Ralston said nothing at first. Then he looked at Katharine as though
expecting that she should speak again and explain her meaning, in spite
of her having said that she had not meant to do so.
“What is this other reason?” he asked, after a long pause.
“It would take so long to tell you all about it,” she answered,
thoughtfully. “And even if I did, I am not sure that you would
understand. It belongs--well--to quite another set of ideas.”
“It must be something rather serious if it means marriage now, or
marriage never.”
“It is serious. And the worst of it is that you will laugh at it--and I
am sure you will say that I am not honest to myself. And yet I am. You
see it is connected with things about which you and I don’t think
alike.”
“Religion?” suggested Ralston, in a tone of enquiry.
Katharine bowed her head slowly, sighed just audibly and looked away
from him as she leaned back. Nothing could have expressed more clearly
her conviction that the subject was one upon which they could never
agree.
“I don’t see why you should sigh about it,” said Ralston, in a tone
which expressed relief rather than perplexity. “I often wonder why
people generally look so sad when they talk about religion. Almost
everybody does.”
“How ridiculous!” exclaimed Katharine, with a little laugh. “Besides, I
wasn’t sighing, exactly--I was only wishing it were all arranged.”
“Your religion?”
“Don’t talk like that. I’m in earnest. Don’t laugh at me, Jack
dear--please!”
“I’m not laughing. Can’t you tell me how religion bears on the matter in
hand? That’s all I need to know. I don’t laugh at religion--at yours or
any one else’s. I believe I have a little inclination to it myself.”
“Yes, I know. But--well--I don’t think you have enough to save a
fly--not the smallest little fly, Jack. Never mind--you’re just as nice,
dear. I don’t like men who preach.”
“I’m glad of it. But what has all this to do with our getting married?”
“Listen. It’s perfectly clear to me, and you can understand if you will.
I have almost made up my mind to become a Catholic--”
“You?” Ralston stared at her in surprise. “You--a Roman Catholic?”
“Yes--Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic. Is that clear, Jack?”
“Perfectly. I’m sorry.”
“Now don’t be a Puritan, Jack--”
“I’m not a Puritan. I haven’t a drop of Puritan blood. You have,
Katharine, for your grandmother was one of the real old sort. I’ve heard
my father say so.”
“You’re just as much a Lauderdale as I am,” retorted Katharine. “And if
Scotch Presbyterians are not Puritans, what is? But that isn’t what I
mean. It’s the tendency to wish that people were nothing at all rather
than Catholics.”
“It’s not that. I’m not so prejudiced. I was thinking of the row--that’s
all. You don’t mean to keep that a secret, too? It wouldn’t be like
you.”
“No, indeed,” answered Katharine, proudly.
“Well--you’ve not told me what the connection is between this and our
marriage. You don’t suppose that it will really make any difference to
me, do you? You can’t. And you’re quite mistaken about my Puritanism. I
would much rather that my wife should be a Roman Catholic than nothing
at all. I’m broad enough for that, anyhow. Of course it’s a serious
matter, because people sometimes do that kind of thing and then find out
that they have made a mistake--when it’s too late. And there’s something
ridiculous and undignified about giving it up again when it’s once
done. Religion seems to be a good deal like politics. You may change
once--people won’t admire you--I mean people on your old side--but they
will tolerate you. But if you change twice--”
“I’m not going to change twice. I’ve not quite, quite made up my mind to
change once, yet. But if I do, it will make things--I mean, our
marriage--almost impossible.”
“Why?”
“The Catholics do everything they can to prevent mixed marriages,
Jack,--especially in our country. You would have to make all sorts of
promises which you wouldn’t like, and which I shouldn’t want you to
make--”
Ralston laughed, suddenly comprehending her point of view.
“I see!” he exclaimed.
“Of course you see. It’s as plain as day. I want to make sure of
you--dear,”--she laid her hand softly on his,--“and I also want to be
sure of being perfectly free to change my mind about my religion, if I
wish to. It’s a stroke of diplomacy.”
“I don’t know much about diplomatic proceedings,” laughed Ralston, “but
this strikes me as--well--very intelligent, to say the least of it.”
Katharine’s face became very grave, and she withdrew her hand.
“You mean that it does not seem to you perfectly honest,” she said.
“I didn’t say that,” he answered, his expression changing with hers. “Of
course the idea is that if you are married to me before you become a
Catholic, your church can have nothing to say to me when you do.”
“Of course--yes. You couldn’t be called upon to make any promises. But
if I should decide, after all, not to take the step, there would be no
harm done. On the contrary, I shall have the advantage of being able to
put pressure on uncle Robert, as I explained to you before.”
“I didn’t say I thought it wasn’t honest,” said Ralston. “It’s rather
deep, and I’m always afraid that deep things may not be quite straight.
I should like to think about it, if you don’t mind.”
“I want you to decide. I’ve thought about it.”
“Yes--but--”
“Well? Suppose that, after thinking it over for ever so long, you should
come to the conclusion that I should not be acting perfectly honestly to
my conscience--that’s the worst you could discover, isn’t it? Even
then--and I believe it’s an impossible case--it’s my conscience and not
yours. If you were trying to persuade me to a secret marriage because
you were afraid of the consequences, it would be different--”
“Rather!” exclaimed Ralston, vehemently.
“But you’re not. You see, the main point is on my account, and it’s I
who am doing all the persuading, for that reason. It may be un--un--what
shall I call it--not like a girl at all. But I don’t care. Why shouldn’t
I tell you that I love you? We’ve both said it often enough, and we both
mean it, and I mean to be married to you. The religious question is a
matter of conviction. You have no convictions, so you can’t
understand--”
“I have one or two--little ones.”
“Not enough to understand what I feel--that if religion is anything,
then it’s everything except our love. No--that wasn’t an afterthought.
It’s not coming between you and me. Nothing can. But it’s everything
else in life, or else it’s nothing at all and not worth speaking of. And
if it is--if it really is--why then, for me, as I look at it, it means
the Catholic Church. If I talk as though I were not quite sure, it’s
because I want to be quite on the safe side. And if I want you to do
this thing--it’s because I want to be absolutely sure that hereafter no
human being shall come between us. I know all about the difficulties in
these mixed marriages. I’ve made lots of enquiries. There’s no question
of faith, or belief, or anything of the sort in their objections. It’s
simply a matter of church politics, and I daresay that they are quite
right about it, from their point of view, and that if one is once with
them one must be with them altogether, in policy as well as in religion.
But I’m not as far as that yet. Perhaps I never shall be, after all. I
want to make sure of you--oh, Jack, don’t you understand? I can’t talk
well, but I know just what I mean. Tell me you understand, and that
you’ll do what I ask!”
“It’s very hard!” said Ralston, bending his head and looking at the
carpet. “I wish I knew what to do.”
Woman-like, she saw that she was beginning to get the advantage.
“Go over it all, dear. In the first place, it’s entirely for my sake,
and not in the least for yours. So you can’t say there’s anything
selfish in it, if you do it for me, can you? You don’t want to do it,
you don’t like it, and if you do it you’ll be making a sacrifice to
please me.”
“In marrying you!” Ralston laughed a little and then became very grave
again.
“Yes, in marrying me. It’s a mere formality, and nothing else. We’re not
going to run away afterwards, nor meet in the dark in Gramercy Park nor
do anything in the least different from what we’ve always done, until
I’ve got what I want from uncle Robert. Then we’ll acknowledge the whole
thing, and I’ll take all the blame on myself, if there is any--”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” interrupted Ralston.
“Unless you tell a story that’s not true, you won’t be able to find
anything to blame yourself with,” answered Katharine. “So it will be all
over, and it will save no end of bother--and expense. Which is
something, as neither of us, nor our people, have any money to speak of,
and a wedding costs ever so much. I needn’t even have a trousseau--just
a few things, of course--and poor papa will be glad of that. You needn’t
laugh. You’ll be doing him a service, as well as me. And you see how I
can put it to uncle Robert, don’t you? ‘Uncle Robert, we’re
married--that’s all. What are you going to do about it?’ Nothing could
be plainer than that, could it?”
“Nothing!”
“Now he will simply have to do something. Perhaps he’ll be angry at
first, but that won’t last long. He’ll get over it and laugh at my
audacity. But that isn’t the main point. It’s perfectly conceivable that
you might work and slave at something you hate for years and years,
until we could get married in the regular way. The principal question is
the other--my freedom afterwards to do exactly as I please about my
religion without any possibility of any one interfering with our
marriage.”
“Katharine! Do you really mean to say that if you were a Catholic, and
if the priests said that we shouldn’t be married, you would submit?”
“If I couldn’t, I couldn’t,” Katharine answered. “If I were a Catholic,
and a good Catholic,--I wouldn’t be a bad one,--no marriage but a
Catholic one would be a marriage at all for me. And if they refused it,
what could I do? Go back? That would be lying to myself. To marry you in
some half regular way--”
“Hush, child! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Yes, I do--perfectly. And you wouldn’t like that. So you see what my
position is. It’s absolutely necessary to my future happiness that we
should be quietly married some morning--to-morrow, if you like, but
certainly in a day or two--and that nobody should know anything about
it, until I’ve told uncle Robert.”
“After all,” said Ralston, hesitating, “it will be very much the same
thing as though we were to run away, provided we face everybody at
once.”
“Very much better, because there’ll be no scandal--and no immediate
starvation, which is something worth considering.”
“It won’t really be a secret marriage, except for the mere ceremony,
then. That looks different, somehow.”
“Of course. You don’t suppose that I thought of taking so much trouble
and doing such a queer thing just for the sake of knowing all to myself
that I was married, do you? Besides, secrets are always idiotic things.
Somebody always lets them out before one is ready. And it’s not as
though there were any good reason in the world why we should not be
married, except the money question. We’re of age--and suited to each
other--and all that.”
“Naturally!” And Ralston laughed again.
“Well, then--it seems to me that it’s all perfectly clear. It amounts to
telling everybody the day after, instead of the day before the wedding.
Do you see?”
“I suppose I ought to go on protesting, but you do make it very clear
that there’s nothing underhand about it, except the mere ceremony. And
as you say, we have a perfect right to be married if we please.”
“And we do please--don’t we?”
“With all our hearts,” Ralston answered, in a dreamy tone.
“Then when shall it be, Jack?” Katharine leaned towards him and touched
his hand with her fingers as though to rouse him from the reverie into
which he seemed to be falling.
The touch thrilled him, and he looked up suddenly and met her glance. He
looked at her steadily for a moment, and once more he felt that odd,
pleasurable, unmanly moisture in his
[Illustration: “She rose suddenly and pretended to busy herself with the
single light.”--Vol. I., p. 79.]
eyes, with a sweeping wave of emotion that rose from his heart with a
rush as though it would burst his throat. He yielded to it altogether
this time, and catching her in his arms drew her passionately to him,
kissing her again and again, as though he had never kissed her before.
He did not understand it himself, and Katharine was not used to it. But
she loved him, too, with all her heart, as it seemed to her. She had
proved it to him and to herself more completely within the last half
hour, and she let her own arms go round him. Then a deep, dark blush
which she could feel, rose slowly from her throat to her cheeks, and she
instinctively disentangled herself from him and drew gently back.
“Remember that it’s for my sake--not for yours, dear,” she said.
Her grey eyes were as deep as the dusk itself. Vaguely she guessed her
power as she gave him one more long look, and then rose suddenly and
pretended to busy herself with the single light, turning it up a little
and then down. Ralston watched the springing curves that outlined her
figure as she reached upward. He was in many ways a strangely refined
man, in spite of all his sins, and of his besetting sin in particular,
and refinement in others appealed to him strongly when it was healthy
and natural. He detested the diaphanous type of semi-consumptive with
the angel face, man or woman, and declared that a skeleton deserved no
credit for looking refined, since it could not possibly look anything
else. But he delighted in delicacy of touch and grace of movement when
it went with such health and strength as Katharine had.
“You are the most divinely beautiful thing on earth,” he said, quietly.
Katharine laughed, but still turned her face away from him.
“Then marry me,” she said, laughing. “What a speech!” she cried an
instant later. “Just fancy if any one could hear me, not knowing what
we’ve been talking about!”
“You were just in time, then,” said Ralston. “There’s some one coming.”
Katharine turned quickly, listened a moment, and distinguished a
footfall on the stairs outside the door. She nodded, and came to his
side at once.
“You will, Jack,” she said under her breath. “Say that you will--quick!”
Ralston hesitated one moment. He tried to think, but her eyes were upon
him and he seemed to be under a spell. They were close together, and
there was not much light in the room. He felt that the shadow of
something unknown was around them both--that somewhere in the room a
sweet flower was growing, not like other flowers, not common nor scented
with spring--a plant full of softly twisted tendrils and pale petals
and in-turned stamens--a flower of moon-leaf and fire-bloom and
dusk-thorn--drooping above their two heads like a blossom-laden bough
bending heavily over two exquisite statues--two statues that did not
speak, whose faces did not change as the night stole silently upon
them--but they were side by side, very near, and the darkness was sweet.
It was only an instant. Then their lips met.
“Yes,” he whispered, and drew back as the door opened.
Mrs. Lauderdale entered the room.
“Oh, are you there, Jack?” she asked, but without any surprise, as
though she were accustomed to find him with Katharine.
“Yes,” answered Ralston, quietly. “I’ve been here ever so long. How do
you do, cousin Emma?”
“Oh, I’m so tired!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale. “I’ve been working all
day long. I positively can’t see.”
“You ought not to work so hard,” said Ralston. “You’ll wear your eyes
out.”
“No, I’m strong, and so are my eyes. I only wanted to say that I was
tired. It’s such a relief!”
Mrs. Lauderdale had been a very beautiful woman, and was, indeed, only
just beginning to lose her beauty. She was much taller than either of
her daughters, but of a different type of figure from Katharine, and
less evenly grown, if such an expression may be permitted. The hand was
typical of the difference. Mrs. Lauderdale’s was extremely long and
thin, but well made in the details, though out of proportion in the way
of length and narrowness as a whole. Katharine’s hand was firm and full,
without being what is called a thick hand. There was a more perfect
balance between flesh and bone in the straight, strong fingers. Mrs.
Lauderdale had been one of those magnificent fair beauties occasionally
seen in Kentucky,--a perfect head with perfect but small features,
superb golden hair, straight, clear eyes, a small red mouth,--great
dignity of carriage, too, with the something which has been christened
‘dash’ when she moved quickly, or did anything with those long hands of
hers,--a marvellous constitution, and the dazzling complexion of snow
and carnations that goes with it, very different from the softer ‘milk
and roses’ of the Latin poet’s mistress. Mrs. Lauderdale had always been
described as dazzling, and people who saw her for the first time used
the word even now to convey the impression she made. Her age, which was
known only to some members of the family, and which is not of the
slightest importance to this history, showed itself chiefly in a
diminution of this dazzling quality. The white was less white, the
carnation was becoming a common pink, the gold of her hair was no longer
gold all through, but distinctly brown in many places, though it would
certainly never turn grey until extreme old age. Her movements, too,
were less free, though stately still,--the brutal word ‘rheumatism’ had
been whispered by the family doctor,--and to go back to her face, there
were undeniably certain tiny lines, and many of them, which were not the
lines of beauty.
It was a brave, good face, on the whole, gifted, sometimes sympathetic,
and oddly cold when the woman’s temper was most impulsive. For there is
an expression of coldness which weakness puts on in self-defence. A
certain narrowness of view, diametrically opposed to a corresponding
narrowness in her husband’s mind, did not show itself in her features.
There is a defiant, supremely satisfied look which shows that sort of
limitation. Possibly such narrowness was not natural with Mrs.
Lauderdale, but the result of having been systematically opposed on
certain particular grounds throughout more than a quarter of a century
of married life. However that may be, it was by this time a part of her
nature, though not outwardly expressed in any apparent way.
She had not been very happy with Alexander Junior, and she admitted the
fact. She knew also that she had been a good wife to him in every fair
sense of the word. For although she had enjoyed compensations, she had
taken advantage of them in a strictly conscientious way. Undeniable
beauty, of the kind which every one recognizes instantly without the
slightest hesitation, is so rare a gift that it does indeed compensate
its possessor for many misfortunes, especially when she enjoys amusement
for its own sake, innocently and without losing her head or becoming
spoiled and affected by constant admiration. Katharine Lauderdale had
not that degree of beauty, and there were numerous persons who did not
even care for what they called ‘her style.’ Her sister Charlotte had
something of her mother’s brilliancy, indeed, but there was a hardness
about her face and nature which was apparent at first sight. Mrs.
Alexander had always remained the beauty of the family, and indeed the
beauty of the society to which she belonged, even after her daughters
had been grown up. She had outshone them, even in a world like that of
New York, which does not readily compare mothers and daughters in any
way, and asks them out separately as though they did not belong to each
other.
She had not been very happy, and apart from any purely imaginary bliss,
procurable only by some miraculous changes in Alexander Junior’s heart
and head, she believed that the only real thing lacking was money. She
had always been poor. She had never known what seemed to her the supreme
delight of sitting in her own carriage. She had never tasted the
pleasure of having five hundred dollars to spend on her fancies,
exactly as she pleased. The question of dress had always been more or
less of a struggle. She had not exactly extravagant tastes, but she
should have liked to feel once in her life that she was at liberty to
throw aside a pair of perfectly new gloves, merely because when she put
them on the first time one of the seams was a little crooked, or the
lower part was too loose for her narrow hand. She had always felt that
when she had bought a thing she must wear it out, as a matter of
conscience, even if it did not suit her. And there was a real little
pain in the thought, of which she was ashamed. Small things, but womanly
and human. Then, too, there was the constant chafing of her pardonable
pride when ninety-nine of her acquaintances all did the same thing, and
she was the hundredth who could not afford it--and the subscriptions and
the charity concerts and the theatre parties. It was mainly in order to
supply herself with a little money for such objects as these that she
had worked so hard at her painting for years--that she might not be
obliged to apply to her husband for such sums on every occasion. She had
succeeded to some extent, too, and her initials had a certain
reputation, even with the dealers. Many people knew that those same
initials were hers, and a few friends were altogether in her confidence.
Possibly if she had been less beautiful, she would have been spoken
of at afternoon teas as ‘poor Mrs. Lauderdale,’ and people would
have been found--for society has its kindly side--who would have
half-surreptitiously paid large sums for bits of her work, even much
more than her miniatures could ever be worth. But she did not excite
pity. She looked rich, as some people do to their cost. People
sympathized with her in the matter of Alexander Junior’s character, for
he was not popular. But no one thought of pitying her because she was
poor. On the contrary, many persons envied her. It must be ‘such fun,’
they said, to be able to paint and really sell one’s paintings. A
dashing woman with a lot of talent, who can make a few hundreds in half
an hour when she chooses, said others. What did she spend the money on?
On whatever she pleased--probably in charity, she was so good-hearted.
But those people did not see her as Jack Ralston saw her, worn out with
a long day’s work, her eyes aching, her naturally good temper almost on
edge; and they did not know that Katharine Lauderdale’s simple ball
gowns were paid for by the work of her mother’s hands. It was just as
well that they did not know it. Society has such queer fits
sometimes--somebody might have given Katharine a dress. But Ralston was
in the secret and knew.
“One may be as strong as cast-steel,” he said. “Even that wears out.
Ask the people who make engines. You’ll accomplish a great deal more if
you go easy and give yourself rest from time to time.”
“Like you, Jack,” observed Mrs. Lauderdale, not unkindly.
“Oh, I’m a failure. I admitted the fact long ago. I’m only fit for a bad
example,--a sort of moral scarecrow.”
“Yes. I wonder why?” Mrs. Lauderdale was tired and was thinking aloud.
“I didn’t mean to say that, Jack,” she added, frankly, realizing what
she had said, from the recollection of the sound of her own voice, as
people sometimes do who are exhausted or naturally absent-minded.
“It wasn’t exactly complimentary, mother,” said Katharine, coldly.
“Besides, is it fair to say that a man is a failure at Jack’s age?
Patrick Henry was a failure at twenty-three. He was bankrupt.”
“Patrick Henry!” exclaimed Ralston. “What do you know about Patrick
Henry?”
“Oh, I’ve been reading history. It was he who said, ‘Give me liberty, or
give me death.’”
“Was it? I didn’t know. But I’m glad to hear of somebody who got smashed
first and celebrated afterwards. It’s generally the other way, like
Napoleon and Julius Cæsar.”
“Cardinal Wolsey, Alexander the Great, and John Gilpin. It’s easy to
multiply examples, as the books say.”
“You’re much too clever for me this evening. I must be going home. My
mother and I are going to dine all alone and abuse our neighbours all
the evening.”
“How delightful!” exclaimed Katharine, thinking of the grim family table
at which she was to sit as usual--there had been some fine fighting in
Charlotte’s unmarried days, but Katharine’s opposition was generally of
the silent kind.
“Yes,” answered Ralston. “There’s nobody like my mother. She’s the best
company in the world. Good night, cousin Emma. Good night, Katharine.”
But Katharine followed him into the entry, letting the library door
almost close behind her.
“It will be quite time enough, if you come and tell me on the evening
before it is to be,” she whispered hurriedly. “There’s no party
to-morrow night, but on Wednesday I’m going to the Thirlwalls’ dance.”
“Will any morning do?” asked Ralston, also in a whisper.
“Yes, any morning. Now go--quick. That’s enough, dear--there, if you
must. Go--good night--dear!”
The process of leave-taking was rather spasmodic, so far as Katharine
was concerned. Ralston felt that same strange emotion once more as he
found himself out upon the pavement of Clinton Place. His head swam a
little, and he stopped to light a cigarette before he turned towards
Fifth Avenue.
Katharine went back into the library, and found her mother sitting as
the two had left her, and apparently unconscious that her daughter had
gone out of the room.
“He’s quite right, mother dear. You are trying to do too much,” said
Katharine, coming behind the low chair and smoothing her mother’s
beautiful hair, kissing it softly and speaking into the heavy waves of
it.
Mrs. Lauderdale put up one thin hand, and patted the girl’s cheek
without turning to look at her, but said nothing for a moment.
“It’s quite true,” Katharine said. “You mustn’t do it any more.”
“How smooth your cheek is, child!” said Mrs. Lauderdale, thoughtfully.
“So is yours, mother dear.”
“No--it’s not. It’s full of little lines. Touch it--you can feel
them--just there. Besides--you can see them.”
“I don’t feel anything--and I don’t see anything,” answered Katharine.
But she knew what her mother meant, and it made her a little sad--even
her. She had been accustomed all her life to believe that her mother was
the most beautiful woman in the world, and she knew that the time had
just come when she must grow used to not believing it any longer. Mrs.
Lauderdale had never said anything of the sort before. She had been
supreme in her way, and had taken it for granted that she was, never
referring to her own looks under any circumstances.
In the long silence that followed, Katharine quietly went and closed the
shutters of the windows, for Ralston had only pulled down the shades.
She drew the dark curtains across for the evening, lit another gaslight,
and remained standing by the fireplace.
“Thank you, darling,” said Mrs. Lauderdale.
“I do wish papa would let us have lamps, or shades, or something,” said
Katharine, looking disconsolately at the ground-glass globes of the
gaslights.
“He doesn’t like them--he says he can’t see.”
There was a short pause.
“Oh, mother dear! what in the world does papa like, I wonder?” Katharine
turned with an impatient movement as she spoke, and her broad eyebrows
almost met between her eyes.
“Hush, child!” But the words were uttered wearily and mechanically--Mrs.
Lauderdale had pronounced them so often under precisely the same
circumstances during the last quarter of a century.
Katharine sighed, a little out of impatience and to some extent in pity
for her mother. But she stood looking across the room at the closed
door through which Ralston and she had gone out together five minutes
earlier, and she could still feel his last kiss on her cheek. He had
never seemed so loving as on that day, and she had succeeded in
persuading him, against his instinctive judgment, to promise her what
she asked,--the maddest, most foolish thing a girl’s imagination could
long for, no matter with what half-reasonable excuse. But she had his
promise, which, as she well knew, he would keep--and she loved him with
all her heart. The expression of mingled sadness and impatience vanished
like a breath from a polished mirror. She was unconscious that she
looked radiantly happy, as her mother gazed up into her face.
“What a beautiful creature you are!” said Mrs. Lauderdale, in a tone
unlike her natural voice.