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Ralstons

<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2> Mrs. Lauderdale was indignant. Katharine, at least, had been able to see the ludicrous side of the situation, and had laughed to herself on finding that she was locked in. Less conventional than either her father or mother, it had occurred to her for a moment that she was acting a part in an amusing comedy. The idea that by one or two absurd phrases she had so irritated Alexander as to make him forget his dignity and his common sense together, and do a thoroughly foolish thing such as a child in a passion might do, was funny in the extreme, she thought. But Mrs. Lauderdale, being called in, as it were, after the play, thought the result very poor fun indeed. In her opinion, her husband had done a senseless thing, in the worst possible taste. Fortunately the house was an old one, and the simple, old-fashioned lock was amenable to keys which did not belong to it. In due time, Mrs. Lauderdale found one which served the purpose, and Katharine was set at liberty. “This is just a little more than I can bear,” she said, as her mother entered the room. “I didn’t expect this sort of thing last night when I said I wouldn’t go to uncle Robert’s. Really—papa’s losing his head.” “I must say, it’s going rather far,” admitted Mrs. Lauderdale. “It’s gone a great deal too far,” Katharine answered. “I laughed when I found I was locked in. It seemed so funny. But I won’t let him do it again.” “You two have a faculty for irritating each other that’s beyond anything,” observed Mrs. Lauderdale. “It really would be much better if you could be separated for a little while. My dear, what do you suppose could happen, if you went to uncle Robert’s?” “Just what I told you yesterday. Papa would be quite bland when I came home again. By that time he could have got over his rage, and he’d want to know things—oh, well! I won’t talk about all that. It only hurts you, and it can’t do any good, can it? Hadn’t I better go up to uncle Robert’s and ask if he can have me? Meanwhile, Jane could pack a few things—just what I need to-day—I can always come down, or send down, and get anything I want at a moment’s notice. Shan’t I, mother? What do you think?” “Well—I don’t quite know, child. Of course I ought not to, but then if I don’t—” She paused, conscious of vagueness. “If I don’t let you go,” she continued, “there’ll be worse trouble before long. This is an impossible position, we know, and if you went to Washington, I’m sure he’d go down on Sunday and bring you back. It was very clever of you to think of going to uncle Robert’s.” “I could go to the Crowdies’,” said Katharine, meditatively. “Of course, Hester’s my best friend, but I do hate her husband so—I can’t help it.” Walter Crowdie was a distinguished young painter, whose pale face and heavy, red mouth were unaccountably repulsive to Katharine, and, in a less degree, to her mother also. Mrs. Crowdie was Hamilton Bright’s sister, and therefore a distant cousin. “And papa might insist on bringing me back from there, too. There are lots of reasons against it. Besides—Hamilton—” “What about Hamilton?” asked Mrs. Lauderdale. “Oh, nothing! Mother—I don’t want to do violent things and make a fuss, and all that, you know—but if you agree, and think it’s sensible, I will go up and ask uncle Robert if I may stay a few days. You can see, yourself, that all this can’t go on much longer.” In her resentment of her father’s behaviour, she felt quite reconciled with her mother, and Mrs. Lauderdale was glad as she realized the fact. There was an underthought in her mind, too, which was perhaps not altogether so creditable. Though it was only to be for a few days, Katharine was to be away from her. She, was to have a breathing space from the temptation which tormented her. For a little while she should be herself again, not contrasted, at every turn of her daily life, with that terrible bloom which ever outshone the fading flower of her own beauty. That was her dream. If she could but be supremely beautiful still for one short month—that was all she asked—after that, she would submit to time, and give up the pride of life, and never complain again. She would not have acknowledged to herself that this was a motive, for she honestly did her best to fight her sin; but it was there, nevertheless, and influenced her to agree the more readily to Katharine’s absence. It counteracted, indeed, the anxiety she felt about her husband’s view of the case when he should return from his office late in the afternoon; but her instinct told her, also, that he might very probably be a little ashamed of what he had done, and be secretly glad of the solution unexpectedly offered him. Katharine got ready to go in a few minutes. As she put on her hat and gloves, she glanced two or three times at the bit of red ribbon that lay on her toilet-table. She had taken down the signal from the window on the previous evening, in order to inform John Ralston that she could not come that morning. On the whole, she was glad that she could not see him, for it would be hard to conceal from him what had happened. She would send him a message down town, and he could see her, undisturbed, at their uncle’s house in the afternoon—more freely there than anywhere else, indeed, since Robert Lauderdale was in the secret of the clandestine marriage. Before she left the house, Mrs. Lauderdale laid her hands upon the girl’s shoulders and looked into her eyes with an anxious expression. “Katharine, dear,” she said, “don’t ever let yourself think such things as you said yesterday afternoon.” “What things, mother?” “About not believing—you know. You didn’t mean what you said, darling, of course—and I’m not preaching to you. You know I promised long ago that I would never talk about religion to you children, nor influence you. I’ve kept my word. But this is different. Religion—well, we don’t all agree in this world. But God—God’s for everybody, just the same, dear. But then,” she added, quickly, “I know you didn’t really mean what you said. Only keep the thought away, when it comes.” Katharine said nothing, but she nodded gravely and kissed her mother on both cheeks. At the last moment, as she was going to the door, she stopped and turned back. “I’m awfully sorry to bother you, mother dear,” she said, “but I’ve got no money—not even twenty-five cents. Could you give me something? I don’t like to be out with nothing at all in my pocket.” The deprecating tone, the real, earnest regret at being obliged to ask for even such a trifle, told the tale of what had gone on in the house, unknown to the world, for years, far better than any words could have done. “Of course, child—I always have something, you know,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, promptly. “Here are ten dollars.” “Oh—I don’t want so much!” cried Katharine. “I’m not going to buy anything—it’s only for horse-cars, and things like that. Give me a dollar and a little change, if you have it.” But Mrs. Lauderdale insisted that she should take the note. “I don’t want you to go to uncle Robert’s without a penny in your pocket. It looks like poor relations.” “Well—you’re always generous, mother,” answered the young girl, with a little laugh. “But it’s papa’s relation, and not yours.” “I know, dear—I know. But it makes no difference.” As Katharine had anticipated, Robert Lauderdale was very glad to see her. He was sitting in his library, into which the sun streamed through the high windows, one of which was partly opened to let in the spring freshness. She thought he looked ill. He had not recovered from the effects of his illness so quickly as Doctor Routh had expected, owing to a certain weakness of the heart, natural enough at his age and after enduring so severe a strain. His appetite had never returned, and he was thin in the body and almost wasted in the face. If anything, Katharine thought he looked worse than when she had last seen him a few days previously. But he welcomed her with a cheery smile, and she sat down beside him. “Come to pay me a little visit?” His voice was oddly hollow. “That’s right! I wish you’d stay with me a few days again. But then, you’re too gay, I suppose.” “Not at all too gay,” laughed Katharine. “That’s exactly what I want to do, and why I came at this hour. I wanted to ask if you’d have me for a week, and then, if you would, I was going to send for my things. And now you’ve spoken first, and I accept. My things are all ready,” she added, still smiling. “You see, I knew you’d let me come.” “Of course, little girl!” answered the old man, his sunken eyes fixing themselves wistfully on her young face. “Ring for Leek and tell him to send a man down at once.” “Oh—there’s no hurry about it. I made myself as beautiful as I could before starting—but I want to dazzle you at dinner. You sit up for dinner, don’t you? How are you, uncle, dear? Better?” “Yes—yes,” he answered, slowly. “I suppose I’m better. But it’s slow work. Yes, I sit up for dinner. It makes the days shorter. They’re so long. You look pale, my dear. What’s the matter? Too much dancing? Too much flirting? Or what?” “I never flirt, uncle Robert!” Katharine laughed again. “Well, then, it’s time you began, and you’d better begin at once—with me.” And the old gentleman laughed, too, a queer hollow laugh that seemed to come from his backbone, with a rattle in it. And he laid two of his great bony fingers against the young girl’s pale, fresh cheek—as though death played with life, and would like to kiss it. So they chatted pleasantly together in the morning sunshine amongst the grand old books which the rich man had collected about him. Katharine had no intention of telling him what had happened in Clinton Place, if she could help it. Uncle Robert did not seem to require any reason for her sudden determination to pay him a visit, as she had done before on more than one occasion. He was glad enough to have her, whatever her reasons might be. Katharine breathed the atmosphere of freedom and revived. The certainty that for several days, at least, the perpetual contest with her father was not to be renewed, brought colour to her cheeks and light to her eyes. But as the time wore on towards the hour for luncheon, and she came and went, and alternately talked with the old man and read aloud to him a little and sat in silence, watching his face, the conviction came over her that he could never get back his strength. The vitality was gone out of him, and he had grown listless. She could not tell whether he might live much longer, or not, but she felt that he had lost something which he could never regain. “You feel stronger, don’t you?” she asked, in an encouraging tone. He did not answer at once, but looked at her affectionately and dreamily. “Don’t be worried about me, dear girl,” he said, at last. “I’m doing very well.” “No, but really—” Katharine’s face took an anxious expression. “Really?” he repeated, looking at her still. Then his head fell back against the dark red cushion. “I’m not dead yet,” he said, quietly. “But it’s coming—it’s coming by inches.” “Don’t say that!” But she knew it was true, and she began to talk of other things. He, however, seemed inclined to come back to the subject of his failing strength. “I should be better if they didn’t bother me,” he said. “They keep coming to see whether I’m alive, and sending messages to enquire. Confound them!” he exclaimed, with a momentary return of energy. “They couldn’t send more flowers if the undertaker were in the house! What does an old fellow like me want of flowers, I should like to know? They may turn my grave into a flower show if they like, when I’m tucked away in it, but I wish they’d leave me alone till I am!” “Who are they?” asked Katharine, with some curiosity. “The tribe, as you call the family. Your mother’s one. Didn’t she tell you she sent me flowers?” “No—I’ll tell her not to.” “Don’t do that, little girl. You just let her alone. If she were the only one—I shouldn’t care. I wouldn’t hurt her feelings for anything, you know—and then, it means something when she sends them, because she works for them and earns the money. But why the dickens the three Miss Miners should think it necessary to send me American Beauties in cardboard boxes, I can’t conceive. They’re comfortably off enough, now, but that’s no reason, and they can’t stand the expense of that sort of thing long. Perhaps they think it won’t last long. Of course it’s well meant. I made Beman give them a lift with some little stocks they had lying round, and he took an interest in the thing, I suppose, for I hear that they’re very comfortable—ten thousand a year amongst the four of them, with Frank—and I suppose he earns something with all his writings, doesn’t he?” “Oh, yes. The Century gave him a hundred and fifty dollars for an article the other day. He was so pleased! You have no idea!” “I daresay,” said the great millionaire, gravely. “Very nice, too—a hundred and fifty for one article. Well—he’s another. He sends me all he writes—there’s a heap of things on the table, there. That’s his corner, you know, because he’s the literary man of the family. And he scribbles me little notes with them. He’s rather humble about his work—for he says he’d really be glad if anything he turned out could help to pass the time for me. Well—it’s nice of him, I know. But it irritates me, somehow. As for that Crowdie, he’s the worst of the lot—as he’s the cleverest. By the bye, what day is to-day—Thursday, isn’t it?” “Yes—it’s Thursday. Why?” “Well—he’s coming before luncheon to-day. It appears that he’s painted a picture of you. I think you said something about it last winter, didn’t you?” “Yes. I told you I was sitting to him. He painted it for Hester. She’s my great friend, you know.” “Oh, yes—so she is—so she is! Well—that’s a singular thing, too. He said in his last note that it was for me.” “Did he?” Katharine laughed. “You’d better take it, uncle dear—that is, if you want it. It’s a good picture.” “Everything the young scoundrel does is good!” growled the old man. “Do you like him, child?” “Like him! I perfectly loathe him—but I can’t tell why,” she added, in quick apology. “He’s always very kind.” “I don’t see how Walter Crowdie can be kind to my niece,” said Robert Lauderdale, with rough pride. “Anyhow, he wants to get something out of me. So he’s bringing the picture to me this morning. I told you what I meant to do for them in my will. I don’t see why I should do anything. They’re rich, those people. She had money and he gets big prices, and I’ll do him the credit to say he’s industrious, at all events. He seems to be a good husband to Hester, too—isn’t he?” “She adores him,” answered Katharine. “Well—I suppose I’m like you. I can’t tell why I dislike the man, but I do. It’s a case of ‘Doctor Fell.’ Yes—there’s Crowdie, and the Miners—even Ham Bright—he’s always enquiring and leaving cards! As for your father, he writes me long letters once a week, as though I were abroad, and he comes to see me every Sunday afternoon at four o’clock, rain or shine.” “Oh—that’s where he goes!” cried Katharine. “I often wondered—he always disappears on Sunday afternoon.” “Yes—he comes here and tells me what a solid thing the Trust Company is, and how he’s devoting his life to it, and sacrificing his chances of getting rich, so as to be useful. Oh, it’s very fine, I admit. But then, he never says anything about that money of his which he keeps put away. And I never say anything about it, either. What’s the use—it would only make him uncomfortable.” “But you’re quite sure he has it, uncle Robert, aren’t you?” asked Katharine. “You’re not doing him an injustice?” “Yes. I’ve seen it.” “What—the money? I don’t understand.” “I’ve seen the value of a million of money in United States Bonds, which were the property of your father,” answered the old man. “I won’t tell you how it happened, because a banker accidentally betrayed your father’s confidence. It was at the time of a conversion of bonds, two years ago. For some reason or other, Alexander—your father—couldn’t attend to it, or do it all himself. I don’t know why. Anyhow, he employed a banker confidentially, and I came to know the fact, and I saw the bonds. So that settles it. He’s not squandered a million on your clothes in the last two years, has he, little girl?” “Hardly!” Katharine laughed. “But mightn’t it have been trust money, or something like that?” “No. His name was there. He’s a careful man—your father. So it couldn’t have been a trust. Well—I was going through the list, wasn’t I? I haven’t half finished. There’s your grandfather. Sandy never had much sense when he was a boy. He was all heart. I suppose he knows I’m dying, and wants me to give my soul a lift in the shape of some liberal contributions to his charities. I wish you could see the piles of reports he sends, and letters without end—in his queer, shaky hand. ‘Dear old Bob; what’s a million, more or less, to you, and it would make ten thousand homes happy.’ That’s the sort of thing. Ten thousand idiots! Give them all a hundred dollars apiece—of course they’d be happy, for a week or two. Sandy forgets the headaches they’d have afterwards. He believes everything’s good, and everybody’s an angel, more or less disguised, but recognizable. Well—I suppose it’s better to be an optimist. They’re the happy people, after all.” “Do you think so? I don’t know. People who are always happy can’t ever feel how happy they are sometimes, as unhappy people do. That’s what’s so nice about being sad—now and then, when one feels gay, the world’s a ball of sunshine. Haven’t you felt like that sometimes? I do.” “Sometimes—sometimes,” repeated the old man, with a faint smile. “Not lately. I’ve had so many cares. Great wealth complicates the end of life, Katharine. You’ll be very rich. Remember that. Have your fortune settled so that it can be easily handled when you’re old. That’s what I’ve done, and it’s something, at all events. If I had to be picking up odds and ends and loose threads now, it would be harder than it is. And perhaps I’ve made a mistake. Perhaps it’s better to tell people just what they have to expect. People worry so! Now there are all the Miners’ rich relations, you know—the Thirlwalls and the Van De Waters, and all that set. I don’t know what they think, I’m sure. They’ve got heaps of money, and there’s no reason on earth why I should leave them a dollar. But they worry. Ruth Van De Water comes and brings flowers—always flowers—I make Leek take them away—I suppose he decorates the pantry with them—and she says her mother would so much like to take me to drive when it’s warmer. Why? What for? And one of the Thirlwalls sent me some cigars he’d brought from Havana with him, and old Mrs. Trehearne—the one who’s ‘old’ Mrs. Trehearne now, since her sister-in-law died—didn’t she toddle in the other day and say she wanted to talk about old times!—she’s another of those holy scarecrows that hang round death-beds. Now, she’s nothing on earth to expect of me. It’s sheer love of worry, I believe.” “People may be fond of you for your own sake,” suggested Katharine. “You don’t know how nice you are! That is—when you like!” “Well—I don’t know. It may be—but I doubt it. You see, I’ve had a good deal of experience in the way of being liked.” “Has it been all a bad experience? You can’t tell me that nobody ever liked you for your own sake—never, at all. I shouldn’t believe it. The world can’t be all bad, right through.” “Oh, no! I didn’t say that. And I suppose I shouldn’t say anything that looks like cynicism to you, child. Still, I must say there’s a good deal of personal interest in the affection a rich man gets. I used to hear that said when I was a boy, and there’s a good deal about it in old-fashioned books, but I didn’t believe it. It’s money that makes the world go, Katharine, my dear. It’s love for one year, perhaps, but it’s money all the other sixty-nine out of the seventy. I’ve seen a deal of money earned and squandered, and stolen and wasted in my time, and there’s no denying it—money’s the main object. It keeps the world going, and when it gets stuck in one place, as it has in my hands, there’s an attempt—a natural attempt, I suppose—to distribute it again. And if it doesn’t get distributed, there’s a howl of pain from all the relations. It’s natural—it’s natural—but it doesn’t make dying easier.” “Don’t talk about dying, uncle dear—there’s no reason for—” The door opened, and Leek, the butler, appeared. “Mr. Crowdie asks if you’ll see him, sir,” he said. “He says he wrote that he was coming this morning, sir.” “Yes—yes. I know. Show him in, Leek.” The butler disappeared. “I’m sorry we don’t like him,” added the old gentleman, with a rather weary smile. “But I want to see your picture. You said it was good?” “Very.” There was the short silence of expectancy which precedes the entry of a visitor, and then the door opened again and Crowdie came in. He was of average height, but ill made, slightly in-kneed and weak-shouldered, neither thin nor stout; pale, with a pear-shaped face and bright red lips, beautiful brown eyes and silky brown hair which was a little too long. His hands and feet were small—the hands being very white, with pointed fingers, and they looked soft. He dressed well. “It’s so kind of you to let me come, sir,” he said, as he shook hands. “I hope you’re really better. Why, Miss Lauderdale, I didn’t expect to see you! How do you do?” “Thanks—how do you do? I’m staying here, you know.” Old Lauderdale pointed to a seat. He had shaken hands with the painter, but had not spoken. “Yes,” he said, as Crowdie sat down, “as my niece is here, we can compare her with her portrait. I’m very much obliged to you for thinking of giving it to me, I’m sure. I hope you’ve brought it.” Crowdie had grasped the situation at a glance. “It was meant for my wife—she’s Miss Lauderdale’s most intimate friend, you know,” he said, with fine frankness. “But we consulted about it, and we decided that I should offer you this one and do another for her from the sketches I have. May I have it brought in? It’s rather a big thing, I’m afraid.” “By all means, let’s see it,” said the old man, touching the bell at his elbow as Crowdie rose. “The men will bring it in all right—you needn’t go, Mr. Crowdie.” Crowdie went towards the door, however, with an artist’s instinctive anxiety for the safety of his work, and while he was turned away Robert Lauderdale’s eyes met Katharine’s. They both smiled a little at the same moment, admiring the quick-witted ingenuity with which Crowdie had turned the difficulty of presenting the portrait to the old man while Katharine, to whom he had said that it was for her friend,—his wife,—sat looking on. Two footmen, marshalled and directed by Leek, brought in the picture. “Set it up on this arm-chair,” said Crowdie. “It will be quite steady—so—a little more to the light—the least bit the other way—that’ll do—thanks. Can you see it well?” he asked, turning to the other two. “It’s a good picture, isn’t it?” asked Katharine, after they had both gazed at it in silence for a full minute. “It’s wonderful!” exclaimed the old man, in genuine admiration. “It’s a great picture, Mr. Crowdie. I congratulate you—and myself—and the young lady here,” he added, laying his hand on Katharine’s arm as she sat beside him. Crowdie was pleased. He knew very well, by long experience, when admiration was real and when it was feigned. Of late years, the true note had rarely failed in the chorus of approval. Whatever he might be as a man, he was a thorough artist, and a very good one, too. “I’m so glad you like it yourself, Miss Lauderdale,” he said, coming nearer to her as he spoke. “That’s always a test.” “Yes—I do like it. But—I suppose I ought not to criticise—ought I? I don’t know anything about it.” “Oh, yes, you do. I should like to hear what you think. You’ve not seen it for two or three weeks, and then it was in the studio. You’ve got a new impression of it now. Tell me—won’t you?” “Well—you don’t mind? Really not? Then I’ll tell you. I think you’ve put something of Hester into me. Look at it. Do you see it yourself?” “No—frankly, I don’t,” answered Crowdie, but a change came over his face as he spoke—a mere shadow of amusement, a slight thickening of the heavy red lips. “It’s in the eyes and the mouth,” continued Katharine. “I don’t know exactly what it is, but it reminds me of Hester in such an odd way—as I’ve seen her look sometimes. There’s a little sort of drawing down of the eyelids at the corners and up in the middle, with a kind of passionate, longing look she has now and then. Don’t you see it? And the mouth—I don’t know—it reminds me of her, too—the lips just parted a little—as though they wanted something—the way one looks at big strawberries on the table before they’re served—” Katharine laughed. “Yes—but that’s just the way you looked,” protested Crowdie. “Doesn’t Miss Lauderdale raise her eyes just in that way, Mr. Lauderdale?” he asked, turning to the old gentleman. “Oh, no!” laughed Katharine. “I never look like that. I keep my mouth shut and glare straight at people.” “It seems to me to be very like,” said the old man, bending forward with his great head on one side and his hands on his knees, as he looked at the portrait. “It’s a great picture, anyway—whether it’s like me or not,” said Katharine. She was too unaffected to make any foolish remarks about being flattered too much. She accepted the fact that she was good-looking, and said nothing about it. Crowdie reflected for a moment, wishing to turn a graceful compliment upon her last speech, but he could think of nothing new. His mind was preoccupied by the discovery she had made of a fact by no means new to himself nor, perhaps, wholly unintentional. “Where shall we hang it, Mr. Crowdie?” asked the old gentleman, at last. “Ah—that’s an important question. Where should you like it, sir?” Crowdie occasionally introduced a ‘sir’ when he addressed the millionaire, by way of hinting, perhaps, that he considered him to be the head of the family, though his only connection was through his wife, and that was a distant one. Hester Crowdie’s maternal great-grandfather had been Robert Lauderdale’s uncle. “I should like it near me,” said the old man. “Couldn’t we have it in this room?” “Why not? Just where it is, if you like it there. I’ll get you an easel and a bit of stuff to drape it with in an hour.” “An easel? H’m—that’s not very neat, is it? An easel out in the middle of the room—I don’t know how that would look.” “What difference does it make—if you’d like it here?” asked Katharine. “That’s true, child—why shouldn’t I have what I like?” asked the old millionaire. Crowdie laughed. “If anybody has the right and the power to please himself, you have,” he said. “Miss Lauderdale, would you mind sitting down beside the picture for a moment? I want to have a good look at it once more—I should just like to see if I can find that resemblance to Hester.” “Certainly.” Katharine sat down, assuming easily enough the attitude she had been accustomed to during a number of sittings. Crowdie drew back and looked at her. Then he came to her again and put out his hand towards her hair, but instantly withdrew it. “I remember,” he said, quickly, but in a low voice. “You don’t like me to touch it. Would you raise your hair a little—on the sides? You know how it was.” She looked up into his face and saw the expression she detested—a sort of disagreeable smile on the heavy red lips. The feeling of repulsion was so strong that she almost shivered. Crowdie drew back and looked again. “I can’t see it—for the life of me!” said Crowdie, with a little laugh. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Lauderdale, I’ll go and get the easel at once.” “Yes—do!” said Katharine. “Well—but—won’t you stay to luncheon, Mr. Crowdie?” asked the old man. “Thanks—I should like to—but I’ve got a sitter coming. You’re very kind. I’ll bring the easel myself.” “Thank you very much. See you by and by, then,” answered Mr. Lauderdale. When Crowdie was gone, the old man looked long and earnestly at the picture. Gradually what Katharine meant by the resemblance to Hester dawned upon him, and he knit his bushy white eyebrows. “I’m sorry you told me,” he said, at last. “I see it now—what you mean—and I don’t like it.” “Somehow—I don’t know—it looks like a woman who’s been through something—I don’t know exactly what. Perhaps it is like an older woman—a married woman.” “H’m—perhaps so. I think it is. Anyhow, I don’t like it.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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