KATHERINE
As Katherine drove home alone on Sunday morning she was troubled. In
aiding Harvey to catch the train for Manchester she had acted upon the
veriest impulse, and Katherine liked to imagine herself a very cool and
self-possessed young woman. Slowly it dawned upon her that by helping
Harvey she had set her hand against her own father. In an impersonal way
she had realized this, but Harvey's presence had filled her thoughts,
and she had not allowed herself time to consider. And now that the
cooler afterthoughts had come she was almost as indignant with herself
for showing such open interest in Harvey as for hurting her father's
cause. Then she grew startled to realize that even in her thoughts she
was placing this man before her father. Harvey was not a fool. He would
see that she had been disloyal, and he would cease to respect her. She
wondered if she was disloyal.
On reaching home she hurried to her room and sat down by the open
window, looking out over the lawn that sloped down to the road. Harvey
would think her weak, and would feel that he could sway her from her
strongest duty.
The day was bright. Far in the distance she could see a bend of the
river. There was no sound, no life; the rolling country stretched away
in idle waves, the checkered farms lay quiet in the sun, over all was
the calm of a country Sunday. Her eyes wandered and she closed them,
resting her fingers on the lids. Life was serious to Katherine. Since
her early teens she had lived without a mother, and the result of
her forced independence was a pronounced and early womanhood. She had
learned her lessons from experience and had learned them with double
force. She had never been in love, and save for a very few youthful
flutterings had never given the idea a concrete form; and now that she
should manifest such weakness before Harvey partly alarmed her. She
suspected that he loved her, but would not permit herself to return it.
She knew too little about him, and, besides, her first duty was with
her father. She had yielded to impulse, but it was not too late to
reconsider. She had aided the enemy by a positive act; she would do as
much for her father. With firm eyes she rose and went downstairs, fully
decided to investigate the matter until she could discover a means of
throwing her energy against Weeks and Harvey.
During the next two days her determination grew. Mr. Porter was in
Chicago and Manchester, and was not expected home immediately, so
Katherine had plenty of time for thinking. She drove a great deal, went
around the links every morning, and tried to read. It did not occur to
her that her effort was not so much to side with her duty as to
crowd down the thoughts of Harvey that would steal into her mind. She
permitted herself no leeway in the matter, but kept resolutely to her
decision.
Tuesday afternoon she drove until quite late, and returning found her
father and McNally awaiting dinner. Although she was quicker than
usual in her efforts to entertain their guest, the meal was hurried
and uncomfortable. When in repose McNally's face was clouded, and the
occasional spells of interest into which he somewhat studiously aroused
himself could not conceal his general inattention. Her father, too, was
preoccupied, and was so abrupt in his conversation as to leave small
trace of the easy lightness of manner that Katherine had always known.
After dinner Katherine excused herself, and stepped out through the long
window that opened on the veranda. Evidently a crisis had come, and
she wished that an opportunity would arise through which she might join
their discussion. Just outside of the library window she sat down on a
steamer chair and gazed up at the dark masses of the trees, the thinning
tops of which were at once darkened and relieved by the last red of the
western sky.
“Yes, Porter, they kicked me out. My men and I made a stiff fight for
it, but they outnumbered us.”
At the sound of McNally's voice Katherine started guiltily. It had not
occurred to her that the matter would be discussed downstairs; usually
her father's private conversations were held in his den on the second
floor. She wondered whether she ought to make herself known.
Then she heard McNally again, answering a low-spoken question from her
father.
“He was a good man, or perhaps you would call him a bad one. He was
just getting down to work on the vault door when West and his gang of
Pinkertons broke in on him and nailed him.”
Another question from Porter.
“No, Porter, they are on to us now. You see, the books are gone, and
there's no use in trying to get hold of that end of the road; but we can
seize it from this end and get everything except their building.”
With cheeks burning and with conscience troubling, Katherine rose and
stood before the window.
“I didn't intend to put myself in your way,” she said, laughing
nervously, “but I couldn't help hearing.”
Looking in through the dim light Katherine thought she saw McNally
start. After a brief but embarrassing pause Porter spoke, using the tone
Katherine associated with the stern but kindly rebukes of her childhood.
“Did you hear all we said, Katherine?”
“Most of it, I'm afraid.”
“You understand, dear, that this is very confidential business?”
“Yes, dad.” With an impulsive start Katherine seated herself on the low
sill of the window and clasped her hands in her lap. “I wish you would
let me talk it over with you. You know I am interested in your affairs,
dad. And,” hesitatingly, “maybe I can help you.”
For a space all three were silent. Katherine was leaning back in a pose
that brought out all her unconscious beauty. The waning light fell full
upon her, and the sunset seemed to be faintly reflected in her face. Her
hair was coiled above her forehead in easy disorder.
McNally, sitting back in the shadow, looked fixedly at her, and as he
looked it seemed to him that her beauty spiced the atmosphere. He found
himself drawing in his breath keenly and almost audibly, and gripping
the arms of the easy-chair: with a sudden half-amused feeling of
boyishness he relaxed his grip and leaned back comfortably. It was
some time since the introspective Mr. McNally had found it necessary to
reprove himself for such a slip of demeanor.
“I couldn't help seeing what was going on,” continued Katherine. “And
you told me the other day that I had helped you some.” She turned
appealingly toward her father, who sat with head lowered, scowling at
the carpet. McNally broke the pause.
“There is very little we can tell you, Miss Katherine. A business matter
of this importance is too complicated for any one who has not grown up
with the problems. It would involve the history of two railroads for
years back.”
“Why is it,” asked Katherine, earnestly, “that a man never credits a
woman with common sense? I am not blind. I know that the M. & T. is a
feeder to C. & S.C., that it supplies us with coal, and that we could
earn and save money by making it a part of our system. Mr. Weeks is
fighting us for some reason, and we are planning to force the question.
Isn't that so?”
“Where did you learn this, Katherine?” asked her father.
“From no one particular source. You have told me a great deal yourself,
dad.”
“The question is, Miss Katherine,” McNally said, “what good could you
possibly do? Without implying any doubt of your ability, you see our
course is already mapped out for us by circumstances. In fact, there
is only one way open that leads to a logical outcome. If we were in a
position where we needed tactful advice, you could undoubtedly be of
help, but just now what we want is a force of strong, aggressive men.”
“Mr. McNally is right, dear,” said Porter. “Everything is decided, and
all we can do is to tend to business. This Weeks is following rather a
dishonorable course, and we are prepared to meet him; that is all.”
Katherine leaned forward and twisted the curtain string around her
finger.
“Is he really dishonest?” she asked.
“Well, dear, that is a hard question. No man has a right to condemn
another without careful deliberation; but it happens that many business
dealings savor a little of underhand methods, and it looks to us as
though Mr. Weeks were not over particular.”
“What has he done?”
“Well, you see, dear--”
Katherine broke in with unusual warmth. “Oh, I know what you are going
to say. Some more complications that I couldn't understand. Why won't
you tell me?”
Porter arose.
“We'll talk this over at some other time, Katherine. I have an
appointment with Judge Black for this evening, but I will be back before
long.” He added to McNally, “He came in on the 8.25. I'll leave you with
Katherine.”
When he had gone there was a silence. Katherine felt that her father's
absence should alter the tone of the conversation, but she waited for
McNally to take the initiative.
“What a glorious night,” he said at length, rising and coming to the
window. “Did you ever see such a lingering afterglow? Suppose we sit
outside.”
Katherine rose and made room for McNally to step through the open
window. Together they walked across the veranda, McNally seating himself
on the railing, Katherine leaning against one of the stone columns.
“How long have you been ambitious to be a business woman, Miss
Katherine?”
“I hardly wish that. Only I like to share father's interests.”
“Do you know, I like it. I like to see a woman show an independent
interest in important affairs. Nowadays not only young girls but women
of position seem to care for nothing but the frivolous. I don't know but
what our pioneer ancestors got more out of life, when the woman and her
husband worked side by side.”
“Will you tell me about the M. & T. business, Mr. McNally?”
“I hardly feel that I can, Miss Katherine. To my mind that rests with
your father.”
“Probably it does, but father still thinks me a child. He thinks I
cannot grasp the situation.”
“Even if I felt at liberty to discuss it, I don't know what I could tell
you beyond a mere recital of dry detail. Personally, I should like to do
so, Miss Katherine; I honestly admire your independence, and I believe
that you might even be able to suggest some helpful ideas, but business
does not concern itself with the personal equation.”
Katherine looked thoughtfully at McNally's shadowed face. She was a
little surprised with herself that she should so persist, but it did
not occur to her to stop. Deep behind her desire to be honest with her
father was a desire to prove that Harvey was, after all, in the right.
She did not recognize this, she did not even know it, but Harvey's
personality had taken on hers a vital grip that was as yet too strong,
too firm, too close at hand to be realized. As for McNally, his
intention to evade was too evident to be overlooked. He was dodging
at every turn, and it was becoming clear to her that he was concealing
facts which it would not do to disclose. And this suggested that her
father was doing the same. The bit of conversation she had overheard
came back to her, and as she thought it over it sounded odder than when
she had first heard it. Why should her father wish to seize the road? If
it belonged to Mr. Weeks, and if he did not care to sell, what right had
her father or any one else to take it by force? She had been looking
out over the lawn, but now she turned and fixed her eyes intently on
McNally's plump, smooth-shaven face. He was looking toward her, but
seemed not to see her. Instead there was the shadow of a smile in his
eyes which suggested air-castles.
“Mr. McNally,” she said abruptly, “if we want the M. & T. road, why
don't we buy it and pay for it?”
McNally started. During the long silence he had been feasting on
Katherine's beauty. He was not a young man, but as he gazed at the
earnest young face before him, and at the masses of shining hair,
half in shadow, half in light, he felt a sudden loneliness, a sudden
realization of what such a woman could be to him, what an influence she
might have upon his life. And losing for the moment the self-poise that
was his proudest accomplishment, Mr. McNally stammered.
“Oh,” he said, “we couldn't--it wouldn't do--”
From the change in every line of Katherine's pose he knew that he had
said enough. She had turned half away from him and was standing rigid,
looking out into the night. Glancing at her dimly outlined profile,
McNally could see that her lips were pressed closely together. He pulled
himself together and stood up.
“Why not go in and have some music?” he asked. “This conversation is too
serious for such an evening.”
Katherine bowed and led the way into the house. As they passed through
the library toward the piano she paused to turn the electric-light
key. With the flood of light Katherine's ease returned, and she laughed
lightly as she pointed to a gaudily decorated sheet of music on the
piano.
“Shocking, isn't it?” she said. “That's the kind of music we play down
here in the country. We need your influence to keep us from degenerating
musically. Play me something good.”
McNally glanced at her with a laugh.
“Coon songs, eh?” he replied. “Well, some of them aren't so bad.” He sat
down at the instrument and let his hands slip over the keys. Katherine
sank upon the broad couch in the corner. She was apparently her old
self, friendly and interested in Mr. McNally and his music, but there
was nevertheless a distinct change. McNally felt the difference and
tried to throw it off, but the force of the situation grew upon him.
Slowly he realized that in spite of her pretensions she was not really
in sympathy either with him or with her father. He struck into a Liszt
rhapsody with all the fervor he could muster.
McNally was a good musician. He possessed the power, lacking in many
better pianists, of using music as a medium to connect his own and his
listener's moods; but to-night he fell short, and he knew it. He stole a
glance at Katherine. She looked exactly as usual, but still there was
a difference that baffled him. He threw all his art into the music. He
labored to color it with sincerity and strength. But all the while he
knew that the ground was lost. What he did not know was that Katherine
was passing through a crisis, and that her thoughts were miles away from
him and his rhapsody. He ended with unusual brilliancy, and she smiled
with pleasure and thanked him simply, but still he felt the change.
Then Porter came in, and after a brief general conversation Katherine
withdrew.
She did not go at once to her room. Instead, she slipped out on the
little second-floor balcony and sat down to be alone and to think. She
had made an honest effort to throw her interest with her father and with
what she believed to be her duty, and now that the evening was gone she
had nothing to show for it. For a very few moments she wondered at it
all, and at the fate which seemed to draw her toward Harvey. Then, as
the thought of him again took concrete form, and as the last two days
with him came back to her mind, her whole heart went out to him, and
she was startled, frightened at the strength of his hold upon her. For
a moment she gave herself up to dreams, dreams of a better, sweeter
existence than any she had dared to imagine, then came the thought of
her father, and Katherine broke down.
Downstairs, McNally and Porter sat for a long time with only a desultory
conversation. Then McNally said,--
“Porter, I envy you a daughter like that.”
“She is a good girl,” Porter replied.