ultimate -happiness of mankind. Do you see how big it is? It goes through -everything, and it has no end. What is success? Getting ahead of other -people, I suppose. But in what direction? In the direction of one’s own -happiness, presumably. Every one has a prime and innate right to be -happy. Ideas about happiness differ. With most people it’s a matter of -taste and inherited proclivities. All schemes for making all mankind -happy in one direction must fail. A man is happy when he feels that he -has succeeded—the sportsman when he has killed his game, the parson -when he believes he has saved a soul. We can’t all be parsons, nor all -good shots. There must be variety. Happiness is success, in each -variety, and nothing else. I mean, of course, belief in one’s own -success, with a reasonable amount of acknowledgment. It’s of much less -consequence to Crowdie, for instance, what you think, or I think, or -Mrs. Crowdie thinks about that picture, than it is to himself. But our -opinion has a certain value for him. With an amateur, public opinion is -everything, or nearly everything. With a good professional it is quite -secondary, because he knows much better than the public can, whether his -work is good or bad. He himself is his world—the public is only his -weather, fine one day and rainy the next. He prefers his world in fine -weather, but even when<a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a> it rains he would not exchange it for any other. -He’s his own king, kingdom and court. He’s his own enemy, his own -conqueror, and his own captive—slave is a better word. In the course of -time he may even become perfectly indifferent to the weather in his -world—that is, to the public. And if he can believe that he is doing a -good work, and if he can keep inside his own world, he will probably be -happy.”</p> - -<p>“But if he goes beyond it?” asked Katharine.</p> - -<p>“He will probably be killed—body or soul, or both,” said Griggs, with a -queer change of tone.</p> - -<p>“It seems to me, that you exclude women altogether from your paradise,” -observed Mrs. Crowdie, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>“And amateurs,” said her husband. “It’s to be a professional paradise -for men—no admittance except on business. No one who hasn’t had a -picture on the line need apply. Special hell for minor poets. Crowns of -glory may be had on application at the desk—fit not guaranteed in cases -of swelled head—”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be vulgar, Crowdie,” interrupted Griggs.</p> - -<p>“Is ‘swelled head’ vulgar, Miss Lauderdale?” enquired the painter.</p> - -<p>“It sounds like something horrid—mumps, or that sort of thing. What -does it mean?”</p> - -<p>“It means a bad case of conceit. It’s a good New York expression. I -wonder you haven’t heard<a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a> it. Go on about the professional persons, -Griggs. I’m not half good enough to chaff you. I wish Frank Miner were -here. He’s the literary man in the family.”</p> - -<p>“Little Frank Miner—the brother of the three Miss Miners?” asked -Griggs.</p> - -<p>“Yes—looks a well-dressed cock sparrow—always in a good humour—don’t -you know him?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I do—the brother of the three Miss Miners,” said Griggs, -meditatively. “Does he write? I didn’t know.” Crowdie laughed, and -Hester smiled.</p> - -<p>“Such is fame!” exclaimed Crowdie. “But then, literary men never seem to -have heard of each other.”</p> - -<p>“No,” answered Griggs. “By the bye, Crowdie, have you heard anything of -Chang-Li-Ho lately?”</p> - -<p>“Chang-Li-Ho? Who on earth is he? A Chinese laundryman?”</p> - -<p>“No,” replied Griggs, unmoved. “He’s the greatest painter in the Chinese -Empire. But then, you painters never seem to have heard of one another.”</p> - -<p>“By Jove! that’s not fair, Griggs! Is he to be in the professional -heaven, too?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so. There’ll probably be more Chinamen than New Yorkers -there. They know a great deal more about art.”</p> - -<p>“You’re getting deucedly sarcastic, Griggs,”<a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a> observed Crowdie. “You’d -better tell Miss Lauderdale more about the life to come. Your hobby -can’t be tired yet, and if you ride him industriously, it will soon be -time for luncheon.”</p> - -<p>“We’d better have it at once if you two are going to quarrel,” suggested -Hester, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>“Oh, we never quarrel,” answered Crowdie. “Besides, I’ve got no soul, -Griggs says, and he sold his own to the printer’s devil ages ago—so -that the life to come is a perfectly safe subject.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean by saying that Walter has no soul?” asked Hester, -looking up quickly at Griggs.</p> - -<p>“My dear lady,” he answered, “please don’t be so terribly angry with me. -In the first place, I said it in fun; and secondly, it’s quite true; and -thirdly, it’s very lucky for him that he has none.”</p> - -<p>“Are you joking now, or are you unintentionally funny?” asked Crowdie.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think it’s very funny to be talking about people having no -souls,” said Katharine.</p> - -<p>“Do you think every one has a soul, Miss Lauderdale?” asked Griggs, -beginning to walk about again.</p> - -<p>“Yes—of course. Don’t you?”</p> - -<p>Griggs looked at her a moment in silence, as though he were hesitating -as to what he should say.</p> - -<p>“Can you see the soul, as you did the defect in my eyes?” asked -Katharine, smiling.<a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a></p> - -<p>“Sometimes—sometimes one almost fancies that one might.”</p> - -<p>“And what do you see in mine, may I ask? A defect?”</p> - -<p>He was quite near to her. She looked up at him earnestly with her pure -girl’s eyes, wide, grey and honest. The fresh pallor of her skin was -thrown into relief by the black she wore, and her features by the rich -stuff which covered the high back of the chair. There was a deeper -interest in her expression than Griggs often saw in the faces of those -with whom he talked, but it was not that which fascinated him. There was -something suggestive of holy things, of innocent suffering, of the -romance of a virgin martyr—something which, perhaps, took him back to -strange sights he had seen in his youth.</p> - -<p>He stood looking down into her eyes, a gaunt, world-worn fighter of -fifty years, with a strong, ugly, determined but yet kindly face—the -face of a man who has passed beyond a certain barrier which few men ever -reach at all.</p> - -<p>Crowdie dropped his hand, holding his brush, and gazing at the two in -silent and genuine delight. The contrast was wonderful, he thought. He -would have given much to paint them as they were before him, with their -expressions—with the very thoughts of which the look in each face was -born. Whatever Crowdie might be at heart, he was an artist first.<a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a></p> - -<p>And Hester watched them, too, accustomed to notice whatever struck her -husband’s attention. A very different nature was hers from any of the -three—one reserved for an unusual destiny, and with something of fate’s -shadowy painting already in all her outward self—passionate, first, and -having, also, many qualities of mercy and cruelty at passion’s command, -but not having anything of the keen insight into the world spiritual, -and material, which in varied measure belonged to each of the others.</p> - -<p>“And what defect do you see in my soul?” asked Katharine, her exquisite -lips just parting in a smile.</p> - -<p>“Forgive me!” exclaimed Griggs, as though roused from a reverie. “I -didn’t realize that I was staring at you.” He was an oddly natural man -at certain times. Katharine almost laughed.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t realize it either,” she answered. “I was too much interested -in what I thought you were going to say.”</p> - -<p>“He’s a very clever fellow, Miss Lauderdale,” said Crowdie, going on -with his painting. “But you’ll turn his head completely. To be so much -interested—not in what he has said, or is saying, or even is going to -say, but just in what you think he possibly may say—it’s amazing! -Griggs, you’re not half enough nattered! But then, you’re so spoilt!”</p> - -<p><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a></p> - -<p>“Yes—in my old age, people are spoiling me.” Griggs smiled rather -sourly. “I can’t read souls, Miss Lauderdale,” he continued. “But if I -could, I should rather read yours than most books. It has something to -say.”</p> - -<p>“It’s impossible to be more vague, I’m sure,” observed Crowdie.</p> - -<p>“It’s impossible to be more flattering,” said Katharine, quietly. “Thank -you, Mr. Griggs.”</p> - -<p>She was beginning to be tired of Crowdie’s observations upon what Griggs -said—possibly because she was beginning to like Griggs himself more -than she had expected.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t mean to be either vague or flattering. It’s servile to be the -one and weak to be the other. I said what I thought. Do you call it -flattery to paint a beautiful portrait of Miss Lauderdale?”</p> - -<p>“Not unless I make it more beautiful than she is,” answered the painter.</p> - -<p>“You can’t.”</p> - -<p>“That’s decisive, at all events,” laughed Crowdie. “Not but that I agree -with you, entirely.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t mean it as you do,” answered Griggs. “That would be -flattery—exactly what I don’t mean. Miss Lauderdale is perfectly well -aware that you’re a great portrait painter and that she is not -altogether the most beautiful young lady living at the present moment. -You mean flesh and blood and eyes and hair. I don’t. I mean all that<a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a> -flesh and blood and eyes and hair don’t mean, and never can mean.”</p> - -<p>“Soul,” suggested Crowdie. “I was talking about that to Miss Lauderdale -the last time she sat for me—that was on Wednesday, wasn’t it—the day -before yesterday? It seems like last year, for some reason or other. -Yes, I know what you mean. You needn’t get into such a state of frenzied -excitement.”</p> - -<p>“I appeal to you, Mrs. Crowdie—was I talking excitedly?”</p> - -<p>“A little,” answered Hester, who was incapable of disagreeing with her -husband.</p> - -<p>“Oh—well—I daresay,” said Griggs. “It hasn’t been my weakness in life -to get excited, though.” He laughed.</p> - -<p>“Walter always makes you talk, Mr. Griggs,” answered Mrs. Crowdie.</p> - -<p>“A great deal too much. I think I shall be rude, and not stay to -luncheon, after all.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense!” exclaimed Crowdie. “Don’t go in for being young and -eccentric—the ‘man of genius’ style, who runs in and out like a hen in -a thunder-storm, and is in everybody’s way when he’s not wanted and -can’t be found when people want him. You’ve outgrown that sort of -absurdity long ago.”</p> - -<p>Katharine would have liked to see Griggs’ face at that moment, but he -was behind her again.<a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a> There was something in the relation of the two -men which she found it hard to understand. Crowdie was much younger than -Griggs—fourteen or fifteen years, she fancied, and Griggs did not seem -to be at all the kind of man with whom people would naturally be -familiar or take liberties, to use the common phrase. Yet they talked -together like a couple of schoolboys. She should not have thought, -either, that they could be mutually attracted. Yet they appeared to have -many ideas in common, and to understand each other wonderfully well. -Crowdie was evidently not repulsive to Griggs as he was to many men she -knew—to Bright and Miner, for instance—and the two had undoubtedly -been very intimate in former days. Nevertheless, it was strange to hear -the younger man, who was little more than a youth in appearance, -comparing the celebrated Paul Griggs to a hen in a thunder-storm, and -still stranger to see that Griggs did not resent it at all. An older -woman might have unjustly suspected that the elderly man of letters was -in love with Hester Crowdie, but such an idea could never have crossed -Katharine’s mind. In that respect she was singularly unsophisticated. -She had been accustomed to see her beautiful mother surrounded and -courted by men of all ages, and she knew that her mother was utterly -indifferent to them except in so far as she liked to be admired. In some -books, men fall<a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a> in love with married women, and Katharine had always -been told that those were bad books, and had accepted the fact without -question and without interest.</p> - -<p>But in ordinary matters she was keen of perception. It struck her that -there was some bond or link between the two men, and it seemed strange -to her that there should be—as strange as though she had seen an old -wolf playing amicably with a little rabbit. She thought of the two -animals in connection with the two men.</p> - -<p>While she had been thinking, Hester and Griggs had been talking together -in lower tones, on the divan, and Crowdie had been painting -industriously.</p> - -<p>“It’s time for luncheon,” said Mrs. Crowdie. “Mr. Griggs says he really -must go away very early, and perhaps, if Katharine will stay, she will -let you paint for another quarter of an hour afterward.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would!” answered Crowdie, with alacrity. “The snow-light is -so soft—you see the snow lies on the skylight like a blanket.”</p> - -<p>Katharine looked up at the glass roof, turning her head far back, for it -was immediately overhead. When she dropped her eyes she saw that Griggs -was looking at her again, but he turned away instantly. She had no -sensation of unpleasantness, as she always had when she met Crowdie’s -womanish glance; but she wondered about the man and his past.<a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a></p> - -<p>Hester was just leaving the studio, going downstairs to be sure that -luncheon was ready, and Crowdie had disappeared behind his curtain to -put his palette and brushes out of sight, as usual. Katharine was alone -with Griggs for a few moments. They stood together, looking at the -portrait.</p> - -<p>“How long have you known Mr. Crowdie?” she asked, yielding to an -irresistible impulse.</p> - -<p>“Crowdie?” repeated Griggs. “Oh—a long time—fifteen or sixteen years, -I should think. That’s going to be a very good portrait, Miss -Lauderdale—one of his best. And Crowdie, at his best, is first rate.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katharine</span> was conscious that during the time she had spent in the studio -she had been taken out of herself. She had listened to what the others -had said, she had been interested in Griggs, she had speculated upon the -probable origin of his apparent friendship with Crowdie; in a word, she -had temporarily lulled the tempest which had threatened to overwhelm her -altogether in the earlier part of the morning. She was not much given to -analyzing herself and her feelings, but as she descended the stairs, -followed by Crowdie and Griggs, she was inclined to doubt whether she -were awake, or dreaming. She told herself that it was all true; that she -had been married to John Ralston on the previous morning in the quiet, -remote church, that she had seen John for one moment in the afternoon, -at her own door, that he had failed her in the evening, and that she -knew only too certainly how he had disgraced himself in the eyes of -decent people during the remainder of the day. It was all true, and yet -there was something misty about it all, as though it were a dream. She -did not feel angry or hurt any more. It only seemed to<a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a> her that John, -and everything connected with him, had all at once passed out of her -life, beyond the possibility of recall. And she did not wish to recall -it, for she had reached something like peace, very unexpectedly.</p> - -<p>It was, of course, only temporary. Physically speaking, it might be -explained as the reaction from violent emotions, which had left her -nerves weary and deadened. And speaking not merely of the material side, -it is true that the life of love has moments of suspended animation, -during which it is hard to believe that love was ever alive at -all—times when love has a past and a future, but no present.</p> - -<p>If she had met John at that moment, on the stairs, she would very -probably have put out her hand quite naturally, and would have greeted -him with a smile, before the reality of all that had happened could come -back to her. Many of us have dreamed that those dearest to us have done -us some cruel and bitter wrong, struck us, insulted us, trampled on our -life-long devotion to them; and in the morning, awaking, we have met -them, and smiled, and loved them just the same. For it was only a dream. -And there are those who have known the reality; who, after much time, -have very suddenly found out that they have been betrayed and wickedly -deceived, and used ill, by their most dear—and who, in the first -moment,<a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a> have met them, and smiled, and loved them just the same. For it -was only a dream, they thought indeed. And then comes the waking, which -is as though one fell asleep upon his beloved’s bosom and awoke among -thorns, and having a crown of thorns about his brows—very hard to bear -without crying aloud.</p> - -<p>Katharine pressed the polished banister of the staircase with her hand, -and with the other she found the point of the little gold pin she wore -at her throat and made it prick her a little. It was a foolish idea and -a childish thought. She knew that she was not really dreaming, and yet, -as though she might have been, she wanted a physical sensation to assure -her that she was awake. Griggs was close behind her. Crowdie had stopped -a moment to pull the cord of a curtain which covered the skylight of the -staircase.</p> - -<p>“I wonder where real things end, and dreams begin!” said Katharine, half -turning her head, and then immediately looking before her again.</p> - -<p>“At every minute of every hour,” answered Griggs, as quickly as though -the thought had been in his own mind.</p> - -<p>From higher up came Crowdie’s golden voice, singing very softly to -himself. He had heard the question and the answer.</p> - -<p>“ ‘La vie est un songe,’ ” he sang, and then, breaking off suddenly, -laughed a little and began to descend.<a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a></p> - -<p>At the first note, Katharine stood still and turned her face upwards. -Griggs stopped, too, and looked down at her. Even after Crowdie had -laughed Katharine did not move.</p> - -<p>“I wish you’d go on, Mr. Crowdie!” she cried, speaking so that he could -hear her.</p> - -<p>“Griggs is anxious for the Blue Points,” he answered, coming down. -“Besides, he hates music, and makes no secret of the fact.”</p> - -<p>“Is it true? Do you really hate music?” asked Katharine, turning and -beginning to descend again.</p> - -<p>“Quite true,” answered Griggs, quietly. “I detest it. Crowdie’s a -nuisance with his perpetual yapping.”</p> - -<p>Crowdie laughed good naturedly, and Katharine said nothing. As they -reached the lower landing she turned and paused an instant, so that -Griggs came beside her.</p> - -<p>“Did you always hate music?” she asked, looking up into his -weather-beaten face with some curiosity.</p> - -<p>“Hm!” Griggs uttered a doubtful sound. “It’s a long time since I heard -any that pleased me, at all events.”</p> - -<p>“There are certain subjects, Miss Lauderdale, upon which Griggs is -unapproachable, because he won’t say anything. And there are others upon -which it is dangerous to approach him, because he is likely to say too -much. Hester! Where are you?”</p> - -<p><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a></p> - -<p>He disappeared into the little room at the front of the house in search -of his wife, and Katharine stood alone with Griggs in the entry. Again -she looked at him with curiosity.</p> - -<p>“You’re a very good-humoured person, Mr. Griggs,” she said, with a -smile.</p> - -<p>“You mean about Crowdie? Oh, I can stand a lot of his chaff—and he has -to stand mine, too.”</p> - -<p>“That was a very interesting answer you gave to my question about -dreams,” said Katharine, leaning against the pillar of the banister.</p> - -<p>“Was it? Let me see—what did I say?” He seemed to be absent-minded -again.</p> - -<p>“Come to luncheon!” cried Crowdie, reappearing with Hester at that -moment. “You can talk metaphysics over the oysters.”</p> - -<p>“Metaphysics!” exclaimed Griggs, with a smile.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know,” answered Crowdie. “I can’t tell the difference between -metaphysics and psychics, and geography and Totem. It is all precisely -the same to me—and it is to Griggs, if he’d only acknowledge it. Come -along, Miss Lauderdale—to oysters and culture!”</p> - -<p>Hester laughed at Crowdie’s good spirits, and Griggs smiled. He had -large, sharp teeth, and Katharine thought of the wolf and the rabbit -again. It was strange that they should be on such good terms.</p> - -<p>They sat down to luncheon. The dining-room,<a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a> like every other part of -the small house, had been beautified as much as its position and -dimensions would allow. It had originally been small, but an extension -of glass had been built out into the yard, which Hester had turned into -a fernery. There were a great number of plants of many varieties, some -of which had been obtained with great difficulty from immense distances. -Hester had been told that it would be impossible to make them grow in an -inhabited room, but she had succeeded, and the result was something -altogether out of the common.</p> - -<p>She admitted that, besides the attention she bestowed upon the plants -herself, they occupied the whole time of a specially trained gardener. -They were her only hobby, and where they were concerned, time and money -had no value for her. The dining-room itself was simple, but exquisite -in its way. There were a few pieces of wonderfully chiselled silver on -the sideboard, and the glasses on the table were Venetian and Bohemian, -and very old. The linen was as fine as fine writing paper, the porcelain -was plain white Sèvres. There was nothing superfluous, but there were -all the little, unobtrusive, almost priceless details which are the -highest expression “of intimate luxury—in which the eye alone receives -rest, while the other senses are flattered to the utmost. Colour and the -precious metals are terribly cheap things<a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a> nowadays compared with what -appeals to touch and taste. There are times when certain dainties, like -terrapin, for instance, are certainly worth much more than their weight -in silver, if not quite their weight in gold. But as for that, to say -that a man is worth his weight in gold has ceased to mean very much. -Some ingenious persons have lately calculated that the average man’s -weight in gold would be worth about forty thousand dollars, and that a -few minutes’ worth of the income of some men living would pay for a -life-sized golden calf. The further development of luxury will be an -interesting thing to watch during the next century. A poor woman in New -York recently returned a roast turkey to a charitable lady who had sent -it to her, with the remark that she was accustomed to eat roast beef at -Christmas, though she ‘did not mind turkey on Thanksgiving Day.’</p> - -<p>Katharine wondered how far such a man as Griggs, who said that he hated -music, could appreciate the excessive refinement of a luxury which could -be felt rather than seen. It was all familiar to Katharine, and there -were little things at the Crowdies which she longed to have at home. -Griggs ate his oysters in silence. Fletcher came to his elbow with a -decanter.</p> - -<p>“Vin de Grave, sir?” enquired the old butler in a low voice.<a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a></p> - -<p>“No wine, thank you,” said Griggs.</p> - -<p>“There’s Sauterne, isn’t there, Walter?” asked Hester. “Perhaps Mr. -Griggs—”</p> - -<p>“Griggs is a cold water man, like me,” answered Crowdie. “His secret -vice is to drink a bucket of it, when nobody is looking.”</p> - -<p>Fletcher looked disappointed, and replaced the decanter on the -sideboard.</p> - -<p>“It’s uncommon to see two men who drink nothing,” observed Hester. “But -I remember that Mr. Griggs never did.”</p> - -<p>“Never—since you knew me, Mrs. Crowdie. I did when I was younger.”</p> - -<p>“Did you? What made you give it up?”</p> - -<p>Katharine felt a strange pain in her heart, as they began to talk of the -subject. The reality was suddenly coming back out of dreamland.</p> - -<p>“I lost my taste for it,” answered Griggs, indifferently.</p> - -<p>“About the same time as when you began to hate music, wasn’t it?” asked -Crowdie, gravely.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I daresay.”</p> - -<p>The elder man spoke quietly enough, and there was not a shade of -interest in his voice as he answered the question. But Katharine, who -was watching him unconsciously, saw a momentary change pass over his -face. He glanced at Crowdie with an expression that was almost savage. -The dark, weary eyes gleamed fiercely for an instant,<a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a> the great veins -swelled at the lean temples, the lips parted and just showed the big, -sharp teeth. Then it was all over again and the kindly look came back. -Crowdie was not smiling, and the tone in which he had asked the question -showed plainly enough that it was not meant as a jest. Indeed, the -painter himself seemed unusually serious. But he had not been looking at -Griggs, nor had Hester seen the sudden flash of what was very like -half-suppressed anger. Katharine wondered more and more, and the little -incident diverted her thoughts again from the suggestion which had given -her pain.</p> - -<p>“Lots of men drink water altogether, nowadays,” observed Crowdie. “It’s -a mistake, of course, but it’s much more agreeable.”</p> - -<p>“A mistake!” exclaimed Katharine, very much astonished.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—it’s an awful mistake,” echoed Griggs, in the most natural way -possible.</p> - -<p>“I’m not so sure,” said Hester Crowdie, in a tone of voice which showed -plainly that the idea was not new to her.</p> - -<p>“I don’t understand,” said Katharine, unable to recover from her -surprise. “I always thought that—” she checked herself and looked -across at the ferns, for her heart was hurting her again.</p> - -<p>She suddenly realized, also, that considering what had happened on the -previous night, it was<a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a> very tactless of Crowdie not to change the -subject. But he seemed not at all inclined to drop it yet.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said. “In the first place, total abstinence shortens life. -Statistics show that moderate consumers of alcoholic drinks live -considerably longer than drunkards and total abstainers.”</p> - -<p>“Of course,” assented Griggs. “A certain amount of wine makes a man lazy -for a time, and that rests his nerves. We who drink water accomplish -more in a given time, but we don’t live so long. We wear ourselves out. -If we were not the strongest generation there has been for centuries, we -should all be in our graves by this time.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think we are a very strong generation?” asked Crowdie, who -looked as weak as a girl.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I do,” answered Griggs. “Look at yourself and at me. You’re not an -athlete, and an average street boy of fifteen or sixteen might kill you -in a fight. That has nothing to do with it. The amount of actual hard -work, in your profession, which you’ve done—ever since you were a mere -lad—is amazing, and you’re none the worse for it, either. You go on, -just as though you had begun yesterday. Heaving weights and rowing races -is no test of what a man’s strength will bear in everyday life. You -don’t need big muscles and strong joints. But you need good<a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a> nerves and -enormous endurance. I consider you a very strong man—in most ways that -are of any use.”</p> - -<p>“That’s true,” said Mrs. Crowdie. “It’s what I’ve always been trying to -put into words.”</p> - -<p>“All the same,” continued Griggs, “one reason why you do more than other -people is that you drink water. If we are strong, it’s because the last -generation and the one before it lived too well. The next generation -will be ruined by the advance of science.”</p> - -<p>“The advance of science!” exclaimed Katharine. “But, Mr. Griggs—what -extraordinary ideas you have!”</p> - -<p>“Have I? It’s very simple, and it’s absolutely true. We’ve had the -survival of the fittest, and now we’re to have the survival of the -weakest, because medical science is learning how to keep all the -weaklings alive. If they were puppies, they’d all be drowned, for fear -of spoiling the breed. That’s rather a brutal way of putting it, but -it’s true. As for the question of drink, the races that produce the most -effect on the world are those that consume the most meat and the most -alcohol. I don’t suppose any one will try to deny that. Of course, the -consequences of drinking last for many generations after alcohol has -gone out of use. It’s pretty certain that before Mohammed’s time the -national vice of the Arabs was<a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a> drunkenness. So long as the effects -lasted—for a good many generations—they swept everything before them. -The most terrible nation is the one that has alcohol in its veins but -not in its head. But when the effects wore out, the Arabs retired from -the field before nations that drank—and drank hard. They had no -chance.”</p> - -<p>“What a horrible view to take!” Katharine was really shocked by the -man’s cool statements, and most of all by the appearance of indisputable -truth which he undoubtedly gave to them.</p> - -<p>“And as for saying that drink is the principal cause of crime,” he -continued, quietly finishing a piece of shad on his plate, “it’s the -most arrant nonsense that ever was invented. The Hindus are total -abstainers and always have been, so far as we know. The vast majority of -them take no stimulant whatever, no tea, no coffee. They smoke a little. -There are, I believe, about two hundred millions of them alive now, and -their capacity for most kinds of wickedness is quite as great as ours. -Any Indian official will tell you that. It’s pure nonsense to lay all -the blame on whiskey. There would be just as many crimes committed -without it, and it would be much harder to detect them, because the -criminals would keep their heads better under difficulties. Crime is in -human nature, like virtue—like most things, if you know how to find -them.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a></p> - -<p>“That’s perfectly true,” said Crowdie. “I believe every word of it. And -I know that if I drank a certain amount of wine I should have a better -chance of long life, but I don’t like the taste of it—couldn’t bear it -when I was a boy. I like to see men get mellow and good-natured over a -bottle of claret, too. All the same, there’s nothing so positively -disgusting as a man who has had too much.”</p> - -<p>Hester looked at him quickly, warning him to drop the subject. But -Griggs knew nothing of the circumstances, and went on discussing the -matter from his original point of view.</p> - -<p>“There’s a beast somewhere, in every human being,” he said, -thoughtfully. “If you grant the fact that it is a beast, it’s no worse -to look at than other beasts. But it’s quite proper to call a drunkard a -beast, because almost all animals will drink anything alcoholic which -hasn’t a bad taste, until they’re blind drunk. It’s a natural instinct. -Did you ever see a goat drink rum, or a Western pony drink a pint of -whiskey? All animals like it. I’ve tried it on lots of them. It’s an old -sailors’ trick.”</p> - -<p>“I think it’s horrid!” exclaimed Hester. “Altogether, it’s a most -unpleasant subject. Can’t we talk of something else?”</p> - -<p>“Griggs can talk about anything except botany, my dear,” said Crowdie. -“Don’t ask him about<a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a> ferns, unless you want an exhibition of ignorance -which will startle you.”</p> - -<p>Katharine sat still in silence, though it would have been easy for her -at that moment to turn the conversation into a new channel, by asking -Griggs the first question which chanced to present itself. But she could -not have spoken just then. She could not eat, either, though she made a -pretence of using her fork. The reality had come back out of dreamland -altogether this time, and would not be banished again. The long -discussion about the subject which of all others was most painful to -her, and the cynical indifference with which the two men had discussed -it, had goaded her memory back through all the details of the last -twenty-four hours. She was scarcely conscious that Hester had -interfered, as she became more and more absorbed by her own suffering.</p> - -<p>“Shall we talk of roses and green fields and angels’ loves?” asked -Griggs. “How many portraits have you painted since last summer, -Crowdie?”</p> - -<p>“By way of reminding me of roses you stick the thorns into me—four, I -think—and two I’m doing now, besides Miss Lauderdale’s. There’s been a -depression down town. That accounts for the small number. Portrait -painters suffer first. In hard times people don’t want them.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” answered Griggs, thoughtfully. “Portrait<a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a> painters and hatters. -Did you know that, Crowdie? When money is tight in Wall Street, people -don’t bet hats, and the hatters say it makes a great difference.”</p> - -<p>“That’s queer. And you—how many books have you written?”</p> - -<p>“Since last summer? Only one—a boshy little thing of sixty thousand.”</p> - -<p>“Sixty thousand what?” asked Hester. “Dollars?”</p> - -<p>“Dollars!” Griggs laughed. “No—only words. Sixty thousand words. That’s -the way we count what we do. No—it’s a tiresome little thing. I had an -idea,—or thought I had,—and just when I got to the end of it I found -it was trash. That’s generally the way with me, unless I have a stroke -of luck. Haven’t you got an idea for me, Mrs. Crowdie? I’m getting old -and people won’t give me any, as they used to.”</p> - -<p>“I wish I had! What do you want? A love story?”</p> - -<p>“Of course. But what I want is a character. There are no new plots, nor -incidents, nor things of that sort, you know. Everything that’s ever -happened has happened so often. But there are new characters. The end of -the century, the sharp end of the century, is digging them up out of the -sands of life—as you might dig up clams with a pointed stick.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a></p> - -<p>“That’s bathos!” laughed Crowdie. “The sands of life—and clams!”</p> - -<p>“I wish you’d stick to your daubs, Crowdie, and leave my English alone!” -said Griggs. “It sells just as well as your portraits. No—what I mean -is that just when fate is twisting the tail of the century—”</p> - -<p>“Really, my dear fellow—that’s a little too bad, you know! To compare -the century to a refractory cow!”</p> - -<p>“Crowdie,” said Griggs, gravely, “in a former state I was a wolf, and -you were a rabbit, and I gobbled you up. If you go on interrupting me, -I’ll do it again and destroy your Totem.”</p> - -<p>Katharine started suddenly and stared at Griggs. It seemed so strange -that he should have used the very words—wolf and rabbit—which had been -in her mind more than once during the morning.</p> - -<p>“What is it, Miss Lauderdale?” he asked, in some surprise. “You look -startled.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—nothing!” Katharine hastened to say. “I happened to have thought of -wolves and rabbits, and it seemed odd that you should mention them.”</p> - -<p>“Write to the Psychical Research people,” suggested Crowdie. “It’s a -distinct case of thought-transference.”</p> - -<p>“I daresay it is,” said Griggs, indifferently. “Everything is -transferable—why shouldn’t thoughts be?”</p> - -<p><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a></p> - -<p>“Everything?” repeated Crowdie. “Even the affections?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—even the affections—but punched, like a railway ticket,” -answered Griggs, promptly. Everybody laughed a little, except Griggs -himself.</p> - -<p>“Of course the affections are transferable,” he continued, meditatively. -“The affections are the hat—the object is only the peg on which it’s -hung. One peg is almost as good as another—if it’s within reach; but -the best place for the hat is on the man’s own head. Nothing shields a -man like devoting all his affections to himself.”</p> - -<p>“That’s perfectly outrageous!” exclaimed Hester Crowdie. “You make one -think that you don’t believe in anything! Oh, it’s too bad—really it -is!”</p> - -<p>“I believe in ever so many things, my dear lady,” answered Griggs, -looking at her with a singularly gentle expression on his weather-beaten -face. “I believe in lots of good things—more than Crowdie does, as he -knows. I believe in roses, and green fields, and love, as much as you -do. Only—the things one believes in are not always good for one—it -depends—love’s path may lie among roses or among thorns; yet the path -always has two ends—the one end is life, if the love is true.”</p> - -<p>“And the other?” asked Katharine, meeting his far-away glance.<a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a></p> - -<p>“The other is death,” he answered, almost solemnly.</p> - -<p>A momentary silence followed the words. Even Crowdie made no remark, -while both Hester and Katharine watched the elder man’s face, as women -do when a man who has known the world well speaks seriously of love.</p> - -<p>“But then,” added Griggs himself, more lightly, and as though to destroy -the impression he had made, “most people never go to either end of the -path. They enter at one side, look up and down it, cross it, and go out -at the other. Something frightens them, or they don’t like the colour of -the roses, or they’re afraid of the thorns—in nine cases out of ten, -something drives them out of it.”</p> - -<p>“How can one be driven out of love?” asked Katharine, gravely.</p> - -<p>“I put the thing generally, and adorned it with nice similes and -things—and now you want me to explain all the details!” protested -Griggs, with a little rough laugh. “How can one be driven out of love? -In many ways, I fancy. By a real or imaginary fault of the other person -in the path, I suppose, as much as by anything. It won’t do to stand at -trifles when one loves. There’s a meaning in the words of the marriage -service—‘for better, for worse.’ ”</p> - -<p>“I know there is,” said Katharine, growing<a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a> pale, and choking herself -with the words in the determination to be brave.</p> - -<p>“Of course there is. People don’t know much about one another when they -get married. At least, not as a rule. They’ve met on the stage like -actors in a play—and then, suddenly, they meet in private life, and are -quite different people. Very probably the woman is jealous and -extravagant, and has a temper, and has been playing the ingenuous young -girl’s parts on the stage. And the man, who has been doing the -self-sacrificing hero, who proposes to go without butter in order to -support his starving mother-in-law, turns out to be a gambler—or -drinks, or otherwise plays the fool. Of course that’s all very -distressing to the bride or the bridegroom, as the case may be. But it -can’t be helped. They’ve taken one another ‘for better, for worse,’ and -it’s turned out to be for worse. They can go to Sioux City and get a -divorce, but then that’s troublesome and scandalous, and one thing and -another. So they just put up with it. Besides, they may love each other -so much that the defects don’t drive them out of it. Then the bad one -drags down the good one—or, in rare cases, the good one raises the bad -one. Oh, yes—I’m not a cynic—that happens, too, from time to time.”</p> - -<p>Crowdie looked at his wife with his soft, languishing glance, and if -Katharine had been<a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a> watching him, she might have seen on his red lips -the smile she especially detested. But she was looking down and pressing -her hands together under the table. Hester Crowdie’s eyes were fixed on -her face, for she was very pale and was evidently suffering. Griggs also -looked at her, and saw that something unusual was happening.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Crowdie,” he said, vigorously changing the subject, as a man can -who has been leading the conversation, “if it isn’t a very rude -question, may I ask where you get the extraordinary ham you always have -whenever I lunch with you? I’ve been all over the world, and I’ve never -eaten anything like it. I’m not sure whether it’s the ham itself, or -some secret in the cooking.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Crowdie glanced at Katharine’s face once more, and then looked at -him. Crowdie also turned towards him, and Katharine slowly unclasped her -hands beneath the table, as though the bitterness of death were passed.</p> - -<p>“Oh—the ham?” repeated Mrs. Crowdie. “They’re Yorkshire hams, aren’t -they, Walter? You always order them.”</p> - -<p>“No, my dear,” answered Crowdie. “They’re American. We’ve not had any -English ones for two or three years. Fletcher gets them. He’s a better -judge than the cook. Griggs is quite right—there’s a trick about -boiling them—something to do with changing the water a certain number -of<a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a> times before you put in the wine. Are you going to set up -housekeeping, Griggs? I should think that oatmeal and water and dried -herrings would be your sort of fare, from what I remember.”</p> - -<p>“Something of that kind,” answered Griggs. “Anything’s good enough that -will support life.”</p> - -<p>The luncheon came to an end without any further incident, and the -conversation ran on in the very smallest of small talk. Then Griggs, who -was a very busy man, lighted a cigarette and took his departure. As he -shook hands with Katharine, and bowed in his rather foreign way, he -looked at her once more, as though she interested him very much.</p> - -<p>“I hope I shall see you again,” said Katharine, quietly.</p> - -<p>“I hope so, indeed,” answered Griggs. “You’re very kind to say so.”</p> - -<p>When he was gone the other three remained together in the little front -room, which has been so often mentioned.</p> - -<p>“Will you sit for me a little longer, Miss Lauderdale?” asked Crowdie.</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t work any more just yet, Walter!” cried Hester, with sudden -anxiety.</p> - -<p>“Why? What’s the matter?” enquired Crowdie in some surprise.</p> - -<p>“You know what Mr. Griggs was just saying at<a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a> luncheon. You work so -hard! You’ll overdo it some day. It’s perfectly true, you know. You -never give yourself any rest!”</p> - -<p>“Except during about one-half of the year, my dear, when you and I do -absolutely nothing together in the most beautiful places in the -world—in the most perfect climates, and without one solitary little -shadow of a care for anything on earth but our two selves.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I know. But you work all the harder the rest of the time. Besides, -we haven’t been abroad this year, and you say we can’t get away for at -least two months. Do give yourself time to breathe—just after luncheon, -too. I’m sure it’s not good for him, is it Katharine?” she asked, -appealing to her friend.</p> - -<p>“Of course not!” answered Katharine. “And besides, I must run home. My -dear, just fancy! I forgot to ask you to send word to say that I wasn’t -coming, and they won’t know where I am. But we lunch later than you -do—if I go directly, I shall find them still at table.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense!” exclaimed Hester. “You don’t want to go really? Do you? You -know, I could send word still—it wouldn’t be too late.” She glanced at -her husband, who shook his head, and smiled—he was standing behind -Katharine. “Well—if you must, then,” continued Hester, “I won’t keep -you. But come back soon. It seems<a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a> to me that I never see you now—and I -have lots of things to tell you.”</p> - -<p>Katharine shook hands with Crowdie, whose soft, white fingers felt cold -in hers. Hester went out with her into the entry, and helped her to put -on her thick coat.</p> - -<p>“Take courage, dear!” said Mrs. Crowdie in a low voice, as she kissed -her. “It will come right in the end.”</p> - -<p>Katharine looked fixedly at her for a few seconds, buttoning her coat.</p> - -<p>“It’s not courage that I need,” she said slowly, at last. “I think I -have enough—good-bye—Hester, darling—good-bye!”</p> - -<p>She put her arms round her friend and kissed her three times, and then -turned quickly and let herself out, leaving Hester standing in the -entry, wondering at the solemn way in which she had taken leave of her.<a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katharine’s</span> mood had changed very much since she had entered the -Crowdies’ house. She had felt then a certain sense of strength which had -been familiar to her all her life, but which had never before seemed so -real and serviceable. She had been sure that she could defy the -world—in that black frock she wore—and that her face would be of -marble and her heart of steel under all imaginable circumstances. She -had carried her head high and had walked with a firm tread. She had felt -that if she met John Ralston she could tell him what she thought of him, -and hurt him, so that in his suffering, at least, he should repent of -what he had done.</p> - -<p>It was different now. She did not attempt to find reasons for the -difference, and they would have been hard to discover. But she knew that -she had been exposed to a sort of test of her strength, and had broken -down, and that Hester Crowdie had seen her defeat. Possibly it was the -knowledge that Hester had seen and understood which was the most -immediately painful circumstance at the present moment; but it was not -the<a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a> most important one, for she was really quite as brave as she had -believed herself, and what suffered most in her was not her vanity.</p> - -<p>The conversation at table had somehow brought the whole truth more -clearly before her, as the developer brings out the picture on a -photographer’s plate. The facts were fixed now, and she could not hide -them nor turn from them at will.</p> - -<p>Whether she were mistaken or not, the position was bad enough. As she -saw it, it was intolerable. By her own act, by the exercise of her own -will, and by nothing else, she had been secretly married to John -Ralston. She had counted with certainty upon old Robert Lauderdale to -provide her husband with some occupation immediately, feeling sure that -within a few days she should be able to acknowledge the marriage and -assume her position before the world as a married woman. But Robert -Lauderdale had demonstrated to her that this was impossible under the -conditions she required, namely, that John should support himself. He -had indeed offered to make her independent, but that solution of the -difficulty was not acceptable. To obtain what she and Ralston had both -desired, it was necessary, and she admitted the fact, that John should -work regularly in some office for a certain time. Robert Lauderdale -himself could not take an idle man from a fashionable club and suddenly -turn him into a partner in a<a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a> house of business or a firm of lawyers, if -the idle man himself refused to accept money in any shape. Even if he -had accepted it, such a proceeding would have been criticised and -laughed at as a piece of plutocratic juggling. It would have made John -contemptible. Therefore it was impossible that John and Katharine should -have a house of their own and appear as a married couple for some time, -for at least a year, and probably for a longer period. Under such -circumstances to declare the marriage would have been to make themselves -the laughing-stock of society, so long as John continued to live under -his mother’s roof, and Katharine with her father. The secret marriage -would have to be kept a secret, except, perhaps, from the more discreet -members of the family. Alexander Lauderdale would have to be told, and -life would not be very pleasant for Katharine until she could leave the -paternal dwelling. She knew that, but she would have been able to bear -it, to look upon the next year or two as years of betrothal, and to give -her whole heart and soul to help John in his work. It was the worst -contingency which she had foreseen when she had persuaded him to take -the step with her, and she had certainly not expected that it could -arise; but since it had arisen, she was ready to meet it. There was -nothing within the limits of reason which she would not have done for -John, and she had driven those limits as far from<a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a> ordinary common sense -as was possible, to rashness, even to the verge of things desperate in -their folly.</p> - -<p>She knew that. But she had counted on John Ralston with that singularly -whole-hearted faith which characterizes very refined women. Many years -ago, when analytical fiction was in its infancy, Charles de Bernard made -the very wise and true observation that no women abandon themselves more -completely in thought and deed to the men they love, or make such real -slaves of themselves, as those whom he calls ‘great ladies,’—that is, -as we should say, women of the highest refinement, the most unassailable -social position, and the most rigid traditions. The remark is a very -profound one. The explanation of the fact is very simple. Women who have -grown up in surroundings wherein the letter of honour is rigidly -observed, and in which the spirit of virtue prevails for honour’s sake, -readily believe that the men they love are as honourable as they seem, -and more virtuous in all ways than sinful man is likely to be. The man -whom such a woman loves with all her heart, before she has met truth -face to face, cannot possibly be as worthy as she imagines that he is; -and if he be an honest man, he must be aware of the fact, and must -constantly suffer by the ever present knowledge that he is casting a -shadow greater than himself, so to say—and to<a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a> push the simile further, -it is true that in attempting to overtake that shadow of himself, he -often deliberately walks away from the light which makes him cast it.</p> - -<p>John Ralston could never, under any circumstances, have done all that -Katharine had expected of him, although she had professed to expect so -little. Woman fills the hours of her lover’s absence with scenes from -her own sweet dreamland. In nine cases out of ten, when she has the -chance of comparing what she has learned with what she has imagined, she -has a moment of sickening disappointment. Later in life there is an -adjustment, and at forty years of age she merely warns her daughter -vaguely that she must not believe too much in men. That is the usual -sequence of events.</p> - -<p>But Katharine’s case just now was very much worse than the common. It is -not necessary to recapitulate the evidence against John’s soberness on -that memorable Thursday. It might have ruined the reputation of a Father -of the Church. Up to one o’clock on the following day no one but Mrs. -Ralston and Doctor Routh were aware that there was anything whatsoever -to be said on the other side of the question. So far as Katharine or any -one else could fairly judge, John had been through one of the most -outrageous and complete sprees of which New York society had heard for -a<a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a> long time. A certain number of people knew that he had practically -fought Hamilton Bright in the hall of his club, and had undoubtedly -tripped him up and thrown him. Katharine, naturally enough, supposed -that every one knew it, and in spite of Bright’s reassuring words on the -previous night, she fully expected that John would have to withdraw from -the club in question. Even she, girl as she was, knew that this was a -sort of public disgrace.</p> - -<p>There was no other word for it. The man she loved, and to whom she had -been secretly married, had publicly disgraced himself on the very day of -the marriage, had been tipsy in the club, had been seen drunk in the -streets, had been in a light with a professional boxer, and had been -incapable of getting home alone—much more of going to meet his wife at -the Assembly ball.</p> - -<p>If he had done such things on their wedding day, what might he not do -hereafter? The question was a natural one. Katharine had bound herself -to a hopeless drunkard. She had heard of such cases, unfortunately, -though they have become rare enough in society, and she knew what it all -meant. There would be years of a wretched existence, of a perfectly -hopeless attempt to cure him. She had heard her father tell such -stories, for Alexander Junior was not a peaceable abstainer like Griggs -and Crowdie. He was not an abstainer<a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a> at all—he was a man of ferocious -moderation. She remembered painful details about the drunkard’s -children. Then there was a story of a blow—and then a separation—a -wife who, for her child’s sake, would not go to another State and be -divorced—and the going back to the father’s house to live, while the -husband sank from bad to worse, and his acquaintances avoided him in the -street, till he had been seen hanging about low liquor saloons and -telling drunken loafers the story of his married life—speaking to them -of the pure and suffering woman who was still his lawful wife—and -laughing about it. Alexander had told it all, as a wholesome lesson to -his household, which, by the way, consisted of his aged father, his -wife, and his two daughters, none of whom, one might have thought, could -ever stand in need of such lessons. Charlotte had laughed then, and -Katharine had been disgusted. Mrs. Lauderdale’s perfectly classical face -had expressed nothing, for she had been thinking of something else, and -the old philanthropist had made some remarks about the close connection -between intemperance and idiocy. But the so-called lesson was telling -heavily against John Ralston now, two or three years after it had been -delivered.</p> - -<p>It was clear to Katharine that her life was ruined before it had begun. -In those first hours after the shock it did not occur to her that she -could ever<a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a> forgive John. She was therefore doubly sure that the ruin he -had wrought was irretrievable. She could not naturally think now of the -possibility of ever acknowledging her marriage. To proclaim it meant to -attempt just such a life as she had heard her father describe. -Unfortunately, too, in that very case, she knew the people, and knew -that Alexander Junior, who never exaggerated anything but the terrors of -the life to come, had kept within the truth rather than gone beyond it.</p> - -<p>She did not even tell herself that matters would have been still worse -if she had been made publicly John Ralston’s wife on the previous day. -At that moment she did not seek to make things look more bearable, if -they might. She had faced the situation and it was terrible—it -justified anything she might choose to do. If she chose to do something -desperate to free herself, she wished to be fully justified, and that -desired justification would be weakened by anything which should make -her position seem more easy to bear.</p> - -<p>Indeed, she could hardly have been blamed, whatever she had done. She -was bound without being united, married and yet not married, but -necessarily shut off from all future thought of marriage, so long as -John Ralston lived.</p> - -<p>She had assumed duties, too, which she was far from wishing to avoid. In -her girlish view, the difference between the married and the single -state<a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a> lay mainly in the loss of the individual liberty which seemed to -belong to the latter. She had been brought up, as most American girls -are, in old-fashioned ideas on the subject, which are good,—much better -than European ideas,—though in extended practice they occasionally lead -to some odd results, and are not always carried out in after life. In -two words, our American idea is that, on being married, woman assumes -certain responsibilities, and ceases, so to say, to be a free dancer in -a ball-room. The general idea in Europe is that, at marriage, a woman -gets rid of as many responsibilities as she can, and acquires the -liberty to do as she pleases, which has been withheld from her before.</p> - -<p>Katharine felt, therefore, even at that crisis, that she had forfeited -her freedom, and, amidst all she felt, there was room for that bitter -regret. A French girl could hardly understand her point of view; a -certain number of English girls might appreciate it, and some might -possibly feel as she did; to an American girl it will seem natural -enough. It was not merely out of a feeling of self-respect that she -looked upon a change as necessary, nor out of a blind reverence for the -religious ceremony which had taken place. Every inborn and cultivated -instinct and tradition told her that as a married woman, though the -whole world should believe her to be a young girl, she could not behave<a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a> -as she had behaved formerly; that a certain form of perfectly innocent -amusement would no longer be at all innocent now; that she had forfeited -the right to look upon every man she met as a possible admirer—she went -no further than that in her idea of flirtation—and finally that, -somehow, she should feel out of place in the parties of very young -people to which she was naturally invited.</p> - -<p>She was a married woman, and she must behave as one, for the rest of her -natural life, though no one was ever to know that she was married. It -was a very general idea, with her, but it was a very strong one, and -none the less so for its ingenuous simplicity.</p> - -<p>But the fact that she regretted her liberty did not even distantly -suggest that she might ever fall in love with any one but John Ralston. -Her only wish was to make him feel bitterly what he had done, that he -might regret it as long as he lived, just as she must regret her -liberty. The offence was so monstrous that the possibility of forgiving -it did not cross her mind. She did not, however, ask herself whether the -love that still remained was making the injury he had done it seem yet -more atrocious. Love was still in a state of suspended animation—there -was no telling what he might do when he came to life again. For the time -being he was not to be taken into consideration at all. If she were to -love him during the<a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a> coming years, that would only make matters much -worse.</p> - -<p>There is not, perhaps, in the yet comparatively passionless nature of -most young girls so great a capacity for real suffering as there is in -older women. But there is something else instead. There is a -sensitiveness which most women lose by degrees to a certain point, -though never altogether, the sensitiveness of the very young animal when -it is roughly exposed to the first storm of its first winter, if it has -been born under the spring breezes and reared amongst the flowers of -summer.</p> - -<p>It will suffer much more acutely later,—lash and spur, or shears and -knife, sharper than wind and snow,—but it will never be so sensitive -again. It will never forget how the cruel cold bit its young skin, and -got into its delicate throat, and made its slender limbs tremble like -the tendrils of a creeper.</p> - -<p>It was snowing again, but Katharine walked slowly, and went out of her -way in her unformulated wish to lose time, and to put off the moment at -which she must meet the familiar faces and hear the well-known voices at -home. Until Griggs had broached the fatal subject at table, she had been -taken out of herself at the Crowdies’. She must go back to herself now, -and she hated the thought as she hated all her own existence. But<a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a> the -regions between Clinton Place and Fourth Avenue are not the part of New -York in which it is best for a young girl to walk about alone. She did -not like to be stared at by the loafers at the corners, nor to be -treated with too much familiarity by the patronizing policeman who saw -her over the Broadway crossing. Then, too, she remembered that she had -given no notice of her absence from luncheon, and that her mother might -perhaps be anxious about her. There was nothing for it but to take -courage and go home. She only hoped that Charlotte might not be there.</p> - -<p>But Charlotte had come, in the hope of enjoying herself as she had done -on the previous day. Katharine ascertained the fact from the girl who -let her in, and went straight to her room, sending word to her mother -that she had lunched with the Crowdies and would come down presently. -Even as she went up the stairs she felt a sharp pain at the thought that -her mother and sister were probably at that very moment discussing -John’s mishaps, and comparing notes about the stories they had -heard—and perhaps reading more paragraphs from the papers. The shame of -the horrible publicity of it all overcame her, and she locked her door, -and tried the handle to be sure that it was fast—with a woman’s -distrust of all mechanical contrivances when she wishes to be quite sure -of a situation. It was instinctive, and she had<a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a> no second thought which -she tried to hide from herself.</p> - -<p>As she took off her hat and coat she grew very pale, and the deep -shadows came under her eyes—so dark that she wondered at them vaguely -as she glanced at herself in the mirror. She felt faint and sick. She -drank a little water, and then, with a sudden impulse, threw herself -upon her bed, and lay staring at the ceiling, as she had lain at dawn. -The same glare still came in from the street and penetrated every -corner, but not so vividly as before, for the snow was falling fast, and -the mist of the whirling flakes softened the light.</p> - -<p>It was a forlorn little room. Robert the Rich would have been very much -surprised if he could have seen it. He was a generous man, and was very -fond of his grand-niece, and if he had known exactly how she lived under -her father’s roof it would have been like him to have interfered. All -that he ever saw of the house was very different. There was great -simplicity downstairs, and his practised eye detected the signs of a -rigid economy—far too rigid, he thought, when he calculated what -Alexander Junior must be worth; a ridiculously exaggerated economy, he -considered, when he thought of his own wealth, and that his only -surviving brother lived in the house in Clinton Place. But there was -nothing squalid or mean<a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a> about it all. The meanness was relative. It was -like an aspersion upon the solidity of Robert’s fortune, and upon his -intention of providing suitably for all his relations.</p> - -<p>Upstairs, however, and notably in Katharine’s room, things had a -different aspect. Nothing had been done there since long before -Charlotte had been married. The wall-paper was old-fashioned, faded, and -badly damaged by generations of tacks and pins. The carpet was -threadbare and patched, and there were holes where even a patch had not -been attempted. The furniture was in the style of fifty years ago or -more, veneered with dark mahogany, but the veneering was coming off in -places, leaving bare little surfaces of dusty pine wood smeared with -yellowish, hardened glue. Few objects can look more desperately shabby -than veneered furniture which is coming to pieces. There was nothing in -the room which Katharine could distinctly remember to have seen in good -condition, except the old carpet, which had been put down when she and -Charlotte had been little girls. To Charlotte herself, when she had come -in on Wednesday afternoon, there had been something delightful in the -renewal of acquaintance with all her old dinginess of intimate -surroundings. Charlotte’s own life was almost oppressed with luxury, so -that it destroyed her independence. But to Katharine, worn out and -heartsore<a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a> with the troubles of her darkening life, it was all -inexpressibly depressing. She stared at the ceiling as she lay there, in -order not to look at the room itself. She was very tired, too, and she -would have given anything to go to sleep.</p> - -<p>It was not merely sleep for which she longed. It was a going out. Again -the thought crossed her mind, as it had that morning, that if the whole -world were a single taper, she would extinguish the flame with one short -breath, and everything would be over. And now, too, in her exhaustion, -came the idea that something less complete, but quite as effectual, was -in her power. It had passed through her brain half an hour previously, -when she had bidden Hester Crowdie good-bye—with a sort of intuitive -certainty that she was never to see her friend again. She had left -Hester with a vague and sudden presentiment of darkness. She had -assuredly not any intention of seeking death in any definite form, but -it had seemed to be close to her as she had said those few words of -farewell. It came nearer still as she lay alone in her own room. It came -nearer, and hovered over her, and spoke to her.</p> - -<p>It would be the instant solution of all difficulties, the end of all -troubles. The deep calm against which no storm would have power any -more. On the one hand, there was life in two aspects. Either to live an -existence of misery and<a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a> daily torture with the victim of a most -degrading vice, a man openly disgraced, and at whom every one she -respected would forever look askance. Or else to live out that other -life of secret bondage, neither girl nor wife, so long as John Ralston -was alive, suffering each time he was dragged lower, as she was -suffering to-day, bound, tied in every way, beyond possibility of -escaping. Why should she suffer less to-morrow than now? It would be the -same, since all the conditions must remain unchanged. It would be the -same always. Those were the two aspects of living on in the future which -presented themselves. The torn carpet and the broken veneering of the -furniture made them seem even more terrible. There may be a point at -which the trivial has the power to push the tragic to the last -extremity.</p> - -<p>And on the other side stood death, the liberator, with his white smile -and far-away eyes. The snow-glare was in his face, and he did not seem -to feel it, but looked quietly into it, as though he saw something very -peaceful beyond. It was a mere passing fancy that evoked the picture in -the weary, restless mind, but it was pleasant to gaze at it, so long as -it lasted. It was gone in a moment again, leaving, however, a new -impression—that of light, rather than of darkness. She wished it would -come back.</p> - -<p>Possibly she had been almost or quite dozing,<a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a> seeing that she was so -much exhausted. But she was wide awake again now. She turned upon her -side with a long-drawn sigh, and stared at the hideous furniture, the -ragged carpet, and the dilapidated wall-paper. It was not that they -meant anything of themselves—certainly not poverty, as they might have -seemed to mean to any one else. They were the result of a curious -combination of contradictory characters in one family, which ultimately -produced stranger results than Katharine Lauderdale’s secret marriage, -some of which shall be chronicled hereafter. The idea of poverty was not -associated with the absence of money in Katharine’s mind. She might be -in need of a pair of new gloves, and she and her mother might go to the -opera upstairs, because the stalls were too dear. But poverty! How could -it enter under the roof of any who bore the name of Lauderdale? If, -yesterday, she had begged uncle Robert to give her half a million, -instead of refusing a hundred thousand, it was quite within the bounds -of possibility that he might have written the cheque there and then. No. -The shabby furniture in Katharine’s room had nothing to do with poverty, -nor with the absence of money, either. It was the fatal result of -certain family peculiarities concerning which the public knew nothing, -and it was there, and at that moment it had a strong effect upon -Katharine’s mind. It<a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a> represented the dilapidation of her life, the -literal dilapidation, the tearing down of one stone after another from -the crowning point she had reached yesterday to the deep foundation -which was laid bare as an open tomb to-day. She dwelt on the idea now, -and she stared at the forlorn objects, as she had at first avoided both.</p> - -<p>Death has a strange fascination, sometimes, both for young and old -people. Men and women in the prime and strength of life rarely fall -under its influence. It is the refuge of those who, having seen little, -believe that there is little to see, and of the others who, having seen -all, have died of the sight, inwardly, and desire bodily death as the -completion of experience. Let one, or both, be wrong or right; it -matters little, since the facts are there. But the fascination aforesaid -is stronger upon the young than upon the old. They have fewer ties, and -less to keep them with the living. For the ascendant bond is weaker than -the descendant in humanity, and the love of the child for its mother is -not as her love for the child. It is right that it should be so. In -spite of many proverbs, we know that what the child owes the parent is -as nothing compared with the parent’s debt to it. Have we all found it -so easy to live that we should cast stones upon heart-broken youths and -maidens who would fain give back the life thrust upon them without their -consent?<a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Ah, how peaceful it would be—never to wake again, when the little step -was passed! Perhaps,<a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a> 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!</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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!”</p> - -<p><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“All right, mother—I’m awake!” she answered sleepily.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“I suppose I’ve been crying in my sleep!” she exclaimed aloud. “What a -baby I am!”</p> - -<p>She looked at herself in the mirror with some curiosity, before -beginning to dress.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>She stopped for a moment, still looking at herself.</p> - -<p>“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<a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a> -me!” she sighed. “I wonder how it will all end!”</p> - -<p>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.<a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Even</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 name="page_256" id="page_256"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.<a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a></p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>She was motionless for a moment, listening for his reply. It came -quietly enough after a second or two.</p> - -<p>“No, mother, you can’t. But I don’t want to remember it, any more than -you do.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston did not move for an instant after he had spoken. Then she -occupied herself with the fire again.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>She spoke rather intensely, so to say, but she used her hands as gently -as ever in what she was doing. John said nothing.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“No,” John answered thoughtfully. “There is no more reason for forgiving -it. But there’s every reason to forget it, if you can.”</p> - -<p>“If you can. I don’t wish to forget it.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a></p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“Mother!” John Ralston fairly started in his surprise. “Don’t talk like -that!”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Smoke, won’t you?” she said presently. “It seems more natural.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a></p> - -<p>“All right—if you like.”</p> - -<p>John lit a cigarette and blew two or three puffs into the air, high -above his head, very thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>“I’m waiting for your answer, Jack,” said Mrs. Ralston, at last.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see what I’m to say,” replied John. “Why do you talk about it?”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. But—”</p> - -<p>“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<a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a> 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?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed you have, mother.”</p> - -<p>“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<a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a> 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?”</p> - -<p>“Mother, you know we have,” answered John, earnestly.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“We could try to,” said John. “I’m willing.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston paused and looked at him a full minute in silence. Then she -put out her hand and touched his arm.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Jack,” she said gravely.</p> - -<p>John tried to press her hand, but she withdrew it.</p> - -<p>“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<a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a> 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.”</p> - -<p>“Not many, mother dear.”</p> - -<p>“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<a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>—”</p> - -<p>“But why—”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Mother!”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Answer me, please, dear,” she said, and waited again.</p> - -<p>“Mother—you know! Why should I say it?”</p> - -<p>“You would refuse to be dependent any longer on such a person?”</p> - -<p>“Well—yes—since you insist upon my saying it,” answered John, -reluctantly. “But with you, it’s<a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>—”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Mother—I’ve tried—”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t speak of that,” said John, quickly and earnestly. “And as -for this idea of your—”</p> - -<p>“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<a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a> 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.”</p> - -<p>“I won’t listen to anything of the kind,” answered John, calmly.</p> - -<p>“You must,” answered his mother.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so, mother.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a></p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston was silent for a few moments, and seemed to be thinking the -matter over.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t!” cried Ralston, bending forward, for she made as though -she would rise from her seat.</p> - -<p>“I must,” she answered. “It’s the only possible basis of any future -existence for us. You shall<a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a> 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—”</p> - -<p>“I’d rather go to sea—as you said,” interrupted John.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ralston rose this time. John got up and stood beside her, and they -both looked at the fire thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>“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.<a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a> 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—”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“No. Certainly not. You’re too much like me.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>John had taken her hand gently and kissed it. -<a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a> -“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.”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“Dear—to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t look to see. It wasn’t very -brave of me—but—you understand.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a></p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“They’ll probably put you next to Katharine,” said Mrs. Ralston.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“What is it, mother?” he asked. “Say it.”</p> - -<p>“Well—I was going to say that if any one made<a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a> 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.”</p> - -<p>“Yes.” John paused a moment. “Yes,” he repeated. “I think you’re right. -I wish old Routh were going to be there himself.”</p> - -<p>“He’d go in a minute if he were asked,” said Mrs. Ralston.</p> - -<p>“Would he? With all those young people?”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“That other thing, mother—about the money—don’t do it!” Jack held her -a moment by the hand.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>She left the room quickly, and John found himself alone with his own -thoughts again.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>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.</p> - -<p>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.<a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a></p> - -<p>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,<a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“May I come in, Ralston?” he enquired, speaking softly, as though he -believed that his friend had a headache.</p> - -<p>“Oh—hello, Frank! Is that you? Come in! I’m reading your novel. I’d -just found it.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Why—Jack—” he stammered a moment later, in evident surprise. “You -don’t look badly at all!”</p> - -<p>“Did they say I was dead?” enquired Ralston, with a grim smile. “Take a -cigar. Sit down. Tell me all about my funeral.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“My dear boy,” he said, blowing out a quantity<a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a> 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!”</p> - -<p><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">John</span> 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.</p> - -<p>“I say, Frank,” said Ralston, at last, “it’s all a mistake, you know. It -was a series of accidents from beginning to end.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—yes—I suppose so. You managed to accumulate quite a number of -accidents, as you say.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“No,” answered Miner, thoughtfully. “I never did. That’s a fact. It’s -quite true.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a></p> - -<p>The threefold assent seemed to satisfy Ralston.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“This isn’t a joke, is it, Jack?” he asked, when John had finished with -a description of Doctor Routh’s midnight visit.</p> - -<p>“No,” answered Ralston, emphatically. “It’s the truth. I should be glad -if you would tell any one who cares to know.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a></p> - -<p>“They wouldn’t believe me,” answered Miner, quietly.</p> - -<p>“I say, Frank—” John’s quick temper was stirred already, but he checked -himself.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>He laughed good-naturedly.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a></p> - -<p>“Well—but there’s old Routh, after all. People will believe him.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Where do you get your similes from, Frank!” laughed Ralston.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a></p> - -<p>“Allusions to what?” asked Ralston, quickly and sharply.</p> - -<p>“To you, of course—what did you suppose?”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Why? Are you going there? So am I.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“You know him, don’t you?” asked Ralston.</p> - -<p>“Know him? I should think so. Ever since I was a baby. Why?”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“Much better than some of them want to know<a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a> 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?”</p> - -<p>“It’s going to make a good deal of difference to me in the end,” -answered Ralston. “It’s worth taking some trouble for.”</p> - -<p>“I’m quite willing,” said Miner. “But—I say! What an extraordinary -story it is!”</p> - -<p>“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—<a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>I shall tell Ham that -I’m sorry—but it explains it. Doesn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Rather!” exclaimed Miner, heartily.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Well—since you ask me—” Miner hesitated. “No—he didn’t. Bright gave -it to him, though, for telling cousin Emma.”</p> - -<p>“Brute! How I hate that man! So he told cousin Emma, did he? And the -rest of the family, too, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“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<a name="page_284" id="page_284"></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?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, perfectly!” answered Ralston, with a smile. “But will you do that -for me, Frank?”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“All right—if you can stand it, I can,” said Ralston. “I’d go -myself—only only—”</p> - -<p>“You’re pretty badly used up,” interrupted Miner, completing the -sentence in his own way.<a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a> “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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>And the great, strong sense of real innocence rose in him and defied and -despised the woman<a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>But for what she was doing now, in keeping silence, leaving him without -a word when she must<a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.<a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Well?” asked John, as his friend came up to the fire, and held out his -hands to it.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Twenty-five cents—to a gold watch? Oh—I see. Thank you—the odds -don’t tempt me. What did happen?”</p> - -<p>“I say—those were awfully good cigars of yours, Jack!” exclaimed Miner, -by way of answer. “Haven’t you got another?”</p> - -<p>“There’s the box. Take them all. What happened?”</p> - -<p>“No—I’ll only take one—it would look like borrowing if I took two, and -I can’t return them.<a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a> 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?”</p> - -<p>“What? To make him write it? Not Ham Bright? It would be like him—but -how should he have known about Routh?”</p> - -<p>“No. It wasn’t Bright. Want to guess? Well—I’ll tell you. It was your -mother, Jack. Nice of her, wasn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“My mother!”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Tell me about it, Frank,” he added, in a rather thick voice.</p> - -<p>“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<a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a> 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—”</p> - -<p>“Did you take it down town?”</p> - -<p>“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<a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a> 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!”</p> - -<p><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“So it was my mother who went first to Doctor Routh,” he said, as though -talking with himself, while Miner relighted his cigar.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” answered Miner, between two puffs. “I confess to having been -impressed.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“No—but I’ll go and look, if you like.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.<a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a> 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.”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“All right, Jack. I won’t make any mistake about it.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, then. It’s a bargain. We won’t say anything more about it.”</p> - -<p>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.<a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Mother, darling—how good you are!” he exclaimed softly. “There isn’t -anybody like you—really.”</p> - -<p>“Why—Jack? What is it?” asked Mrs. Ralston, happy, but not -understanding.</p> - -<p>“Miner was here—he told me about your having been to old Routh to make -him write—”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Well—perhaps not. But it makes all the difference to me. Promise me -one thing, Jack.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a></p> - -<p>“Yes, mother—anything you like.”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll promise to remember it, mother. But I’ll not promise to act on -it.”</p> - -<p>“Well—that’s a matter for your judgment. Go and get ready for luncheon. -It must be time.”</p> - -<p>Once more John put his arms round her neck, and drew her close to him.</p> - -<p>“You’re very good to me, mother—thank you!”</p> - -<p><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katharine</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Good night, darling—enjoy yourself—you’ll be late, of course—they’ll -dance, or something.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—but I shan’t stay. I’m tired. Good night again.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“I want to speak to you, Katharine,” he said.</p> - -<p>She turned and stood still in the middle of the room, facing him. He had -a letter in his hand.</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa,” she answered quietly, not anticipating trouble.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry I could not see you earlier,” said Alexander Junior, coming -forward and fixing his<a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a> 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 <small>A.M.</small> Consequently, the boy who brought it was dilatory in -doing his duty. It is addressed to you in John Ralston’s handwriting.”</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you send it up to me, instead of keeping it all day?” -enquired Katharine, with cold surprise.</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you intend me to read my letters?” asked Katharine in a lower -tone.</p> - -<p>“I don’t wish you to correspond with John Ralston,” answered Alexander -Junior. “You shall never marry him with my consent, especially since<a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a> 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.”</p> - -<p>“Show me the letter,” said Katharine, quietly.</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“Perfectly,” she answered, with sincere conviction.</p> - -<p>And it must be allowed that, from his point of view, he was not wrong. -He beckoned Katharine<a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Have you satisfied yourself?” he enquired. “You see that it has not -been opened, do you?”</p> - -<p><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a></p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“I will burn it,” said Alexander Lauderdale, still watching her.</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>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<a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>“I’m glad to see that you look at the matter in its true light,” said -her father, as she stood up again.</p> - -<p>“How should I look at it?” asked Katharine, coldly. “Good night, -mother—good night,” she repeated, nodding to her father.</p> - -<p>She turned and left the room. A moment later she was on her way to the -Van De Waters’ house, leaning back in the dark, comfortable brougham, -her feet toasting on the foot-warmer, and the furs drawn up closely -round her. It was a bitterly cold night, for a sharp frost had succeeded -the snow-storm after sunset. Even inside the carriage Katharine could -feel that there was something hard and ringing in the quality of the air -which was in harmony with her own temper. She had plenty of time to go -over the scene which had taken place in her mother’s room, but she felt -no inclination to analyze her feelings. She only knew that this letter -of John’s, written when he was<a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a> still half senseless with drink, was -another insult, and one deeper than any she had felt before. It was a -direct insult—a sin of commission, and not merely of omission, like his -absence from the ball on the previous night.</p> - -<p>She supposed, naturally enough, that he would not appear at the -dinner-party, but at that moment she was almost indifferent as to -whether he should come or not. She was certainly not afraid to meet him. -It would be far more probable, she thought, that he should be afraid to -meet her.</p> - -<p>It was a quarter past eight when she reached the Van De Waters’, and she -was the last to arrive. It was a party of sixteen, almost all very -young, and most of them unmarried—a party very carefully selected with -a view to enjoyment—an intimate party, because many out of the number -were more or less closely connected and related, and it was indicative -of the popularity of the Lauderdales, that amongst sixteen young persons -there should be four who belonged more or less to the Lauderdale tribe. -There was Katharine, there was Hamilton Bright,—the Crowdies had been -omitted because so many disliked Crowdie himself,—there was little -Frank Miner, who was a near relation of the Van De Waters, and there -stood John Ralston, talking to Ruth Van De Water, before Crowdie’s new -portrait of her, as though nothing had happened.<a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a></p> - -<p>Katharine saw him the moment she entered the room, and he knew, as he -heard the door opened, that she must be the last comer, since every one -else had arrived. Without interrupting his conversation with Miss Van De -Water, he turned his head a little and met Katharine’s eyes. He bowed -just perceptibly, but she gave him no sign of recognition, which was -pardonable, however, as he knew, since there were people between them, -and she had not yet spoken to Ruth herself, who, with her brother, had -invited the party. The elder Van De Waters had left the house to the -young people, and had betaken themselves elsewhere for the evening.</p> - -<p>John continued to talk quietly, as Katharine came forward. As he had -expected, he had found her name on the card in the little envelope which -had been handed to him when he arrived, and he was to take her in to -dinner. Until late in the afternoon the brother and sister had hoped -that John would not come, and had already decided to ask in his place -that excellent man, Mr. Brown, who was always so kind about coming when -asked at the last minute. Then Frank Miner had appeared, with an evening -paper containing Doctor Routh’s letter, and had explained the whole -matter, so that they felt sympathy for John rather than otherwise, -though no one had as yet broached to him the subject of his adventures. -Naturally enough, the Van De Waters both supposed that<a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a> Katharine should -have been among the first to hear the true version of the story, and -they would not disarrange their table in order to separate two young -people who were generally thought to be engaged to be married. There -were, of course, a few present who had not heard of Doctor Routh’s -justification of John.</p> - -<p>Katharine came across directly, towards Ruth Van De Water, and greeted -her affectionately. John came forward a little, waiting to be noticed -and to shake hands in his turn. Katharine prolonged the first exchange -of words with her young hostess rather unnecessarily, and then, since -she could not avoid the meeting, held out her hand to John, looking -straight and coldly into his eyes.</p> - -<p>“You’re to take Miss Lauderdale in, you know, Mr. Ralston,” said Miss -Van De Water, who knew that dinner would be announced almost -immediately, and that Katharine would wish to speak to the other guests -before sitting down.</p> - -<p>“Yes—I found my card,” answered John, as Katharine withdrew her hand -without having given his the slightest pressure.</p> - -<p>It was a strange meeting, considering that they had been man and wife -since the previous morning, and could hardly be said to have met since -they had parted after the wedding. Katharine, who was cold and angry, -wondered what all those young people would say if she suddenly announced -to<a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a> them, at table, that John Ralston was her husband. But just then she -had no definite intention of ever announcing the fact at all.</p> - -<p>John only partly understood, for he was sure that she must have received -his letter. But what he saw was enough to convince him that she had not -in the least believed what he had written, and had not meant to answer -him. He was pale and haggard already, but during the few minutes that -followed, while Katharine moved about the room, greeting her friends, -the strong lines deepened about his mouth and the shadows under his eyes -grew perceptibly darker.</p> - -<p>A few minutes later the wide doors were thrown back and dinner was -announced. Without hesitation he went to Katharine’s side, and waited -while she finished speaking with young Mrs. Vanbrugh, his right arm -slightly raised as he silently offered it.</p> - -<p>Katharine deliberately finished her sentence, nodded and smiled to Dolly -Vanbrugh, who was a friend of hers, and had been in some way concerned -in the famous Darche affair three or four years ago, as Mrs. Darche’s -intimate and confidante. Then she allowed her expression to harden -again, and she laid her hand on John’s arm and they all moved in to -dinner.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry,” said John, in a low, cold voice. “I suppose they couldn’t -upset their table.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a></p> - -<p>Katharine said nothing, but looked straight before her as they traversed -one beautiful room after another, going through the great house to the -dining-room at the back.</p> - -<p>“You got my letter, I suppose,” said John, speaking again as they -crossed the threshold of the last door but one, and came in sight of the -table, gleaming in the distance under soft lights.</p> - -<p>Katharine made a slight inclination of the head by way of answer, but -still said nothing. John thought that she moved her hand, as though she -would have liked to withdraw it from his arm, and he, for his part, -would gladly have let it go at that moment.</p> - -<p>It was a very brilliant party, of the sort which could hardly be -gathered anywhere except in America, where young people are not -unfrequently allowed to amuse themselves together in their own way -without the interference or even the presence of elders—young people -born to the possession, in abundance, of most things which the world -thinks good, and as often as anywhere, too, to the inheritance of things -good in themselves, besides great wealth—such as beauty, health, a fair -share of wit, and the cheerful heart, without which all else is as -ashes.</p> - -<p>Near one end of the table sat Frank Miner, who had taken in Mrs. -Vanbrugh, and who was amusing every one with absurd stories and -jokes—the<a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a> small change of wit, but small change that was bright and -new, ringing from his busy little mint.</p> - -<p>At the other end sat Teddy Van De Water, a good fellow at heart in spite -of his eyeglass and his affectations, discussing yachts and centreboards -and fin-keels with Fanny Trehearne, a girl who sailed her own boats at -Newport and Bar Harbor, and who cared for little else except music, -strange to say. Nearly opposite to Katharine and John was Hamilton -Bright, between two young girls, talking steadily and quietly about -society, but evidently much preoccupied, and far more inclined to look -at Katharine than at his pretty neighbours. He had seen Routh’s letter, -and had, moreover, exchanged a few words with Ralston in the hall, -having arrived almost at the same instant, and he saw that Katharine did -not understand the truth. Ralston had begun by apologizing to his friend -for what had happened at the club, but Bright, who bore no malice, had -stopped him with a hearty shake of the hand, and a challenge to wrestle -with him any day, for the honour of the thing, in the hall of the club -or anywhere else.</p> - -<p>Frank Miner, too, from a distance, watched John and Katharine, and saw -that the trouble was great, though he laughed and chatted and told -stories, as though he were thoroughly enjoying himself. In reality he -was debating whether he should not bring up the subject which must be<a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a> -near to every one’s thoughts, and give John a chance of telling his own -story. Seeing how the rest of the people were taking the affair, he -would not have done so, since all was pleasant and easy, but he saw also -that John could not possibly have an explanation with Katharine at -table, and that both were suffering. His kindly heart decided the -question. It would be a very easy matter to accomplish, and he waited -for a convenient opportunity of attracting attention to himself, so as -to obtain the ear of the whole large table, before he began. He was -perfectly conscious of his own extreme popularity, and knew that, for -once, he could presume upon it, though he was quite unspoiled by a long -career of little social successes.</p> - -<p>John and Katharine exchanged a few words from time to time, for the sake -of appearances, in a coldly civil tone, and without the slightest -expression of interest in one another. John spoke of the weather, and -Katharine admitted that it had been very bad of late. She observed that -Miss Van De Water was looking very well, and that a greenish blue was -becoming to fair people. John answered that he had expected to hear of -Miss Van De Water’s engagement to that foreigner whose name he had -forgotten, and Katharine replied that he was not a foreigner but an -Englishman, and that his name was Northallerton, or something like that. -John said he had heard that they had<a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a> first met in Paris, and Katharine -took some salt upon her plate and admitted that it was quite possible. -She grew more coldly wrathful with every minute, and the iron entered -into John’s soul, and he gave up trying to talk to her—of which she was -very glad.</p> - -<p>It was some time before the occasion which Miner sought presented -itself, and the dinner proceeded brilliantly enough amid the laughter of -young voices and the gladness of young eyes. For young eyes see flowers -where old ones see but botany, so to speak.</p> - -<p>Katharine had not believed that it would hurt her as it did, nor Ralston -that love could seem so far away. They turned from each other and talked -with their neighbours. John almost thought that Katharine once or twice -gathered her black skirts nearer to her, as though to keep them from a -sort of contamination. He was on her left, and he was conscious that in -pretending to eat he used his right arm very cautiously because he did -not wish even to run the risk of touching hers by accident.</p> - -<p>Now, in the course of events, it happened that the subject of yachts -travelled from neighbour to neighbour, as subjects sometimes do at big -dinners, until, having been started by Teddy Van De Water and Fanny -Trehearne, it came up the table to Frank Miner. He immediately saw his -chance, and plunged into his subject.<a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a></p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t take any interest in yacht races, compared with prize -fights, since Jack Ralston has gone into the ring!” he said, and his -high, clear voice made the words ring down the table with the cheery, -laughing cadence after them.</p> - -<p>“What’s that about me, Frank?” asked John, speaking over Katharine’s -head as she bent away from him towards Russell Vanbrugh, who was next to -her on the other side.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing—talking about your round with Tom Shelton. Tell us all -about it, Jack. Don’t be modest. You’re the only man here who’s ever -stood up to a champion prize-fighter without the gloves on, and it seems -you hit him, too. You needn’t be ashamed of it.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not in the least ashamed of it,” answered Ralston, unbending a -little.</p> - -<p>He spoke in a dead silence, and all eyes were turned upon him. But he -said nothing more. Even the butler and the footmen, every one of whom -had read both the morning and the evening papers, paused and held their -breath, and looked at John with admiration.</p> - -<p>“Go ahead, Ralston!” cried Teddy Van De Water, from his end. “Some of us -haven’t heard the story, though everybody saw those horrid things in the -papers this morning. It was too bad!”</p> - -<p>Katharine had attempted to continue her conversation with Russell -Vanbrugh, but it had proved<a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a> impossible. Moreover, she was herself -almost breathless with surprise at the sudden appeal to Ralston himself, -when she had been taking it for granted that every one present, -including his hosts, despised him, and secretly wished that he had not -come.</p> - -<p>Van De Water had spoken from the end of the table. Frank Miner responded -again from the other, looking hard at Katharine’s blank face, as he -addressed John.</p> - -<p>“Tell it, Jack!” he cried. “Don’t be foolish. Everybody wants to know -how it happened.”</p> - -<p>Ralston looked round the table once more, and saw that every one was -expecting him to speak, all with curiosity, and some of the men with -admiration. His eyes rested on Katharine for a moment, but she turned -from him instantly—not coldly, as before, but as though she did not -wish to meet his glance.</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell a story by halves,” said he. “If you really want to have -it, you must hear it from the beginning. But I told Frank Miner this -morning—he can tell it better than I.”</p> - -<p>“Go on, Jack—you’re only keeping everybody waiting!” said Hamilton -Bright, from across the table. “Tell it all—about me, too—it will make -them laugh.”</p> - -<p>John saw the honest friendship in the strong Saxon face, and knew that -to tell the whole story was his best plan.<a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a></p> - -<p>“All right,” he said. “I’ll do my best. It won’t take long. In the first -place—you won’t mind my going into details, Miss Van De Water?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no—we should rather prefer it,” laughed the young girl, from her -distant place.</p> - -<p>“Then I’ll go on. I’ve been going in for reform lately—I began last -Monday morning. Yes—of course you all laugh, because I’ve not much of a -reputation for reform, or anything else. But the statement is necessary -because it’s true, and bears on the subject. Reform means claret and -soda, and very little of that. It had rather affected my temper, as I -wasn’t used to it, and I was sitting in the club yesterday afternoon, -trying to read a paper and worrying about things generally, when Frank, -there, wanted me to drink with him, and I wouldn’t, and I didn’t choose -to tell him I was trying to be good, because I wasn’t sure that I was -going to be. Anyhow, he wouldn’t take ‘no,’ and I wouldn’t say -‘yes’—and so I suppose I behaved rather rudely to him.”</p> - -<p>“Like a fiend!” observed Miner, from a distance.</p> - -<p>“Exactly. Then I was called to the telephone, and found that my uncle -Robert wanted me at once, that very moment, and wouldn’t say why. So I -came back in a hurry, and as I was coming out of the cloak-room with my -hat and coat on I ran into Bright, who generally saves my life when the -thing is to be done promptly. I suppose I looked rather wild, didn’t I, -Ham?”</p> - -<p><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a></p> - -<p>“Rather. You were white—and queer altogether. I thought you ‘had it -bad.’ ”</p> - -<p>There was a titter and a laugh, as the two men looked at one another and -smiled.</p> - -<p>“Well, you’ve not often been wrong, Ham,” said Ralston, laughing too. “I -don’t propose to let my guardian angel lead a life of happy idleness—”</p> - -<p>“Keep an angel, and save yourself,” suggested Miner.</p> - -<p>“Don’t make them laugh till I’ve finished,” said Ralston, “or they won’t -understand. Well—Ham tried to hold me, and I wouldn’t be held. He’s -about twenty times stronger than I am, anyhow, and he’d got hold of my -arm—wanted to calm me before I went out, as he thought. I lost my -temper—”</p> - -<p>“Your family’s been advertising a reward if it’s found, ever since you -were born,” observed Miner.</p> - -<p>“Suppress that man, can’t you—somebody?” cried Ralston, good-naturedly. -“So I tripped Bright up under Miner’s nose—and there was Crowdie there, -and a couple of servants, so it was rather a public affair. I got out of -the door, and made for the park—uncle Robert’s, you know. Being in a -rage, I walked, and passing the Murray Hill Hotel, I went in, from sheer -force of habit, and ordered a cocktail. I hadn’t more than tasted it -when I remembered what I was about, and promptly did the Spartan -dodge—to the surprise<a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a> of the bar-tender—and put it down and went out. -Then uncle Robert and I had rather a warm discussion. Unfortunately, -too, just that drop of whiskey—forgive the details, Miss Van De -Water—you know I warned you—just that drop of whiskey I had touched -was distinctly perceptible to the old gentleman’s nostrils, and he began -to call me names, and I got angry, and being excited already, I daresay -he really thought I wasn’t sober. Anyhow, he managed to knock my hat out -of my hand and smash it—ask him the first time you see him, if any of -you doubt it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nobody doubts you, Jack,” said Teddy Van De Water, vehemently. -“Don’t be an idiot!”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Teddy,” laughed Ralston. “Well, the next thing was that I -bolted out of the house with a smashed hat, and forgot my overcoat in my -rage. It’s there still, hanging in uncle Robert’s hall. And, of course, -being so angry, I never thought of my hat. It must have looked oddly -enough. I went down Fifth Avenue, past the reservoir—nearly a mile in -that state.”</p> - -<p>“I met you,” observed Russell Vanbrugh. “I was just coming home—been -late down town. I thought you looked rather seedy, but you walked -straight enough.”</p> - -<p>“Of course I did—being perfectly sober, and only angry. I must have -turned into East Fortieth or Thirty-ninth, when I stopped to light a<a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a> -cigar. The waxlight dazzled me, I suppose, for when I went on I fell -over something—that street is awfully dark after the avenue—and I hurt -my head and my hand. This finger—”</p> - -<p>He held up his right hand of which one finger was encased in black silk. -Katharine remembered the spot of blood on the letter.</p> - -<p>“Then I don’t know what happened to me. Doctor Routh said I had a -concussion of the brain and lost the sense of direction, but I lost my -senses, anyhow. Have any of you fellows ever had that happen to you? -It’s awfully queer?”</p> - -<p>“I have,” said Bright. “I know—you’re all right, but you can’t tell -where you’re going.”</p> - -<p>“Exactly—you can’t tell which is right and which is left. You recognize -houses, but don’t know which way to turn to get to your own. I lost -myself in New York. I’m glad I’ve had the experience, but I don’t want -it again. Do you know where I found myself and got my direction again? -Away down in Tompkins Square. It was ten o’clock, and I’d missed a -dinner-party, and thought I should just have time to get home and dress, -and go to the Assembly. But I wasn’t meant to. I was dazed and queer -still, and it had been snowing for hours and I had no overcoat. I found -a horse-car going up town and got on. There was nobody else on it but -that prize-fighter chap, who turns out to have been Tom Shelton.<a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a> It was -nice and warm in the car, and I must have been pretty well fagged out, -for I sat down at the upper end and dropped asleep without telling the -conductor to wake me at my street. I never fell asleep in a horse-car -before in my life, and didn’t expect to then. I don’t know what happened -after that—at least not distinctly. They must have tried to wake me -with kicks and screams, or something, for I remember hitting out, and -then a struggle, and I was pitched out into the snow by the conductor -and the prize-fighter. Of course I jumped up and made for the fighting -man, and I remember hearing something about a fair fight, and then a lot -of men came running up with lanterns, and I was squaring up to Tom -Shelton. I caught him one on the mouth, and I suppose that roused him. I -can see that right-hand counter of his coming at me now, but I couldn’t -stop it for the life of me—and that was the last I saw, until I opened -my eyes in my own room and saw my mother looking at me. She sent for -Doctor Routh, and he saw that I wasn’t going to die and went home, -leaving everybody considerably relieved. But he wasn’t at all sure that -I hadn’t been larking, when he first came, so he took the trouble to -make a thorough examination. I wasn’t really hurt much, and though I’d -had such a crack from Shelton, and the other one when I tumbled in the -dark, I had pretty nearly an hour’s sleep in the horse-car<a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a> as a -set-off. Then my mother brought me things to eat—of course all the -servants were in bed, and she’d rung for a messenger in order to send -for Routh. And I sat up and wrote a long letter before I went to bed, -though it wasn’t easy work, with my hand hurt and my head rather queer. -I wish I hadn’t, though—it was more to show that I could, than anything -else. There—I think I’ve told you the whole story. I’m sorry I couldn’t -make it shorter.”</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t at all too long, Jack,” said Katharine, in clear and gentle -tones.</p> - -<p>She was very white as she turned her face to him. Every one agreed with -her, and every one began talking at once. But John did not look at her. -He answered some question put to him by the young girl on his left, and -at once entered into conversation at that side, without taking any more -notice of Katharine than she had taken of him before.<a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> dinner was almost at an end, when John spoke to Katharine again. -Every one was laughing and talking at once. The point had been reached -at which young people laugh at anything out of sheer good spirits, and -Frank Miner had only to open his lips, at his end of the table, to set -the clear voices ringing; while at the other, Teddy Van De Water, whose -conversational powers were not brilliant, but who possessed considerable -power over his fresh, thin, plain young face, excited undeserved -applause by putting up his eyeglass every other minute, staring solemnly -at John as the hero of the evening, and then dropping it with a -ridiculous little smirk, supposed to be expressive of admiration and -respect.</p> - -<p>John saw him do it two or three times, while turning towards him in the -act of talking to his neighbour on his left, and smiled good-naturedly -at each repetition of the trick. To tell the truth, the evident turn of -feeling in his favour had so far influenced his depressed spirits that -he smiled almost naturally, out of sympathy, because every one was so -happy and so gay. But he was soon<a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a> tired of young Van De Water’s joke, -before the others were, and looking away in order not to see the -eyeglass fall again, he caught sight of Katharine’s face.</p> - -<p>Her eyes were not upon him, and she might have been supposed to be -looking past him at some one seated farther down the table, but she saw -him and watched him, nevertheless. She was quite silent now, and her -face was pale. He only glanced at her, and was already turning his head -away once more when her lips moved.</p> - -<p>“Jack!” she said, in a low voice, that trembled but reached his ear, -even amidst the peals of laughter which filled the room.</p> - -<p>He looked at her again, and his features hardened a little in spite of -him. But he knew that Bright, who sat opposite, was watching both -Katharine and himself, and he did his best to seem natural and -unconcerned.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” he asked.</p> - -<p>She did not find words immediately with which to answer the simple -question, but her face told all that her voice should have said, and -more. The contraction of the broad brows was gone at last, and the great -grey eyes were soft and pleading.</p> - -<p>“You know,” she said, at last.</p> - -<p>John felt that his lips would have curled rather scornfully, if he had -allowed them. He set his<a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a> mouth, by an effort, in a hard, civil smile. -It was the best he could do, for he had been badly hurt. Repentance -sometimes satisfies the offender, but he who has been offended demands -blood money. John deserved some credit for saying nothing, and even for -his cold, conventional smile.</p> - -<p>“Jack—dear—aren’t you going to forgive me?” she asked, in a still -lower tone than before.</p> - -<p>Ralston glanced up and down the table, man-like, to see whether they -were watched. But no one was paying any attention to them. Hamilton -Bright was looking away, just then.</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you answer my letter?” asked John, at last, but he could not -disguise the bitterness of his voice.</p> - -<p>“I only—it only came—that is—it was this evening, when I was all -dressed to come here.”</p> - -<p>John could not control his expression any longer, and his lip bent -contemptuously, in spite of himself.</p> - -<p>“It was mailed very early this morning, with a special delivery stamp,” -he said, coldly.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it reached the house—but—oh, Jack! How can I explain, with all -these people?”</p> - -<p>“It wouldn’t be easy without the people,” he answered. “Nobody hears -what we’re saying.”</p> - -<p>Katharine was silent for a moment, and looked at her plate. In a lover’s -quarrel, the man has<a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a> the advantage, if it takes place in the midst of -acquaintances who may see what is happening. He is stronger and, as a -rule, cooler, though rarely, at heart, so cold. A woman, to be -persuasive, must be more or less demonstrative, and demonstrativeness is -visible to others, even from a great distance. Katharine did not -belittle the hardness of what she had to do in so far as she reckoned -the odds at all. She loved John too well, and knew again that she loved -him; and she understood fully how she had injured him, if not how much -she had hurt him. She was suffering herself, too, and greatly—much more -than she had suffered so long as her anger had lasted, for she knew, too -late, that she should have believed in him when others did not, rather -than when all were for him and with him, so that she was the very last -to take his part. But it was hard, and she tried to think that she had -some justification.</p> - -<p>After Ralston had finished telling his story, Russell Vanbrugh, who was -an eminent criminal lawyer, had commented to her upon the adventure, -telling her how men had been hanged upon just such circumstantial -evidence, when it had not chanced that such a man as Doctor Routh, at -the head of his profession and above all possible suspicion, had -intervened in time. She tried to argue that she might be pardoned for -being<a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a> misled, as she had been. But her conscience told her flatly that -she was deceiving herself, that she had really known far less than most -of the others about the events of the previous day, some of which were -now altogether new to her, that she had judged John in the worst light -from the first words she had heard about him at the Assembly ball, and -had not even been at pains to examine the circumstances so far as she -might have known them. And she remembered how, but a short time previous -to the present moment, she had looked at the sealed envelope with -disgust—almost with loathing, and had turned over its ashes with the -tongs. Yet that letter had cost him a supreme effort of strength and -will, made for her sake, when he was bruised and wounded and exhausted -with fatigue.</p> - -<p>“Jack,” she said at last, turning to him again, “I must talk to you. -Please come to me right after dinner—when you come back with the -men—will you?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly,” answered John.</p> - -<p>He knew that an explanation was inevitable. Oddly enough, though he now -had by far the best of the situation, he did not wish that the -explanatory interview might come so soon. Perhaps he did not wish for it -at all. With Katharine love was alive again, working and suffering. With -him there was no response, where love had been.<a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a> In its place there was -an unformulated longing to be left alone for a time, not to be forced to -realize how utterly he had been distrusted and abandoned when he had -most needed faith and support. There was an unwilling and unjust -comparison of Katharine with his mother, too, which presented itself -constantly. Losing the sense of values and forgetting how his mother had -denied his word of honour, he remembered only that her disbelief had -lasted but an hour, and that hour seemed now but an insignificant -moment. She had done so much, too, and at once. He recalled, amid the -noise and laughter, the clinking of the things on the little tray she -had brought up for him and set down outside his door—a foolish detail, -but one of those which strike fast little roots as soon as the seed has -fallen. The reaction, too, after all he had gone through, was coming at -last and was telling even on his wiry organization. Most men would have -broken down already. He wished that he might be spared the necessity of -Katharine’s explanation—that she would write to him, and that he might -read in peace and ponder at his leisure—and answer at his discretion. -Yet he knew very well that the situation must be cleared up at once. He -regretted having given Katharine but that one word in answer to her -appeal—for he did not wish to seem even more unforgiving than he felt.<a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a></p> - -<p>“I’ll come as soon as possible,” he said, turning to her. “I’ll come -now, if you like.”</p> - -<p>It would have been a satisfaction to have it over at once. But Katharine -shook her head.</p> - -<p>“You must stay with the men—but—thank you, Jack.”</p> - -<p>Her voice was very sweet and low. At that moment Ruth Van De Water -nodded to her brother, and in an instant all the sixteen chairs were -pushed back simultaneously, and the laughter died away in the rustle of -soft skirts and the moving of two and thirty slippered feet on the thick -carpet.</p> - -<p>“No!” cried Miss Van De Water, looking over her shoulder with a little -laugh at the man next to her, who offered his arm in the European -fashion. “We don’t want you—we’re not in Washington—we’re going to -talk about you, and we want to be by ourselves. Stay and smoke your -cigars—but not forever, you know,” she added, and laughed again, a -silvery, girlish laugh.</p> - -<p>Ralston stood back and watched the fair young girls and women as they -filed out. After all, there was not one that could compare with -Katharine—whether he loved her, or not, he added mentally.</p> - -<p>When the men were alone, they gathered round him under a great cloud of -smoke over their little cups of coffee and their tiny liqueur glasses -of<a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a> many colours. He had always been more popular than he had been -willing to think, which was the reason why so much had been forgiven -him. He had assuredly done nothing heroic on the present occasion, -unless his manly effort to fight against his taste for drinking was -heroic. If it was, the majority of the seven other men did not think of -it nor care. But he did not deserve such very great credit even for -that, perhaps, for there was that strain of asceticism in him which -makes such things easier for some people than for others. Most of them, -being young, envied and admired him for having stood up to a champion -prize-fighter in fair combat, heavily handicapped as he had been, and -for having reached his antagonist once, at least, before he went down. A -good deal of the enthusiasm young men occasionally express for one of -themselves rests on a similar basis, and yet is not to be altogether -despised on that account.</p> - -<p>John warmed to something almost approaching to geniality, in the midst -of so much good-will, in spite of his many troubles and of the painful -interview which was imminent. When Van De Water dropped the end of his -cigar and suggested that they should go into the drawing-room and not -waste the evening in doing badly what they could do well at their clubs -from morning till night, John would have been willing to stay a little<a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a> -longer. He was very tired. Three or four glasses of wine would have -warmed him and revived him earlier, but he had not broken down in his -resolution yet—and coffee and cigars were not bad substitutes, after -all. The chair was comfortable, it was warm and the lights were soft. He -rose rather regretfully and followed the other men through the house to -join the ladies.</p> - -<p>Without hesitation, since it had to be done, he went up to Katharine at -once. She had managed to keep a little apart from the rest, and in the -changing of places and positions which followed the entrance of the men, -she backed by degrees towards a corner in which there were two vacant -easy chairs, one on each side of a little table covered with bits of -rare old silver-work, and half shielded from the rest of the room by the -end of a grand piano. It would have been too remote a seat for two -persons who wished to flirt unnoticed, but Katharine knew perfectly well -that most of her friends believed her to be engaged to marry John -Ralston, and was quite sure of being left to talk with him in peace if -she chose to sit down with him in a corner.</p> - -<p>Gravely, now, and with no inclination to let his lips twist -contemptuously, John sat down beside her, drawing his chair in front of -the small table, and waiting patiently while she settled herself.<a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a></p> - -<p>“It was impossible to talk at table,” she said nervously, and with a -slight tremor in her voice.</p> - -<p>“Yes—with all those people,” assented John.</p> - -<p>A short silence followed. Katharine seemed to be choosing her words. She -looked calm enough, he thought, and he expected that she would begin to -make a deliberate explanation. All at once she put out her hand -spasmodically, drew it back again, and began to turn over and handle a -tiny fish of Norwegian silver which lay among the other things on the -table.</p> - -<p>“It’s all been a terrible misunderstanding—I don’t know where to -begin,” she said, rather helplessly.</p> - -<p>“Tell me what became of my letter,” answered John, quietly. “That’s the -important thing for me to know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—of course—well, in the first place, it was put into papa’s hands -this morning just as he was going down town.”</p> - -<p>“Did he keep it?” asked Ralston, his anger rising suddenly in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“No—that is—he didn’t mean to. He thought I was asleep—you see he had -read those things in the papers, and was angry and recognized your -handwriting—and he thought—you know the handwriting really was rather -shaky, Jack.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve no doubt. It wasn’t easy to write at all, just then.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a></p> - -<p>“Oh, Jack dear! If I’d only known, or guessed—”</p> - -<p>“Then you wouldn’t have needed to believe a little,” answered John. -“What did your father do with the letter?”</p> - -<p>“He had it in his pocket all day, and brought it home with him in the -evening. You see—I’d been out—at the Crowdies’—and then I came home -and shut myself up. I was so miserable—and then I fell asleep.”</p> - -<p>“You were so miserable that you fell asleep,” repeated Ralston, cruelly. -“I see.”</p> - -<p>“Jack! Please—please listen to me—”</p> - -<p>“Yes. I beg your pardon, Katharine. I’m out of temper. I didn’t mean to -be rude.”</p> - -<p>“No, dear. Please don’t. I can’t bear it.” Her lip quivered. “Jack,” she -began again, after a moment, “please don’t say anything till I’ve told -you all I have to say. If you do—no—I can’t help it—I’m crying now.”</p> - -<p>Her eyes were full of tears, and she turned her face away quickly to -recover her self-control. John was pained, but just then he could find -nothing to say. He bent his head and looked at his hand, affecting not -to see how much moved she was.</p> - -<p>A moment later she turned to him, and the tears seemed to be gone again, -though they were, perhaps, not far away. Strong women can make such -efforts in great need.<a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a></p> - -<p>“I went into my mother’s room on my way down to the carriage to come -here,” she continued. “Papa came in, bringing your letter. He had not -opened it, of course—he only wanted to show me that he had received it, -and he said he would destroy it after showing it to me. I looked at -it—and oh, the handwriting was so shaky, and there were spots on the -envelope—Jack—I didn’t want to read it. That’s the truth. I let him -burn it. I turned over the ashes to see that there was nothing left. -There—I’ve told you the truth. How could I know—oh, how could I know?”</p> - -<p>John glanced at her and then looked down again, not trusting himself to -speak yet. The thought that she had not even wished to read that letter, -and that she had stood calmly by while her father destroyed it, -deliberately turning over the ashes afterwards, was almost too much to -be borne with equanimity. Again he remembered what it had cost him to -write it, and how he had felt that, having written it, Katharine, at -least, would be loyal to him, whatever the world might say. He would -have been a little more than human if he could have then and there -smiled, held out his hand, and freely forgiven and promised to forget.</p> - -<p>And yet she, too, had some justice on her side, though she was ready and -willing to forget it all, and to bear far more of blame than she -deserved.<a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a> Russell Vanbrugh had told her that a man might easily be -convicted on such evidence. Yet in her heart she knew that her disbelief -had waited for no proofs last night, but had established itself supreme -as her disappointment at John’s absence from the ball.</p> - -<p>“Jack,” she began again, seeing that he did not speak, “say -something—say that you’ll try to forgive me. It’s breaking my heart.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll try,” answered John, in a voice without meaning.</p> - -<p>“Ah—not that way, dear!” answered Katharine, with a breaking sigh. “Be -kind—for the sake of all that has been!”</p> - -<p>There was a deep and touching quaver in the words. He could say nothing -yet.</p> - -<p>“Of all that might have been, Jack—it was only yesterday morning that -we were married—dear—and now—”</p> - -<p>He lifted his face and looked long into her eyes—she saw nothing but -regret, coldness, interrogation in his. And still he was silent, and -still she pleaded for forgiveness.</p> - -<p>“But it can’t be undone, now. It can never be undone—and I’m your wife, -though I have distrusted you, and been cruel and heartless and unkind. -Don’t you see how it all was, dear? Can’t you be weak for a moment, just -to understand me a little bit? Won’t you believe me when<a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a> I tell you how -I hate myself and despise myself and wish that I could—oh, I don’t -know!—I wish I could wash it all away, if it were with my heart’s -blood! I’d give it, every drop, for you, now—dear -one—sweetheart—forgive me! forgive me!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t, Katharine—please don’t,” said John, in an uncertain tone, and -looking away from her again.</p> - -<p>“But you must,” she cried in her low and pleading voice, leaning far -forward, so that she spoke very close to his averted face. “It’s my -life—it’s all I have! Jack—haven’t women done as bad things and been -forgiven and been loved, too, after all was over? No—I know—oh, God! -If I had but known before!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t talk like that, Katharine!” said Ralston, distressed, if not -moved. “What’s done is done, and we can’t undo it. I made a bad mistake -myself—”</p> - -<p>“You, Jack? What? Yesterday?” She thought he spoke of their marriage.</p> - -<p>“No—the night before—at the Thirlwalls’, when I told you that I -sometimes drank—and all that—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no!” exclaimed Katharine. “You were so right. It was the bravest -thing you ever did!”</p> - -<p>“And this is the result,” said John, bitterly. “I put it all into your -head then. You’d never thought<a name="page_337" id="page_337"></a> about it before. And of course things -looked badly—about yesterday—and you took it for granted. Isn’t that -the truth?”</p> - -<p>“No, dear. It’s not—you’re mistaken. Because I thought you brave, night -before last, was no reason why I should have thought you a coward -yesterday. No—don’t make excuses for me, even in that way. There are -none—I want none—I ask for none. Only say that you’ll try to forgive -me—but not as you said it just now. Mean it, Jack! Oh, try to mean it, -if you ever loved me!”</p> - -<p>Ralston had not doubted her sincerity for a moment, after he had caught -sight of her face when he had finished telling his story at the -dinner-table. She loved him with all her heart, and her grief for what -she had done was real and deep. But he had been badly hurt. Love was -half numb, and would not wake, though his tears were in her voice.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, she had moved John so far that he made an effort to meet -her, as it were, and to stretch out his hand to hers across the gulf -that divided them.</p> - -<p>“Katharine,” he said, at last, “don’t think me hard and unfeeling. You -managed to hurt me pretty badly, that’s all. Just when I was down, you -turned your back on me, and I cared. I suppose that if I didn’t love -you, I shouldn’t have cared at all, or not so much. Shouldn’t you think -it strange if I’d been perfectly indifferent, and if I<a name="page_338" id="page_338"></a> were to say to -you now—‘Oh, never mind—it’s all right—it wasn’t anything’? It seems -to me that would just show that I’d never loved you, and that I had -acted like a blackguard in marrying you yesterday morning. Wouldn’t it?”</p> - -<p>Katharine looked at him, and a gleam of hope came into her eyes. She -nodded twice in silence, with close-set lips, waiting to hear what more -he would say.</p> - -<p>“I don’t like to talk of forgiveness and that sort of thing between you -and me, either,” he continued. “I don’t think it’s a question of -forgiveness. You’re not a child, and I’m not your father. I can’t -exactly forgive—in that sense. I never knew precisely what the word -meant, anyhow. They say ‘forgive and forget’—but if forgiving an injury -isn’t forgetting it, what is it? Love bears, but doesn’t need to -forgive, it seems to me. The forgiveness consists in the bearing. Well, -you don’t mean to make me bear anything more, do you?”</p> - -<p>A smile came into his face, not a very gentle one, but nevertheless a -smile. Katharine’s hand went out quickly and touched his own.</p> - -<p>“No, dear, never,” she said simply.</p> - -<p>“Well—don’t. Perhaps I couldn’t bear much more just now. You see, I’ve -loved you very much.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say it as though it were past, Jack,” said Katharine, softly.<a name="page_339" id="page_339"></a></p> - -<p>“No—I was thinking of the past, that’s all.”</p> - -<p>He paused a moment. His heart was beating a little faster now, and -tender words were not so far from his lips as they had been five minutes -earlier. He could be silent and still be cold. But she had made him feel -that she loved him dearly, and her voice waked the music in his own as -he spoke.</p> - -<p>“It was because I loved you so, that I felt it all,” he said. “A little -more than you thought I could—dear.”</p> - -<p>It was he, now, who put out his hand and touched a fold of her gown -which was near him, as she had touched his arm. The tears came back to -Katharine’s eyes suddenly and unexpectedly, but they did not burn as -they had burned before.</p> - -<p>“I’ve never loved any one else,” he continued presently. “Yes—and I -know you’ve not. But I’m older, and I know men who have been in -love—what they call being in love—twice and three times at my age. -I’ve not. I’ve never cared for any one but you, and I don’t want to. -I’ve been a failure in a good many ways, but I shan’t be in that one -way. I shall always love you—just the same.”</p> - -<p>Katharine caught happily at the three little words.</p> - -<p>“Just the same—as though all this had never happened, Jack?” she asked, -bending towards him, and looking into his brown eyes. “If you’ll say -that again, dear, I shall be quite happy.”</p> - -<p><a name="page_340" id="page_340"></a></p> - -<p>“Yes—in a way—just the same,” answered Ralston, as though weighing his -words.</p> - -<p>Katharine’s face fell.</p> - -<p>“There’s a reservation, dear—I knew there would be,” she said, with a -sigh.</p> - -<p>“No,” answered Ralston. “Only I didn’t want to say more than just what I -meant. I’ve been angry myself—I was angry at dinner—perhaps I was -angry still when I sat down here. I don’t know. I didn’t mean to be. -It’s hard to say exactly what I do mean. I love you—just the same as -ever. Only we’ve both been very angry and shall never forget that we -have been, though we may wonder some day why we were. Do you understand? -It’s not very clear, but I’m not good at talking.”</p> - -<p>“Yes.” Katharine’s face grew brighter again. “Yes,” she repeated, a -moment later; “it’s what I feel—only I wish that you might not feel it, -because it’s all my fault—all of it. And yet—oh, Jack! It seems to me -that I never loved you as I do now—somehow, you seem dearer to me since -I’ve hurt you, and you’ve forgiven me—but I wasn’t to say that!”</p> - -<p>“No, dear—don’t talk of forgiveness. Tell me you love me—I’d rather -hear it.”</p> - -<p>“So would I—from you, Jack!”</p> - -<p>Some one had sat down at the piano. The keyboard was away from them, so -that they could not<a name="page_341" id="page_341"></a> see who it was, but as Katharine spoke a chord was -struck, then two or three more followed, and the first bars of a waltz -rang through the room. It was the same which the orchestra had been -playing on the previous evening, just when Katharine had left the -Assembly rooms with Hester Crowdie.</p> - -<p>“They were playing that last night,” she said, leaning toward him once -more in the shadow of the piano. “I was so unhappy—last night—”</p> - -<p>No one was looking at them in their corner. John Ralston caught her hand -in his, pressed it almost sharply, and then held it a moment.</p> - -<p>“I love you with all my heart,” he said.</p> - -<p>The deep grey eyes melted as they met his, and the beautiful mouth -quivered.</p> - -<p>“I want to kiss you, dear,” said Katharine. “Then I shall know. Do you -think anybody will see?”</p> - -<hr style="width: 20%;" /> - -<p>That is the story of those five days, from Monday afternoon to Friday -evening, in reality little more than four times twenty-four hours. It -has been a long story, and if it has not been well told, the fault lies -with him who has told it, and may or may not be pardoned, according to -the kindness of those whose patience has brought them thus far. And if -there be any whose patience will carry them further, they shall be -satisfied before long,<a name="page_342" id="page_342"></a> unless the writer be meanwhile gathered among -those who tell no tales.</p> - -<p>For there is much more to be said about John Ralston and Katharine, and -about all the other people who have entered into their lives. For -instance, it may occur to some one to wonder whether, after this last -evening, John and Katharine declared their marriage at once, or whether -they were obliged to keep the secret much longer, and some may ask -whether John Ralston’s resolution held good against more of such -temptations as he had resisted on Wednesday night at the Thirlwalls’ -dance. Some may like to know whether old Robert Lauderdale lived many -years longer, and, if he died, what became of the vast Lauderdale -fortune; whether it turned out to be true that Alexander Junior was -rich, or, at least, not nearly so poor as he represented himself to be; -whether Walter Crowdie had another of those strange attacks which had so -terrified his wife on Monday night; whether he and Paul Griggs, the -veteran man of letters, were really bound by some common tie of a former -history or not, and, finally, perhaps, whether Charlotte Slayback got -divorced from Benjamin Slayback of Nevada, or not. There is also a -pretty little tale to be told about the three Misses Miner, Frank’s -old-maid sisters. And some few there may be who will care to know what -Katharine’s convictions ultimately became<a name="page_343" id="page_343"></a> and remained, when, after -passing through this five days’ storm, she found time once more for -thought and meditation. All these things may interest a few patient -readers, but the main question here raised and not yet answered is -whether that hasty, secret marriage between Katharine and John turned -out to have been really such a piece of folly as it seemed, or whether -the lovers were ultimately glad that they had done as they did. It is -assuredly very rash to be married secretly, and some of the reasons -given by Katharine when she persuaded John to take the step were not -very valid ones, as he, at least, was well aware at the time. But, on -the other hand, such true love as they really bore one another is good, -and a rare thing in the world, and when men and women feel such love, -having felt it long, and knowing it, they may be right to do such things -to make sure of not being parted; and they may live to look each into -the other’s eyes and say, long afterwards, ‘Thank God that we were not -afraid.’ But this must not be asserted of them positively by others -without proof.</p> - -<p>For better, or for worse, Katharine Lauderdale is Katharine Ralston, and -must be left sitting behind the piano with her husband after the Van De -Waters’ dinner-party. And if she is the centre of any interest, or even -of any idle speculation for such as have read these pages of her -history,<a name="page_344" id="page_344"></a> they have not been written in vain. At all events, she has -made a strange beginning in life, and almost unawares she has been near -some of the evil things which lie so close to the good, at the root of -all that is human. But youth does not see the bad sights in its path. -Its young eyes look onward, and sometimes upward, and it passes by on -the other side.</p> - -<p class="c">THE END.<a name="page_345" id="page_345"></a></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cb">F. Marion Crawford’s Novels.</p> - -<p class="sans">NEW UNIFORM AND COMPLETE EDITION.</p> - -<p class="c">12mo. Cloth. $1.00 each.</p> - -<p class="sans">SARACINESCA.</p> - -<p>“The work has two distinct merits, either of which would serve to make -it great,—that of telling a perfect story in a perfect way, and of -giving a graphic picture of Roman society in the last days of the Pope’s -temporal power.... The story is exquisitely told.”—<i>Boston Traveller.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">SANT’ ILARIO.</p> - -<p class="c">A Sequel to <i>SARACINESCA</i>.</p> - -<p>“A singularly powerful and beautiful story.... It fulfils every -requirement of artistic fiction. It brings out what is most impressive -in human action, without owing any of its effectiveness to -sensationalism or artifice. It is natural, fluent in evolution, -accordant with experience, graphic in description, penetrating in -analysis, and absorbing in interest.”—<i>New York Tribune.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">DON ORSINO.</p> - -<p class="c">A Sequel to <i>SARACINESCA</i> and <i>SANT’ ILARIO</i>.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps the cleverest novel of the year.... There is not a dull -paragraph in the book, and the reader may be assured that once begun, -the story of <i>Don Orsino</i> will fascinate him until its close.”—<i>The -Critic.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">PIETRO CHISLERI.</p> - -<p>“The imaginative richness, the marvellous ingenuity of plot, the power -and subtlety of the portrayal of character, the charm of the romantic -environment,—the entire atmosphere, indeed,—rank this novel at once -among the great creations.”—<i>The Boston Budget.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH.</p> - -<p>“It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of its kind as this brief -and vivid story.... It is doubly a success, being full of human -sympathy, as well as thoroughly artistic in its nice balancing of the -unusual with the commonplace, the clever juxtaposition of innocence and -guilt, comedy and tragedy, simplicity and intrigue.”—<i>Critic.</i></p> - -<hr class="w20" /> - -<p class="c">MACMILLAN & CO.,</p> - -<p class="c">66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.<a name="page_346" id="page_346"></a></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="sans">MR. ISAACS.</p> - -<p class="c">A Tale of Modern India.</p> - -<p>“Under an unpretentious title we have here the most brilliant novel, or -rather romance, that has been given to the world for a very long -time.”—<i>The American.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">DR. CLAUDIUS.</p> - -<p class="c">A True Story.</p> - -<p>“It by no means belies the promises of its predecessor. The story, an -exceedingly improbable and romantic one, is told with much skill; the -characters are strongly marked without any suspicion of caricature, and -the author’s ideas on social and political subjects are often brilliant -and always striking. It is no exaggeration to say that there is not a -dull page in the book, which is peculiarly adapted for the recreation of -student or thinker.”—<i>Living Church.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">TO LEEWARD.</p> - -<p>“A story of remarkable power.”—<i>The Review of Reviews.</i></p> - -<p>“The four characters with whose fortunes this novel deals, are, perhaps, -the most brilliantly executed portraits in the whole of Mr. Crawford’s -long picture gallery, while for subtle insight into the springs of human -passion and for swift dramatic action none of the novels surpasses this -one.”—<i>The News and Courier.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">THE THREE FATES.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Crawford has manifestly brought his best qualities as a student of -human nature and his finest resources as a master of an original and -picturesque style to bear upon this story. Taken for all in all it is -one of the most pleasing of all his productions in fiction, and it -affords a view of certain phases of American, or perhaps we should say -of New York, life that have not hitherto been treated with anything like -the same adequacy and felicity.”—<i>Boston Beacon.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">A CIGARETTE-MAKER’S ROMANCE.</p> - -<p>“The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has Mr. Crawford done more -brilliant realistic work than here. But his realism is only the case and -cover for those intense feelings which, placed under no matter what -humble conditions, produce the most dramatic and the most tragic -situations.... This is a secret of genius, to take the most coarse and -common material, the meanest surroundings, the most sordid material -prospects, and out of the vehement passions which sometimes dominate all -human beings to build up with these poor elements, scenes, and passages, -the dramatic and emotional power of which at once enforce attention and -awaken the profoundest interest.”—<i>New York Tribune.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN.</p> - -<hr class="w20" /> - -<p class="c">MACMILLAN & CO.,</p> - -<p class="c">66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.<a name="page_347" id="page_347"></a></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="sans">THE WITCH OF PRAGUE.</p> - -<p class="c">A Fantastic Tale.</p> - -<p class="c">Illustrated by <span class="smcap">W. J. Hennessy</span>.</p> - -<p>“The artistic skill with which this extraordinary story is constructed -and carried out is admirable and delightful.... Mr. Crawford has scored -a decided triumph, for the interest of the tale is sustained -throughout.... A very remarkable, powerful, and interesting -story.”—<i>New York Tribune.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">GREIFENSTEIN.</p> - -<p>“...Another notable contribution to the literature of the day. It -possesses originality in its conception and is a work of unusual -ability. Its interest is sustained to the close, and it is an advance -even on the previous work of this talented author. Like all Mr. -Crawford’s work this novel is crisp, clear, and vigorous, and will be -read with a great deal of interest.”—<i>New York Evening Telegram.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">WITH THE IMMORTALS.</p> - -<p>“The strange central idea of the story could have occurred only to a -writer whose mind was very sensitive to the current of modern thought -and progress, while its execution, the setting it forth in proper -literary clothing, could be successfully attempted only by one whose -active literary ability should be fully equalled by his power of -assimilative knowledge both literary and scientific, and no less by his -courage and capacity for hard work. The book will be found to have a -fascination entirely new for the habitual reader of novels. Indeed, Mr. -Crawford has succeeded in taking his readers quite above the ordinary -plane of novel interest.”—<i>Boston Advertiser.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">ZOROASTER.</p> - -<p>“It is a drama in the force of its situations and in the poetry and -dignity of its language; but its men and women are not men and women of -a play. By the naturalness of their conversation and behavior they seem -to live and lay hold of our human sympathy more than the same characters -on a stage could possibly do.”—<i>The New York Times.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">A ROMAN SINGER.</p> - -<p>“One of the earliest and best works of this famous novelist.... None but -a genuine artist could have made so true a picture of human life, -crossed by human passions and interwoven with human weakness. It is a -perfect specimen of literary art.”—<i>The Newark Advertiser.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">PAUL PATOFF.</p> - -<hr class="w20" /> - -<p class="c">MACMILLAN & CO.,</p> - -<p class="c">66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.<a name="page_348" id="page_348"></a></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="sans">KHALED.</p> - -<p class="c">A Story of Arabia.</p> - -<p>“Throughout the fascinating story runs the subtlest analysis, suggested -rather than elaborately worked out, of human passion and motive, the -building out and development of the character of the woman who becomes -the hero’s wife and whose love he finally wins being an especially acute -and highly finished example of the story-teller’s art.... That it is -beautifully written and holds the interest of the reader, fanciful as it -all is, to the very end, none who know the depth and artistic finish of -Mr. Crawford’s work need be told.”—<i>The Chicago Times.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">CHILDREN OF THE KING.</p> - -<p>“One of the most artistic and exquisitely finished pieces of work that -Crawford has produced. The picturesque setting, Calabria and its -surroundings, the beautiful Sorrento and the Gulf of Salermo, with the -bewitching accessories that climate, sea, and sky afford, give Mr. -Crawford rich opportunities to show his rare descriptive powers. As a -whole the book is strong and beautiful through its simplicity, and ranks -among the choicest of the author’s many fine productions.”—<i>Public -Opinion.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">MARZIO’S CRUCIFIX.</p> - -<p>“This work belongs to the highest department of character-painting in -words.”—<i>The Churchman.</i></p> - -<p>“We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr. Crawford possesses in -an extraordinary degree the art of constructing a story. His sense of -proportion is just, and his narrative flows along with ease and -perspicuity. It is as if it could not have been written otherwise, so -naturally does the story unfold itself, and so logical and consistent is -the sequence of incident after incident. As a story <i>Marzio’s Crucifix</i> -is perfectly constructed.”—<i>New York Commercial Advertiser.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">MARION DARCHE.</p> - -<p>“Full enough of incident to have furnished material for three or four -stories.... A most interesting and engrossing book. Every page unfolds -new possibilities, and the incidents multiply rapidly.”—<i>Detroit Free -Press.</i></p> - -<p>“We are disposed to rank <i>Marion Darche</i> as the best of Mr. Crawford’s -American stories.”—<i>The Literary World.</i></p> - -<p class="sans">THE NOVEL: What It Is.</p> - -<p class="c">18mo. Cloth. 75 cents.</p> - -<p>“When a master of his craft speaks, the public may well listen with -careful attention, and since no fiction-writer of the day enjoys in this -country a broader or more enlightened popularity than Marion Crawford, -his explanation of <i>The Novel: What It Is</i>, will be received with -flattering interest.”—<i>The Boston Beacon.</i></p> - -<hr class="w20" /> - -<p class="c">MACMILLAN & CO.,</p> - -<p class="c">66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Katherine Lauderdale; Vol. 2 of 2, by -F. 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