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Ralstons

<h2>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> Katharine was sincerely distressed by the result of her interview with Hester, and she walked slowly homeward, thinking it all over and asking herself whether she had left undone anything which she ought to have done. But as she thought, it was always the last scene which rose before her eyes, and she saw distinctly before her Hester’s white face staring at her through the open doorway. There was a great satisfaction in feeling sure that she had been wholly innocent in the matter of Crowdie’s kissing her hand; yet felt that the resentment Hester had shown on re-entering the room had not been anything different in its essential nature from the coldness she had already shown when Katharine had spoken of renewing their friendship. But the young girl could not understand either, though the supposition that Hester must be jealous of her thrust itself upon her forcibly. Ralston helped her. He had asked for her at the house in Clinton Place, and having been told that she was still out, he had hung about the neighbourhood in the hope of meeting her, and had been at last rewarded by seeing her coming towards him from the other side of Fifth Avenue. In a moment they met. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you, Jack, dear!” she cried as she took his hand. “I’ve got such lots to tell you!” “So have I,” answered Ralston. “Where shall we go? Should you like to walk?” “Yes—in some quiet place, where we can talk, and not meet people, and not be run over too often.” “All right,” answered John. “Let’s go west. There are lots of quiet streets on that side, and it’s awfully respectable. The worst that can happen to us will be to meet Teddy Van De Water looking after his tenants, or Russell Vanbrugh going to administer consolation to the relations of his favourite criminal. Something’s happened, Katharine,” he added suddenly, as they turned westward, and the strong evening light illuminated her features through her veil. “I can see it in your face.” “Yes,” answered Katharine. “I want to tell you. I’ve had such a time with Hester! You don’t know!” “Tell me all about it.” They walked along, and Katharine told her story with all the details she could remember, doing her best to make clear to him what was by no means clear to herself. When she had finished, she looked at John interrogatively. “That fellow Crowdie’s a brute!” he exclaimed, with energy. “Well—I don’t like him, you know. But was it so very bad? Tell me, Jack—you’re my natural protector.” She laughed happily. “It’s your business to tell me what’s right and what’s wrong. Was it so very bad of him to kiss my glove after he’d buttoned it? I almost boxed his ears at the time—I was so angry! But I want to be fair. Was it exactly—wrong? I wish you’d tell me.” “Wrong? No; it wasn’t exactly wrong.” Ralston paused thoughtfully. “Kissing women’s hands is one of those relative things,” he continued. “It’s right in one part of the world, it’s indifferent in another, and it’s positively the wrong thing to do somewhere else—whatever it’s meant to mean. We don’t do that sort of thing much over here. As he did it, I suppose it was simply the wrong thing to do. At least, I want to suppose so, but I can’t. The man’s half in love with you, you know.” “Oh, nonsense, Jack! It’s only because we dislike him so. If ever a man was in love with his wife, he is.” “Yes, I know,” answered Ralston, in the same thoughtful tone. “That’s quite true. But it doesn’t prevent him from being half in love with lots of other women at the same time. It’s not the same thing. Oh, yes! he loves Hester. She’s quite mad about him, of course. We all know that, in the family. But Crowdie’s peculiar—and it’s not a nice peculiarity, either. One sees it in his manner somehow, and in his eyes. I can’t exactly explain it to you. He admires every woman who’s beautiful, and it’s a little more than admiration. He has a way with him which we men don’t like. And when he does such things as he did to-day there’s always a suggestion of something disagreeable in his way of doing them, so that if they’re not positively wrong, they’re not positively innocent. They’re on the ragged edge between the two, as Frank Miner says.” “I think it’s more in the way he looks at one than in anything else,” said Katharine. “He has such a horrid mouth! But it’s absurd to say that he’s in love with me, Jack.” “Oh, no, it’s not! That night at aunt Maggie’s, when he sang, you know—it was for you and nobody else. What a queer evening that was, by the way! There were five of us men there, all in love with you in one way or another.” “Jack! It’s positively ridiculous! The idea of such a thing!” “Not at all. There was Ham, in the first place. You admit that he’s one, don’t you?” “I suppose I must, since he proposed,” answered Katharine, reluctantly, and turning her face away. “And you’re not going to deny Archie Wingfield?” Ralston tried to see her eyes. “I’m sure he’s offered himself.” Katharine said nothing, but John saw through her veil and was sure that a little colour rose in her face. “Of course!” he said. “That’s two of them. And Crowdie’s three. I count him. And you mustn’t forget me. I’m what they call in love with you, I suppose. That’s four.” Katharine smiled, and glanced at him, looking away again immediately. “At least,” she said, “you’ll leave me dear old Mr. Griggs—” “Griggs!” laughed Ralston. “He’s the worst of the lot. He’s madly, fearfully, desperately, fantastically in love with you.” “Jack! What do you mean?” Katharine laughed, but her face expressed genuine surprise. “Not that I should mind,” she added. “Dear old man! I’m so fond of him!” “Well—he returns your fondness with interest. He makes no secret of it to anybody, because he’s old, or says he is,—but he’s old like an old wolf. I like him, too. He goes about saying that you’re his ideal of beauty and cleverness and soul—and good taste. Oh, Griggs!” He laughed again. “He’s quite off his head about you! He’ll put you into one of his books if you’re not careful. I should like to see your father’s expression if he did.” “Don’t be a goose, Jack!” suggested Katharine, by way of good advice. “Of course, I understand what a dear old silly idiot you are, you know. But don’t talk such nonsense to other people. They’ll laugh at you.” “No, I’m not going to. I let Griggs do the talking, and people laugh at him. But there’s nothing silly in it, as a matter of fact. Everybody loves you—except some of the people who should. And I must say, with the exception of Crowdie, we were a very presentable lot the other night. And even Crowdie—well, he’s a celebrity, if he’s nothing else, and that counts for something with some women. I say, Katharine—are you and Hester going to quarrel for the rest of your lives?” “I’m afraid so,—at least, we shan’t quarrel exactly. But we can never be just as we were.” “I’m rather glad,” said Ralston. “I never believed much in that friendship between you two.” “Oh, Jack! We loved each other so dearly! And it was so nice—we told each other everything, you know.” “Yes—but you’ve outgrown each other.” Katharine looked at him quickly, in surprise. “That’s exactly what Hester said to-day,” she answered. “It seemed to me to be such nonsense.” “Well—you have, and she’s quite right if she says so. That sort of school-girlish friendship doesn’t amount to anything when you begin to grow up. I’ve seen lots of them in society. They always break up as soon as one of the two marries and has other things to think about. Besides, between you and Hester, there’s Crowdie. It’s perfectly clear from what you’ve told me that she’s jealous. If you’re not careful she’ll try and do you some mischief or other. She’s jealous, and she has a streak of cruelty in her. She’ll make you suffer somehow—trust the ingenuity of a woman like that! She’d burn her most intimate friend at a slow fire for Crowdie any day.” “Well—isn’t she right?” asked Katharine. “I would, for you, I’m sure—if it would do you any good.” “It wouldn’t,” laughed Ralston. “Those cases don’t arise nowadays. Sometimes one wishes they might. We’ve all got a lot of cruelty and romance in us somewhere. We all believe in the immutability of the affections, more or less.” “Don’t laugh, Jack!” said Katharine. “Love has nothing to do with friendship. Besides, you and I aren’t like other people. We’re always going to care—just as we always have. We’re faithful people, you and I.” “Yes. I think we are.” He spoke quietly, as though from a long and familiar conviction. A short silence followed, and they walked along side by side in the soft evening air, so close that their elbows touched, as they kept step together—a mode of courtship not usually practised by their kind, and which they would have been ashamed of in a more frequented quarter of the city. They would probably have noticed it unfavourably in another couple, and would have set the pair down as a dry-goods clerk and a shopgirl. But when the ‘stiff and proud’ Four Hundred are very much in love, and when they are quite sure that none of the remaining Three Hundred and Ninety-eight are looking, they behave precisely like human beings, which is really to their credit, though they would be so much ashamed to have it generally known. “But then, we’re married, you know,” said Katharine, as though she had solved a difficult problem. Ralston glanced at the face he loved and smiled happily. “There’s a good deal besides that,” he said. “There are a great many things that tie us together. You’ve made a man of me. That’s one thing. But for you, I don’t know where I should have been now—in a bad way, I fancy.” “No, you wouldn’t,” protested Katharine. “A man who can do the things you’ve done doesn’t come to grief.” “It isn’t anything I’ve done,” Ralston answered. “It’s what you’ve made me feel. If I’ve done anything at all, it’s been for your sake. You know that as well as I do. And if there were big things to be done, it would be the same.” “You’ve done the biggest thing that any man can do. You don’t need to have me tell you that.” “Oh—about reforming my ways, you mean?” He affected to laugh. “That wasn’t anything. You made it nice and easy.” “Especially when I didn’t believe in you, and treated you like a brute,” said Katharine, with an expression of pain at the recollection. “Don’t talk about it, Jack. I’ve never forgiven myself—I never shall.” “But it was so nice when it was over!” This time the little laugh was genuine. “I’d go through it all again, just to see your face when you found out that you’d been mistaken—and afterwards, when we sat behind the piano at the Van De Waters’—do you remember? Oh, yes! I’d like to have it all over again.” “Jack—you’re an angel, dear! But don’t talk about that night. I suppose, though, that those things have helped to bind us together and make us more each other’s. Yes—of course they have. And then—we’re such good friends, you know. Doesn’t that make a difference? I’m sure there are people who care very much, but who are never good friends. Look at papa and my mother. They’re like that. They’re not at all good friends. They never tell each other anything if they can help it. But they care all the same. We could never be like that together, could we? Jack—where does friendship end and love begin?” “What a beautiful question!” exclaimed Ralston, very much amused. “Of all the impossible ones to answer!” “I know it is. I’ve often wondered about it. You know, I can’t at all remember when I began to care for you in this way. Can you? It must have been ever so long ago, before we ever said anything—because, when we did, it seemed quite natural, you know. And it always grows. It goes on growing like a thing that’s planted in good earth and that has lots of life in it and is going to last forever. But it really does grow. I know that I’m ever so much more glad to see you when we meet now than I was a month ago. If it goes on like this I don’t know where it’s going to end. Hester and her husband won’t be anywhere, compared with us, will they?” “They’re not, as it is. They’re quite different. When they’re old, they’ll quarrel—if not sooner.” “Oh, Jack—I don’t believe it’s quite fair to say that!” “Well—wait and see. We’re warranted to wear, you and I. They’re not. There’s no staying power in that sort of thing. Not but what they’re in earnest. Even Crowdie is, though he’s half in love with you, at the same time.” “I wish you wouldn’t keep saying that,” said Katharine. “It makes me feel so uncomfortable when we meet. Besides, it’s absurd, as I told you. A man can’t be madly in love with his wife and care for any one else at the same time.” “That depends on the man—and the way of caring,” answered Ralston. “Crowdie’s a brute. I hate him. The only thing I can’t understand about Griggs is his liking for the man. It’s incomprehensible to me.” “I don’t think Mr. Griggs really likes him,” said Katharine. “There’s a mystery about it. But I’m almost sure he doesn’t really like him. I believe he thinks he’s responsible for Crowdie in some way. They knew each other long ago.” “Nobody knows much about Crowdie’s antecedents, anyway. I never could understand the match.” “Oh—it’s easily understood. They fell in love with each other. Of course he would have been delighted to marry her, if he hadn’t cared a straw for her, for the sake of the social position and all that. Then he had a sister—at least, people said so, but nobody ever saw her that I know of—somewhere in New Jersey. She didn’t come to the wedding, I know, for I was Hester’s bridesmaid. Charlotte and I were the only two.” “She didn’t come to the wedding because she was dead,” said Ralston. “That’s an awfully good reason.” “I didn’t know. I’ve often wondered about her, but I didn’t like to ask questions. One doesn’t you know, about people who don’t turn up. They always are dead, or something—and then one feels so uncomfortable.” “Yes,” answered Ralston, as though meditating on the fact. “At all events,” he continued, “nobody ever knew much about Crowdie, nor where he came from. So I don’t exactly see how Griggs could be responsible for him. But, as you say, there’s a mystery about it all—so there is about Griggs, for that matter.” “Oh, no! Mr. Griggs is all right. There’s nothing mysterious about him. He was born abroad, that’s all, and I believe he was awfully poor as a boy—a sort of orphan lying about loose on the world, you know. But he’s got a lot of tremendously proper relations in Rhode Island. He goes to see some of them now and then. He’s told me.” “Well—it’s very queer about Crowdie, anyhow,” said Ralston, thoughtfully. “But there’s something I wanted to talk to you about, dear,” he continued after a little pause. “It’s about our marriage certificate. You know we’re living in danger of an explosion at any moment. That thing is tucked away somewhere amongst poor uncle Robert’s papers. We’ve spoken of it once or twice, you know. They’re going through everything, and sooner or later it’s sure to turn up. It’s just as well to be prepared beforehand. I don’t know what will happen if we tell your father now, but he’s got to be told, and it’s my place to do it.” “No, Jack,” answered Katharine. “It’s my place. I made you do it—I’ve never made up my mind whether it was the wisest thing we could do, or whether it was a piece of egregious folly. Suppose that we had quarrelled after it was done. We should have been bound all our lives by a mere ceremony.” “But we knew we shouldn’t,” protested Ralston. “Nobody knows anything,” said Katharine, wisely. “We know now, because we know each other so much better. But I made you take a tremendous risk, and you didn’t want to do it at all—” “It wasn’t on account of the risk—” “No—of course it wasn’t. But you’re quite right now. That thing may turn up any day. I shall go to papa this very evening and tell him that we’re married. It’s the only sensible thing to do.” “Indeed, you shan’t do that!” cried Ralston, anxiously. “You know him—” “Shan’t?” repeated Katharine, looking up into his face and smiling. “I will if I please,” she said with a little laugh. “Will you?” asked John, meeting her eyes with an expression of determination, but smiling, too, in spite of himself. “Of course!” answered Katharine, promptly. “Especially as I think it’s a matter of duty. Of course I’ll do it—this very evening!” “Don’t!” said Ralston. “There’ll be a row.” “Not half such a row as if you try to do it,” observed Katharine. “You’ll have each other by the throat in five minutes.” “Oh, no, we shan’t. We’re very good friends now. I don’t see why there should be any trouble at all. He wants us to marry. He said so in his letter, and he’s taken a sort of paternal air of late, when I come to the house. Besides, haven’t you noticed the way in which he turns his back on us when we sit down to talk? If that doesn’t mean consent—well, he won’t have the trouble of a wedding, that’s all, nor the expense, either. He ought to be glad, if he’s logical.” “I don’t think he’d mind the expense so much now,” said Katharine, with perfect gravity. “I think he’s getting used to the idea of spending a little more, now that we’re to be so rich. He was talking about having a butler, last night. Fancy! But I do wish those administrators, or whatever you call them, would hurry up and give us something. We’re awfully hard up, my mother and I. We’ve had to get such a lot of clothes, and I’m frightened to death about it. I’m sure the bills will come in before the estate’s settled, and then papa will take the roof off, as you always say—he’ll be so angry! But I don’t think he’ll make such a fuss about our marriage.” “No—that’s just what I say. That’s why I want to tell him myself.” “Jack!” cried Katharine, reproachfully. “You just said there’d be a row if I went to him about it.” “Well—I think I can manage him better,” said Ralston. “You and he are used to fighting every day as a matter of habit, so that you’re sure to go at each other on the smallest provocation. But with him and me, it’s been a sort of rare amusement—the kind of thing one keeps for Sundays, and we don’t like it so much. Besides, since you say that he won’t be so angry after all, why shouldn’t I?” “Exactly. And I say, why shouldn’t I?—for the same reason. I shall just say that we got married because we were afraid we should never get his consent, but that since he’s given it frankly,—he did in that letter,—we’ve agreed to tell.” “That’s just what I should say,” answered Ralston. “Those are the very words I had in my mind.” “Of course they are. Don’t we always think alike? But I want to tell him. I’d much rather.” “So would I—much rather. It will end in our going together. That’s probably the most sensible thing we can do. There’ll be a certain grim surprise, and then the correct paternal blessing, and the luncheon or dinner, according to the time of day.” “It will be dinner, if we go home and do it now,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “Come on! Let’s go!” answered Ralston. “There’s no time like the present for doing this sort of thing. Where are we? Oh—South Fifth Avenue’s over there to the left. That’s the shortest way, round that corner and then straight up.” They turned and walked in the direction he indicated, both silent for a while as they thought of what was before them, and the final telling of the secret they had kept so long. “You don’t know how glad I shall be when everybody knows,” said Katharine after a time, as they paused at a crossing to let a van pass by. “Not half so glad as I shall be,” answered Ralston. “But it couldn’t be helped. I know it’s been hateful to have this secret—well, not exactly hanging over us, but to have it a part of us all this time. Still—I don’t see when we could have announced it. There’s been one thing after another to make it impossible, and somehow we’ve got used to it. They say there’s nothing like having a secret in common to make two people fall in love with each other. It seems to me it’s true.” “We didn’t need it, dear,” said Katharine, softly, as they began to cross the street. “No—not exactly.” Ralston laughed. “But it hasn’t made it any worse, at all events. But what moments we’ve had. Do you remember when they began to talk about secret marriages that night?” “Don’t I!” laughed Katharine. “I thought I should have gone through the floor! How well you behaved, Jack! I expected that you’d break out every minute and fall upon poor cousin Ham. But you didn’t. As for me, I got scarlet, and I don’t often blush, do I? Dark people don’t. Well—it’s all over now.” “Not till we’ve had our talk out with your father. We can’t be quite sure of what will happen till then.” “No—but he can’t unmarry us, can he? So what can he do? He can say that he’ll disinherit me. That’s the worst he could possibly do, and what difference would it make? You’re going to be one of the rich, rich, rich men, Jack—with ever so many millions more than you can possibly spend on onions and honey—like the wayward old man of Kilkenny, you know. Besides, papa will not be angry at all. He’ll simply dance with delight. I believe he’s secretly afraid that we’re cheating him, because we never speak of ever announcing our engagement. He thinks we’re revenging ourselves now, and each means to marry somebody else, and he’s in fits lest he should lose you for a son-in-law. Isn’t it fun?” “Yes—your beloved father in fits, as you call it—and dancing with delight—it doesn’t lack the comic element. But it looks so simple now, just to go and tell him, and be done with it. Why haven’t we done it before?” “Oh—we couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been safe until the will was settled. He was really dreadfully nervous all that time. I never saw him in such a state before. It really wouldn’t have been safe. No—this is our first chance. We might have spoken a day or two ago, of course, but not much sooner.” “No—we couldn’t,” said Ralston. “But I’m glad—oh, tremendously glad that it’s coming at last.” “And then—Jack,” said Katharine, with some hesitation, “after we’ve spoken, you know—what are we going to do?” “You and I? Why, get married, of course—I mean—as if we were getting married. There won’t be any people nor any cake, nor any gorgeous dress for you—poor dear! But we shall have to pretend, I suppose—go off with your mother and my mother, and as many more mothers as we can pick up, to make us perfectly respectable, and then we shall come back married, and choose a house to live in. That’s the first thing, you know. My mother will never hear of our living with her, now that there’s to be lots of money. She’s much too wise for that. Relations-in-law are just bones for husband and wife to fight over. But of course my mother will come very often.” “And my mother,” said Katharine. “Yes—your mother, too,” assented Ralston. “Naturally, they’ll both come. So long as they don’t live with us, we shan’t mind.” “But you’re very fond of your mother, Jack, aren’t you?” asked Katharine. “Of course I am. We’re more like brother and sister than anything else. You see, we’ve always been together so much.” “And yet you’d rather not have her live with us?” “Certainly not. And she wouldn’t wish to.” “It’s strange,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “I don’t think I should mind having my mother with us. She’d be such a comfort when you were down town, you know.” “Yes,” answered Ralston, in a doubtful tone. “I couldn’t take my mother down town to comfort me at Beman’s, could I?” “What an absurd idea! But, Jack,—shall you still go to Beman’s? You can’t, you know. Everybody would laugh at you. A man with forty millions or so, doing clerk’s work in a bank! It’s ridiculous!” “No doubt! But what am I to do with myself? What do people like that do? I can’t hang about the clubs all day.” “You can stay at home and talk to me,” said Katharine. “We can tell each other how much nicer it is than when we had to meet in Washington Square in the early morning—when I had to put red ribbons in my window—do you remember? It’s only three or four weeks ago, but it seems years.” “It does, indeed. What tight places we’ve been through together since your father refused to hear of me as a son-in-law! Holloa! There goes Ham Bright! What in the world can he be doing down here at this time of day?” Bright was walking towards them, as quickly as it was natural for him to walk, with his long, heavy stride. “It’s of no use to run away—he’s seen us,” said Katharine. “He looks in a better humour than I’ve seen him lately,” answered John in a low voice, as they approached Bright. They met and stood still a moment on the pavement. Even under his great disappointment Hamilton Bright had never shown the least ill-temper, though he had avoided the Lauderdales and the Ralstons as much as possible, and had managed so that he scarcely ever saw John at the bank except from a distance. But he had been very gloomy of late. Now, however, as Ralston had said, he looked more cheerful. “Going down town again?” asked John. “Not that I come from Boston, you know, Ham—but when one meets a man going down South Fifth Avenue at half past five in the afternoon, one’s naturally curious. What’s up?” “Oh—nothing. I was just going as far as Grand Street about a house I’ve bought there. Did you know they’d found the other will?” “Found the other will?” repeated Ralston, in the utmost surprise. “Well—what sort of a will is it? Will it be good?” “I’m so glad!” exclaimed Katharine, thoughtlessly. Bright fixed his clear, blue eyes on her with considerable curiosity, and hesitated an instant before he spoke. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “They always said you knew what was in it, cousin Katharine.” “Did they? I don’t know how they knew that I did,” she answered. “But I’m glad it’s found, all the same.” “Are you? Well—I hope it’s all right. Of course nobody knows what’s in it. Allen wants to collect the family at your house to-morrow morning to hear it read. It seems to me it might have been managed to-night, but he said there wasn’t time to send round. I think cousin Alexander objected, too. He wants all the family. Will you tell your mother, Jack? Eleven o’clock at Clinton Place. Write a note to Beman to say why you don’t turn up at the bank.” “All right,” answered John, gravely. “I hope it will be all right, Ham, old man,” he added, putting out his hand as Bright showed signs of being in a hurry. “Thank you, Jack,” answered the latter, heartily. “Not that you and I shall ever quarrel about money. Good-bye, cousin Katharine.” And he went on and left them to pursue their way in the opposite direction. They walked slowly, and looked into one another’s eyes. “I thought he’d burned it,” said Ralston at last, in a tone of wonder. “So did I,” answered Katharine. “Jack,” she continued, after a slight pause, “it won’t do to go and see papa now. Not till the will’s been read to-morrow. You don’t know what a state of mind he’ll be in until he’s heard it—and then—then I’m afraid it will be worse than ever.” “Yes—let me see—how was it? You and Charlotte and I are to have everything, and pay half the income to the parents. Isn’t that it?” “That’s it. And there’s a million set aside for the Brights. But Heaven only knows what that dreadful court will do this time!” “I don’t much care,” answered Ralston. “But all the settling up will be suspended again for ever so long. You’ll never get the money to pay for your new frock, dear, with all your millions!” “Oh, Jack—really? I’m frightened to death about those bills!” “I was only laughing at you,” said John, laughing himself. “Besides, as I’m really your husband, I’m responsible for your dressmaker’s bills in the eye of the law. But, I confess, I begin to wonder whether any of us will ever see any of that money.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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