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Ralstons

<h2>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> Ralston was mistaken in supposing that Katharine had abandoned all idea of leaving the house on the Park because it was so late. Depressed as she was, and in almost constant pain from her arm, the atmosphere was altogether too melancholy for her to bear. Moreover, she saw how utterly unnatural her staying must seem in the eyes of the world, should her acquaintances ever find out that she had remained all alone in the great house after her uncle’s death. After Mrs. Ralston had left her, she had made up her mind to leave in any case, had caused her belongings to be got ready, and had ordered a carriage. But she had not quite decided whither she would go, and Ralston found her in the library still turning the matter over. “Oh, Jack!” she cried, “I’m so glad you’ve come, dear!” “I came this morning,” he answered. “But you weren’t awake yet. You’re dressed to go out—surely you’re not going to move at this hour? Tell me—how’s the arm? Does it hurt you much?” “Oh—it hurts, of course,” said Katharine, almost indifferently. “That is—it’s numb, don’t you know? But Doctor Routh says there’s nothing to be done for a day or two, and he hasn’t moved the bandages. Now don’t talk about it any more—there are other things much more important. Sit down, Jack—there, in uncle Robert’s chair. Poor uncle Robert!” she exclaimed, in a different tone, realizing that the old man would never sit beside her again. “Poor man!” echoed Ralston, with real sorrow in his voice. There was silence for a moment while they both thought of him. The stillness of the whole house was oppressive. There was an odour of many fresh flowers, and the peculiar smell of new black stuffs which the disposers of the dead bring with them. With a sort of instinct of sympathy, John bent down and kissed the gloved wrist of Katharine’s left hand as it lay on the arm of the easychair. She looked at him quickly, moved her hand a little towards him in thanks, and smiled sadly before she spoke. “Jack—I can’t stay here,” she said. “I’m not nervous, you know, but I’m not quite myself after all this. It’s too awfully melancholy. Every time I go to my room I have to pass the door of the room where he’s lying—and then I go in and look at him. It’s got to be a fixed idea—if I go near the door I have to go in. And it brings it all back. Then all the people—they come in shoals. There have been ever so many who’ve wanted to look. It’s that horrible curiosity about death. All the relations. Even the three Miss Miners came. I thought they’d never go. Of course I don’t see them, so I have to be always dodging in here or into the drawing-room, or the gallery, or else I have to stay in my room. It will be worse to-morrow.” “Yes,” answered Ralston. “You ought not to stay.” He paused a moment. “Dear,” he added, “I want you to know it at once—I’ve told my mother that we’re married—” “Oh, Jack!” exclaimed Katharine, taken by surprise. “It was much better. I am not sure that it wouldn’t have been better to tell her long ago. She was hurt, because I’d kept it from her—but she’s very glad, all the same. You see, she would have had to know it all some day—don’t you think I was right to tell her?” “Yes—I suppose so. Do you know? I’m a little bit afraid of her—well—not exactly afraid, perhaps—I don’t know how to express it—” “You needn’t be. She thinks there’s nobody like you!” “I’m glad she’s fond of me,” said Katharine. “I’m glad you’ve told her—I was a little surprised at first, that was all. Yes—I’m glad that she knows.” She was evidently thinking over the situation, wondering, perhaps, what her next meeting with her mother-in-law was to be like. “She’s been here with you, hasn’t she?” asked John, resuming the conversation after a short pause. “Yes, and my own mother, too—and then Mr. Allen, and dear old grandpapa. Poor old gentleman! He sat in a chair and cried like a baby when he went in. And then the reading of the will—and the endless people—the people who have to do with the funeral, you know. All those things jar on me. I must get away. I can’t stand it another hour—at least—not alone. I think I shall go home, after all.” “Home?” repeated Ralston, in surprise. “But how can you, after all this? Just think how your father will behave! Especially since he’s heard of the will. I’m sure he expected to divide everything with my mother, unless he managed to get it all for himself. I see why you promised not to tell after uncle Robert had told you—” “No—you don’t see, Jack,” answered Katharine, thoughtfully. “I wonder whether it would be right for me to tell you now. I suppose so. It may make a difference, though I suppose it can’t, really.” “Do just as you feel, yourself,” said Ralston. “You know what he said—I don’t. I can’t judge for you.” Katharine was silent for a few moments. Then it seemed best to confide in him, and she turned towards him suddenly. “I’ll tell you, Jack. This is not the will he told me of. It’s quite different in every way. It was only made a few days ago.” “Well, then, this is the valid one.” “Yes—of course. The secretary knew where it was—in a drawer of this desk, here. Uncle Robert had told him it was there, only two days ago, in case of his death. The key was on his chain, on the dressing-table upstairs. You see the secretary was one of the witnesses.” “That’s an advantage, anyway. Witnesses are often hard to find, I know. So this will is quite different from the old one?” “Oh—quite! The one he told me about left everything to you and Charlotte and me—in three trusts, I think he said. We were all to give half our income to the parents—papa and my mother and your mother—and we were all to support grandpapa. The Brights were to have a million, and there was something for the Miners.” “Why, that would have given you and me two-thirds of the fortune! That would hardly have been fair.” “No—it seemed a great deal. But you see he changed his mind before he died. It’s much more just, as it is—though it does seem as though grandpapa and papa ought to have more than the Brights.” “I don’t see why, if you look at it logically—they’re descended just as directly from our great-great-grandfather—” “Yes—but what had he to do with it? The money didn’t come from him.” “No—still—to avoid all quarrelling, there was no other way. Only—it’s going to make the biggest family quarrel there’s ever been since wills were invented. That’s the real logic of events. Things always turn out like that. ‘Better is the enemy of good,’ you know. Now, let me see. Your father is going to try and break the will, of course. Your grandfather will go with him, because if there’s no will, he’ll get half—for his asylums and charities. Then I suppose I ought to advise my mother to go with him against the will, too, if there’s any good ground for breaking it. Of course we don’t want half of what he’s left us, as it is—but still, if it’s law, it’s law, and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t have what belongs to us, if it does belong to us. The Crowdies are as prosperous as possible. Ham Bright’s getting rich, I know—and then—I say, Katharine, if this will breaks down, would the will he told you about be good, if we could find it? That’s a curious question. I must ask a lawyer.” “I don’t know anything about those things. But it’s getting late, Jack. I must be going—somewhere, but where, I can’t tell! I think I’d much better go home and face it out with papa. I’m right, and he’s wrong, and he’s got to give in sooner or later. I’d much better go, and put an end to all this—this tension.” “You’re brave enough for anything!” exclaimed Ralston, with admiration. “Still, if I were you, I wouldn’t go till after the funeral, at all events. Don’t you think if my mother came here and stayed with you—” “No, no, Jack! I can’t stand it any longer. I can’t help going to look at him—I should go in the night—and it’s making me nervous.” “How funny! But if you don’t want to go into the room, why do you go?” “I can’t help it—I don’t know. I’m a woman, you know, and those things take hold of one so!” “Somebody ought to stay. I think I will. But you’d much better go to the Crowdies’. I know you can’t bear him, but it would only be for a couple of days. You’d be with Hester all the time, and you like her, and you needn’t see much of him.” “I thought of going to the Brights’. Old Mrs. Bright and I are great friends.” “No—don’t! It’s hard on Ham. He’s so awfully in love with you.” “Yes—perhaps he is. But he’s down town all day—I should only see him at dinner, and a little in the evening.” “Don’t be ruthless, Katharine!” exclaimed John, with almost involuntary reproach in his tone. “Ruthless?” she repeated. “I don’t understand. What is there that’s ruthless in that? I could see you so much more freely.” “Why—don’t you know how it hurts—that sort of thing? To go and stay under the same roof with a man who loves you, when you know, and he knows, that you can never possibly love him?” “I suppose it does,” answered Katharine, vaguely. “I hadn’t thought of that. But then, you know, Ham would never say anything, any more than if he knew we were married.” “That just makes it so much the harder,” replied Ralston, smiling at her woman’s view of the case. “Don’t you see?” “Well—of course, if you don’t want me to go, Jack, I won’t. I believe you’re jealous of Ham!” She laughed a little and looked at him lovingly. “There’s no fear of that,” he said. “But he’s always been a good friend to me. I know what he’d suffer for those two or three days, though you can’t understand it, I suppose. I don’t want him to suffer on my account.” “Oh, very well. It seemed simpler, that’s all. I dislike Walter Crowdie so—I can’t tell you! I thought of going to your house. I suppose you thought of it, too—but, of course, it wouldn’t do at all.” She laughed again, a little nervously this time. “It’s not to be thought of,” answered Ralston, gravely. “Then there’s nothing for it but to go to the Crowdies’. Will you take me down there? I’ve ordered the carriage, and I suppose it’s ready by this time. There can’t be any harm in our driving down together, can there?” “Oh, no—I should think not. We’ll pull the shades half down. Is it one of uncle Robert’s carriages?” “No—I sent to the livery stable. The men have no mourning coats—and I thought it would be odd if the carriage were seen driving about as though nothing had happened.” Ralston could not help contrasting the tactful foresight of this proceeding with Katharine’s readiness to inflict any amount of pain upon Hamilton Bright. It was quite true that he could see her alone more easily at the Brights’ than at the Crowdies’, but his own consideration for his friend altogether outweighed the thought. Katharine saw that it did. She returned to the discussion when they were in the carriage. “I should have thought you’d prefer to see me at the Brights’, Jack,” she said. “It would be so much nicer. Of course, at the Crowdies’ I can’t be always sending Hester off whenever you come. How strange you are sometimes! You don’t seem to see things as I do.” “Not this, anyway,” cried John, arranging the shades as the carriage turned into Fifth Avenue. “I’m sorry for Ham.” “I should think you’d sacrifice him a little for the sake of seeing me.” Her tone showed that she was a little hurt. “Oh—of course! That is—” he interrupted himself—“that is, you know, if it were very important.” “But isn’t it important—as you call it? I wonder whether it means as much to you as it does to me?” She looked at him. “What?” he asked. “Our meeting just as often as we can, for a minute, for an hour, to be together as long as possible. You don’t seem to care as much as I do?” “Indeed I do!” protested John, laying his hand on hers. “How can you say such a thing, dear? You know how much I care!” “Yes—but I sometimes wonder—” She hesitated. “You don’t think that means that there is any difference in our love, do you?” she asked suddenly, as though she could not help it. “Why, no! What difference should there be? We both care just the same—only each in our own way, I suppose.” Ralston’s experience was limited, and he was not to be blamed for being a little obtuse and slow to understand. This was a new phase, too, and he was ready to reproach himself with having inadvertently been the cause of it. “That’s just it,” answered Katharine. “You say, each in our own way—it seems to me that there’s only one way—and that’s the very most that can be. That’s what I mean, dear. There mustn’t be two ways. There’s only one way of caring.” “Well—that’s our way, isn’t it?” asked Ralston, watching her tenderly. “Not if it isn’t just the same for both of us. Because you’re a man and I’m a woman—that’s not a reason for there being any difference—I’m sure it isn’t, Jack!” she added, earnestly. “Of course not!” he answered, not at all seeing what else he could say. “Yes—but—” She stopped again and looked into his eyes. John was not good at phrases. Under great emotion he could be eloquent in few words—with the short, burning syllables, trembling like fire-tongues from a furnace, which break through a man’s outer self now and then. But at the present moment he felt no deep emotion—scarcely any emotion at all, in fact. For months he had been used to the idea that the beautiful young girl by his side was his lawful wife. For months he had been accustomed to short, half-clandestine meetings. The great thing, his real life with her, was as far off as ever, in his heart’s sight, though his reason told him that the long period of probation was drawing to a close. A habit had formed itself in his heart of taking for granted, without words, that each loved the other truly, and that each was waiting for the other. He had won her long ago. His business of late had been to overcome circumstances, and he felt that his actions might speak for him now, without language to help them. Yet he felt sorely at the present moment the need of the phrase, and the absence of the heart-beat that might prompt it. He saw that she missed it, but though he loved her so dearly he could not force it to come. She should have been thankful that he could not, and grateful to fate for his inexperience. It is a long drive from the corner of the Park to Lafayette Place, where the Crowdies lived. The distance is fully two miles and a half, and John realized that in the twenty minutes before him there was time for many misunderstandings. With his natural directness, he spoke out. “Darling,” he said, “don’t let’s be foolish, and quarrel over nothings—” “Quarrel? With you? Why—I’d rather die, Jack dear! It’s not that. I was only thinking—” She stopped, evidently with no intention of completing the sentence, which meant, doubtless, a great deal to her, though it was vague to him. But he had begun his explanation, and was not to be hindered from pursuing it to the end. “Yes, I know,” he replied, as though setting aside all her possible objections. “Let’s look at it sensibly. It amounts to this. We both love each other with all our hearts. You always say ‘care’ instead of ‘love.’ I suppose it’s a euphemism. But I say it just as it is. Do you think we should have gone through all we have for each other if we didn’t love with all our hearts? I know we couldn’t. And as for me, I’m perfectly sure I never cared two straws for any one else. Aren’t you?” “Jack!” exclaimed Katharine, almost offended at the idea. “Yes—well,” he continued, rapidly, “it isn’t possible to say which has done the most, or said the most, for the other’s sake. I think you’ve done more for me than I have for you, if you want to know—but that’s been the result of circumstances. You know I’d have done anything under the sun, at any moment, don’t you?” “Of course I do! Do you think I’d have made you marry me if I hadn’t known that?” “Well—that’s all right. As for saying things—I’ve said a great deal more than you have. I’ve told you I love you several hundred thousand times in the last year or two—haven’t I?” “Yes—I’ve not counted.” Katharine smiled, but Ralston did not see his advantage. “I don’t say that I’ve found many new words to say it with,” he pursued. “It doesn’t always seem to need new words, and if it did—well, I’m not an author, you know. I’m not Frank Miner. I can’t go about with a dictionary in my pocket, looking up new suits of clothes for my feelings every time I want to air them. And sometimes I’ve said it to please you, just because I knew you wanted me to say it and would be disappointed if I didn’t. You see how frank I am.” “Yes—you’re very frank!” She laughed a little, but rather hardly, as though something hurt her. “Don’t misunderstand me, dear,” he said, quickly. “You do—I see you do. It’s just because I won’t be misunderstood that I’m talking as I am. What I’m driving at is this. It isn’t true that words never mean anything, as some people say—” “Who says so? What nonsense!” “Oh—people say it—books do—when the authors can’t find the words people really say when they mean things. But it’s not true. Words mean a great deal, when they do—when they just come because they must, you know, in spite of everything and everybody—when they’ve strength enough to force themselves out, instead of being dragged out, like olives out of a bottle, and presented to you on a plate. But when they’re real, they’re very real, with all of one, like pain or pleasure. Actions always mean something. That’s the point. There’s no possible mistake when a man does things that need a lot of doing, and don’t come easily. Then you know he’s in earnest, if you’ll only look at what he does. Don’t you think that’s true, Katharine?” “Yes—oh, yes! That’s true enough. But it needn’t prevent a man from saying that he cares—” “Of course not—but if he doesn’t happen to want to say it just at that moment—” “But you should always want to say it. Don’t you always feel it?” She looked at him in an odd surprise. “Feel it—yes—always,” he answered, quickly. “But I don’t always want to say just what I feel. Do you?” “No. But that’s different. It makes me so happy when you say it, as you can say it sometimes.” “And don’t you think it makes me happy when you say it?” he retorted. “And you don’t say it half as often as I do, I’m sure.” “Don’t I? But I feel it, Jack.” Her eyes sought his, and found them looking at her. “Well—then—don’t you understand?” he asked. But his voice was low, and it hardly reached her ears as the carriage rumbled along, though she knew that his lips moved, and she tried hard to catch the sounds. For a few seconds longer they looked into one another’s eyes. Then, without word or warning, Ralston took his wife in his arms and kissed her passionately again and again. No one in the street could have seen, for the shades were half down and the evening light was waning. The sun had just set, and the dark red houses were floating in the afterglow, as everything seems to float when twilight lifts reality from the earth into its dreamland. And the carriage rolled and rumbled steadily along. But within it there was silence for a while, as heart beat with heart and breath breathed with breath. “Jack—let me go to the Brights’,” said Katharine, suddenly, after what had seemed a very long time. Her voice was quite changed. It sounded so soft and touching that Ralston could not resist it, being taken unawares. “Dear—if you’d so much rather,” he answered, with hardly any hesitation. “Then tell the coachman, please,” she replied at once, without giving him time to change his mind. It was instinctive, and she could not help it. He yielded almost without reluctance, and lowering the window in the front of the carriage, spoke to the coachman. Katharine breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad—oh, I’m so glad!” she cried, leaning far back in her seat. “I couldn’t have stood Crowdie for a whole evening!” Ralston said nothing in answer, for he was already repenting of his weakness, and the vision of his friend’s face rose before him, with all its habitual calm cheerfulness suddenly twisted out of it. “Thank you, dear,” said Katharine, softly laying her sound hand upon his. “That was sweet of you. You don’t know how I feel about it. And you’ll come in this evening, won’t you? Then perhaps Ham will go out. And Mrs. Bright always goes to bed early, so we can have an hour or two all to ourselves.” “Certainly,” answered Ralston, a little absently, for he was thinking more of Bright than of himself just then. Katharine withdrew her hand from his, not quickly, nor so that he should think she was hurt again by his tone. And she really suppressed the little sigh of disappointment which rose to her lips. They had been already in Fourth Avenue when Ralston had given the new direction to the coachman, and he had turned his horses and was driving back. The Brights lived in a small but pretty house in Park Avenue, on Murray Hill. It was some distance to go back. “Jack,” said Katharine, quietly, “Hamilton Bright’s your friend. Don’t you think you’d better tell him that we’re married, and put him out of his misery? Don’t you think it would be much more kind? You can trust him, can’t you?” “Just as I’d trust myself,” answered Ralston, without hesitation. “It’s for your sake, dear—otherwise, I should have told him long ago. But you know what most people think of secret marriages, and Ham’s full of queer prejudices. Even the West couldn’t knock them out of him. He’s the most terrific conservative about some things. That’s the reason why I never thought of suggesting that I might tell him. Of course—if you’d rather. It would be a blow to him, I think, but at the same time it’s much better that he should know, for his own sake. Only—I’d rather not tell him while you’re in the house.” “Oh—if it’s going to make any difference about my staying there, we’d better wait,” answered Katharine. “Of course—I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose it would make it all the worse, just at first. He wouldn’t like to see me. But he must have known, long ago, that we were engaged, and that he had no chance.” “The one doesn’t follow the other,” answered Ralston. “A man like Ham doesn’t give up hope until the girl he loves is married and done for.” “Married and done for! Jack! How you talk!” “Oh—it’s a way of saying that she’s out of reach, that’s all. I’ve heard you say it lots of times. No,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “I think it would be kinder to wait till you come away. But of course I could tell him any day, down town.” “Do as you think best, dear. Whatever you do will be right. Only—” She stopped, and looked out of the window on her right, away from Ralston. “Only what?” he asked. “Only love me!” she cried, almost fiercely, and turning upon him so quickly that she pressed her injured right arm against the side of the carriage. “Only love me as I want to be loved—as I must be loved—” The passion in her outran the pain of the physical hurt, that crept after it and reached her a moment later, so that she turned a little pale. Jack did not know of that, and in his eyes the pallor was of the heart, as the voice was, and the words. It made her more beautiful, and made love seem more true. Then his own heart beat hard, answering the call of hers, as wave answers wave, and his arms were around her again in an instant. But at that moment the carriage stopped before the Brights’ house. A smile came into the face of both of them as they drew back from one another. Then Ralston opened the door and got out. It might not have been easy to explain to Mrs. Bright exactly why Katharine had arrived unexpectedly with a box and a valise to stay three or four days with her, instead of going to her own house at such a time. She knew, of course, that the young girl had been at Robert Lauderdale’s during the last twenty-four hours. But Mrs. Bright wanted no explanations, and was overjoyed to have Katharine for any reason, or without any. She received her with open arms, ordered her things to be taken upstairs, asked Ralston to stay and have some tea, and at once began making many enquiries about Katharine’s arm. Ralston went away immediately, however. After being alone with Katharine in the carriage, as he had been, he did not care to sit still and listen to the excellent Mrs. Bright’s questions. “Thank you, dear,” said Katharine again, in an undertone, as he bade her good-bye. “Come this evening. May Jack come this evening, aunt Maggie?” she asked, turning to Mrs. Bright. “Of course, my dear—whenever he likes,” answered the cheerful lady. Mrs. Bright was a great-granddaughter of the primeval Alexander. Her mother had been Margaret Lauderdale. By no possible interpretation of the relationship was she entitled to be considered the aunt of any member of the tribe. But they one and all called her aunt Maggie. Even the three Miss Miners, who were nieces of Mr. Bright’s father, called her so, and the custom had become fixed and unchangeable in the course of many years. Of late, even grandpapa Lauderdale, the philanthropist, had fallen into the habit, much to the amusement of everybody. Mrs. Bright was a huge, fair, happy-faced woman with an amazingly kind heart and a fresh face, peculiar from the apparent absence of eyebrows—which existed, indeed, but were almost white by nature. She had the busy manner peculiar to a certain type of very stout people. When she was not asleep she was doing good to somebody—but she slept a great deal. Her tastes were marvellously good, highly refined, and very fastidious. Cleanliness is a virtue next to godliness, according to the proverb—and since a number of persons have relegated godliness to the catalogue of obsolete superstitions, cleanliness with them, at least, should stand first of all. But Mrs. Bright’s mania was specklessness surpassing all dreams of cleanliness, as pure spring water surpasses soap as a symbol of purity. She took care to see that her house was swept, and she garnished it herself. She exhaled a faint suggestion of sprigs of lavender. Hamilton Bright inherited his fresh complexion, sturdy build, and solid good humour from her, but a certain shyness and reserve which were among his characteristics had come to him from his father. To Katharine’s surprise, he was already at home, and came down to see her as soon as he heard that she was in the house. He sat down by the little tea-table which stood between her and his mother, and he wondered inwardly why she had come. He was pleased, however, and it seemed to him that her coming crowned the day which had brought him such vast and unexpected good fortune. There are men who love with all their hearts and who are not loved in return, nor have any hope of such love, whose greatest happiness is to see the vainly worshipped object of their misplaced affections under just such circumstances. Bright was delighted that Katharine should be his guest and his mother’s—she was his guest first, in his thoughts, and it gave him the keenest pleasure to see her drinking his and his mother’s tea out of his and his mother’s old Dresden teacups, just as though it were her own, and thinking it just as good. He asked no questions, and he thought of no answers which she might give if he asked any. He was simply pleased, and wished nothing to interfere with his satisfaction as long as it might last. “It’s awfully jolly to see you here,” he said, after he had looked at her for nearly a minute. “Well, you can’t be half as pleased as I am,” she answered. “I was there all last night, you know, and all to-day. It’s grim. I couldn’t stand it any longer. And I knew they didn’t exactly expect me at home—and I didn’t want to go to Hester’s, so I thought I’d drop down upon you without warning, as I knew you had nobody staying with you. But it was rather a calm thing to do, now that I think of it—wasn’t it, aunt Maggie?” Mrs. Bright beamed, smiled, kissed her fingers to the young girl, and then did perfectly useless things with the silver tea-strainer, rinsing it again with boiling water, and touching it fastidiously, as though it might possibly soil her immaculate hands. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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