It was nearly one o’clock when John Ralston let Doctor Routh out of the
house and returned to his own room. He found his mother standing there,
opposite the door, as he entered, and her eyes had met his even before
he had passed the threshold. She came forward to meet him, and without a
word laid her two hands upon his shoulders and hid her face against his
torn coat. He put one arm around her and gently stroked her head with
the other hand, but he looked straight before him at the bright globe of
the gas-light, and said nothing.
There was an unsettled expression on his pale face. He did not wish to
seem triumphant, and he did wish that his anger against her might
subside immediately and be altogether forgotten. But although he had
enough control of his outward self to say nothing and to touch her
tenderly, the part of him that had been so deeply wounded was not to be
healed in a moment. Her doubt--more, her openly and scornfully outspoken
disbelief had been the very last straw that day. It had been hard, just
when he had been doing his best to reform, to be accused by every one,
from Hamilton Bright, his friend, to the people on the horse-car; but
it had been hardest of all to be accused by his mother, and not to be
believed even on his pledged word. That was a very different matter.
To a man of a naturally melancholic and brooding temper, as John Ralston
was, illusions have a very great value. Such men have few of them, as a
rule, and regard them as possessions with which no one has any right to
interfere. They ask little or nothing of the world at large, except to
be allowed to follow their own inclinations and worship their own idols
in their own way. But of their idols they ask much, and often give them
little in return except acts of idolatry. And the first thing they ask,
whether they express the demand openly or not, is that their idols
should believe in them in spite of every one and everything. They are
not, as a rule, capricious men. They cannot replace one object of
adoration by another, at short notice. Perhaps the foundation of such
characters is a sort of honourable selfishness, a desire to keep what
they care for to themselves, beyond the reach of every one else,
together with an inward conviction that their love is eminently worth
having from the mere fact that they do not bestow it lightly. When the
idol expresses a human and pardonable doubt in their sincerity, an
illusion is injured, if not destroyed--even when that doubt is well
founded. But when the doubt is groundless, it makes a bad wound which
leaves an ugly scar, if it ever heals at all.
John Ralston was very like his mother, and she knew it and understood
instinctively that words could be of no use. There was nothing to be
done but to throw herself upon his mercy, as it were, and to trust that
he would forgive an injury which nothing could repair. And John
understood this, and did his best to meet her half way, for he loved her
very much. But he could not help the expression on his face, not being
good at masking nor at playing any part. She, womanly, could have done
that better than he.
She wished to act no comedy, however. The thing was real and true, and
she was distressed beyond measure. She looked up at his face and saw
what was in his mind, and she knew that for the present she could do
nothing. Then she gently kissed the sleeve of his coat, and withdrew her
hands from him.
“You’re wet, Jack,” she said, trying to speak naturally. “Go to bed, and
I’ll bring you something to eat and something hot to drink.”
“No, mother--thank you. I don’t want anything. But I think I’ll go to
bed. Good night.”
“Let me bring you something--”
“No, thank you. I’d rather not. It’s all right, mother. Don’t worry.”
It was hard to say even that little, just then, but he did as well as he
could. Then he kissed her on the forehead and opened the door for her.
She bent her head low as she passed him, but she did not look up.
Half an hour later, when John was about to put out his light, he heard
the little clinking of glasses and silver on a tray outside his door.
Then there was a knock.
“I’ve brought you something to eat, Jack,” said his mother’s voice.
“Just what I could find--”
John turned as he was crossing the room--a gaunt figure in his loose,
striped flannels--and hesitated a moment before he spoke.
“Oh--thank you, very much,” he answered. “Would you kindly set it down?
I’ll take it in presently. It’s very good of you, mother--thank
you--good night again.”
He heard her set down the tray, and the things rattled and clinked.
“It’s here, when you want it,” said the voice.
He fancied there was a sigh after the words, and two or three seconds
passed before the sound of softly departing footsteps followed. He
listened, with a weary look in his eyes, then went to the fireplace and
leaned against the mantelpiece for a moment. As though making an effort,
he turned again and went to the door and opened it and brought in the
tray. There were dainty things on it, daintily arranged. There was also
a small decanter of whiskey, a pint of claret and a little jug of hot
water. John set the tray upon one end of his writing table and looked at
it, with an odd, sour smile. He was really so tired that he wanted
neither food nor drink, and the sight of both in abundance was almost
nauseous to him. He reflected that the servant would take away the
things in the morning, and that his mother would never know whether he
had taken what she had brought him or not, unless she asked him, which
was impossible. He took up the tray again, set it down on the floor, in
a corner, and instead of going to bed seated himself at his writing
table.
It seemed best to write to Katharine and send his letter early in the
morning. It was hard work, and he could scarcely see the words he wrote,
for the pain in his head was becoming excruciating. It was necessarily a
long letter, too, and a complicated one, and his command of the English
language seemed gone from him. Nevertheless, he plodded on diligently,
telling as nearly as he could remember what had happened to him since he
had left Katharine’s door at three o’clock in the afternoon, up to the
moment when Doctor Routh had pronounced his verdict. It was not well
written, but on the whole it was a thoroughly clear account of events,
so far as he himself could be said to know what had happened to him. He
addressed the letter and put a special delivery stamp upon it, thinking
that this would be a means of sending it to its destination quickly
without attracting so much attention to it as though he should send a
messenger himself. Then he put out the gas, drew up the shades, so that
the morning light should wake him early, in spite of his exhaustion, and
at last went to bed.
It was unfortunate that the messenger who took the specially stamped
letter to Clinton Place on the following morning should have rung the
bell exactly when he did, that is to say, at the precise moment when
Alexander Junior was putting on his overcoat and overshoes in the entry.
It was natural enough that Mr. Lauderdale should open the door himself
and confront the boy, who held up the letter to him with the little book
in which the receipt was to be signed. It was the worse for the boy,
because Katharine would have given him five or ten cents for himself,
whereas Alexander Junior signed the receipt, handed it back and shut the
door in the boy’s face. And it was very much the worse for John Ralston,
since Mr. Lauderdale, having looked at the handwriting and recognized
it, put the letter into his pocket without a word to any one and went
down town for the day.
Now it was his intention to do the thing which was right according to
his point of view. He was as honourable a man, in his own unprejudiced
opinion, as any living, and he would no more have forfeited his right
to congratulate himself upon his uprightness than he would have given
ten cents to the messenger boy, or a holiday to a clerk, or a
subscription for anything except his pew in church. The latter was
really a subscription to his own character, and therefore not an
extravagance. It would never have entered into his mind that he could
possibly break the seal of Ralston’s specially stamped envelope. The
letter was as safe in his pocket as though it had been put away in his
own box at the Safe Deposit--where there were so many curious things of
which no one but Alexander Junior knew anything. But he did not intend
that his daughter should ever read it either. He disapproved of John
from the very bottom of his heart, partly because he did, which was an
excellent reason, partly because there could be no question as to John’s
mode of life, and partly because he had once lost his temper when John
had managed to keep his own. So far as he allowed himself to swear, he
had sworn that John should never marry Katharine--unless, indeed, John
should inherit a much larger share of Robert Lauderdale’s money than was
just, in which case justice itself would make it right to enter into a
matrimonial alliance with the millions. Meanwhile, however, Robert the
Rich was an exceedingly healthy old man.
Under present circumstances, therefore, if accident threw into his
hands one of Ralston’s letters to Katharine, it was clearly the duty of
such a perfectly upright and well-conducted father as Alexander Junior
to hinder it from reaching its destination. Only one question as to his
conduct presented itself to his mind, and he occupied the day in solving
it. Should he quietly destroy the letter and say nothing about it to any
one, or should he tell Katharine that he had it, and burn it in her
presence after showing her that it was unopened? His conscience played
an important part in his life, though Robert Lauderdale secretly
believed that he had none at all; and his conscience bade him be quite
frank about what he had done, and destroy the letter under Katharine’s
own eyes. He took it from his pocket as he sat in his brilliantly
polished chair before his shiny table, under the vivid snow-glare which
fell upon him through his magnificent plate-glass windows. He looked at
it again, turned it over thoughtfully, and returned it at last to his
pocket, where it remained until he came home late in the afternoon.
While he sipped his glass of iced water at luncheon time, he prepared a
little speech, which he repeated to himself several times in the course
of the day.
In the meantime Katharine, not suspecting that John had written to her,
and of course utterly ignorant of the truth about his doings on the
preceding day, felt that she must find some occupation, no matter how
trivial, to take her mind out of the strong current of painful thought
which must at last draw her down into the very vortex of despair’s own
whirlpool. It seemed to her that she had never before even faintly
guessed the meaning of pain nor the unknown extent of possible mental
suffering. As for forming any resolution, or even distinguishing the
direction of her probable course in the immediate future, she was
utterly incapable of any such effort or thought. The longing for total
annihilation was perhaps uppermost among her instincts just then, as it
often is with men and women who have been at once bitterly disappointed
and deeply wounded, and who find themselves in a position from which no
escape seems possible. Katharine wished with all her young heart that
the world were a lighted candle and that she could blow it out.
It must not be believed, however, that her love for John Ralston had
disappeared as suddenly and totally as she should have liked to
extinguish the universe. It had not been of sudden growth nor of
capricious blooming. Its roots were deep, its stem was strong, its
flowers were sweet--and the blight which had fallen upon it was the more
cruel. A frostbitten rose-tree is a sadder sight than a withered
mushroom or a blade of dried grass. It was real, honest, unsuspecting,
strong, maidenly love, and it stood there still in the midst of her
heart, hanging its head in the cold, while she gazed at it and
wondered, and choked with anguish. But she could not lift her hand to
prop it, nor to cover it and warm it again, still less to root it up and
burn it.
She could only try to escape from seeing it, and she resolutely set
about making the attempt. She left her room and went downstairs,
treading more softly as she passed the door of the room in which her
mother worked during the morning hours. She did not wish to see her
again at present, and as she descended she could not help thinking with
wonder of the sudden and unaccountable change in their relations.
She entered the library, but though it was warm, it had that chilly look
about it which rooms principally used in the evening generally have when
there is no fire in them. The snow-glare was on everything, too, and
made it worse. She stood a moment in hesitation before the writing
table, and laid her hand uncertainly upon a sheet of writing paper. But
she realized that she could not write to John, and she turned away
almost immediately.
What could she have written? It was easy to talk to herself of a letter;
it was quite another matter to find words, or even to discover the
meaning of her own thoughts. She did not wish to see him. If she wished
anything, it was that she might never see him again. Nothing could have
been much worse than to meet him just then, and talking on paper was
next to talking in fact. It all rushed back upon her as she moved away,
and she paused a moment and steadied herself against her favourite chair
by the empty fireplace. Then she raised her head again, proudly, and
left the room, looking straight before her.
There was nothing to be done but to go out. The loneliness of the house
was absolutely intolerable, and she could not wander about in such an
aimless fashion all day long. Again she went upstairs to her room to put
on her hat and things. Mechanically she took the hat she had worn on the
previous day, but as she stood before the mirror and caught sight of it,
she suddenly took it from her head again and threw it behind her with a
passionate gesture, stared at herself a moment and then buried her face
in her hands. She had unconsciously put on the same frock as
yesterday--the frock in which she had been married--it was the rough
grey woollen one she had been wearing every day. And there were the same
simple little ornaments, the small silver pin at her throat, the tiny
gold bar of her thin watch chain at the third button from the top--the
hat had made it complete--just as she had been married. She could not
bear that.
A few moments later she rose, and without looking at herself in the
glass, began to change her clothes. She dressed herself entirely in
black, put on a black hat and a gold pin, and took a new pair of brown
gloves from a drawer. There was a relief, now, in her altered
appearance, as she fastened her veil. She felt that she could behave
differently if she could get rid of the outward things which reminded
her of yesterday. It is not wise to reflect contemptuously upon the
smallness of things which influence passionate people at great moments
in their lives. It needs less to send a fast express off the track, if
the obstacle be just so placed as to cause an accident, than it does to
upset a freight train going at twelve miles an hour.
Katharine descended the stairs again with a firm step, holding her head
higher than before, and with quite a different look in her eyes. She had
put on a sort of shell with her black clothes. It seemed to conceal her
real self from the outer world, the self that had worn rough grey
woollen and a silver pin and had been married to John Ralston yesterday
morning. She did not even take the trouble to tread softly as she passed
her mother’s studio, for she felt able to face any one, all at once. If
John himself had been standing in the entry below, and if she had come
upon him suddenly, she should have known how to meet him, and what to
say. She would have hurt him, and she would have been glad of it, with
all of her. What right had John Ralston to ruin her life?
But John was not there, nor was there any possibility of her meeting
him that morning. He had shut himself up in his room and was waiting for
her answer to the letter which Alexander Lauderdale had taken down town
in his pocket, and which he meant to burn before her eyes that evening
after delivering his little speech. It was not probable that John would
go out of the house until he was convinced that no answer was to be
expected.
Katharine went out into the street and paused on the last step. The snow
was deep everywhere, and wet and clinging. No attempt had as yet been
made to clear it away, though the horse-cars had ploughed their black
channel through, and it had been shovelled off the pavements before some
of the houses. There was a slushy muddiness about it where it was not
still white, which promised ill for a walk. Katharine knew exactly what
Washington Square would be like on such a morning. The little birds
would all be draggled and cold, the leafless twigs would be dripping,
the paths would be impracticable, and all the American boys would be
snowballing the Italian and French boys from South Fifth Avenue. The
University Building would look more than usual like a sepulchre to let,
and Waverley Place would be more savagely respectable than ever, as its
quiet red brick houses fronted the snow. Overhead the sky was of a
uniform grey. It was impossible to tell from any increase of light where
the sun ought to be. The air was damp and cold, and all the noises of
the street were muffled. Far away and out of sight, a hand-organ was
playing ‘Ah quell’ amore ond’ardo’--an air which Katharine most
especially and heartily detested. There was something ghostly in the
sound, as though the wretched instrument were grinding itself to death
out of sheer weariness. Katharine thought that if the world were making
music in its orbit that morning, the noise must be as melancholy and as
jarring as that of the miserable hurdy-gurdy. She thought vaguely, too,
of the poor old man who has stood every day for years with his back to
the railings on the south side of West Fourteenth Street, before you
come to Sixth Avenue, feebly turning the handle of a little box which
seems to be full of broken strings, which something stirs up into a
scarcely audible jangle at every sixth or seventh revolution. He has
yellowish grey hair, long and thick, and is generally bareheaded. She
felt inclined to go and see whether he were there now, in the wet snow,
with his torn shoes and his blind eyes, that could not feel the glare.
She found herself thinking of all the many familiar figures of distress,
just below the surface of the golden stream as it were, looking up out
of it with pitiful appealing faces, and without which New York could not
be itself. Her father said they made a good living out of their starving
appearance, and firmly refused to encourage what he called pauperism by
what other people called charity. Even if they were really poor, he
said, they probably deserved to be, and were only reaping the fruit of
their own improvidence, a deduction which did not appeal to Katharine.
She turned eastwards and would have walked up to Fourteenth Street in
order to give the hurdy-gurdy beggar something, had she not remembered
almost immediately that she had no money with her. She never had any
except what her mother gave her for her small expenses, and during the
last few days she had not cared to ask for any. In very economically
conducted families the reluctance to ask for small sums is generally
either the sign of a quarrel or the highest expression of sympathetic
consideration. Every family has its private barometer in which money
takes the place of mercury.
Katharine suddenly remembered that she had promised Crowdie another
sitting at eleven o’clock on Friday. It was the day and it was the hour,
and though by no means sure that she would enter the house when she
reached Lafayette Place, she turned in that direction and walked on,
picking her way across the streets as well as she could. The last time
she had gone to Crowdie’s she had gone with John, who had left her at
the door in order to go in search of a clergyman. She remembered that,
as she went along, and she chose the side of the street opposite to the
one on which she had gone with Ralston.
At the door of Crowdie’s house, she hesitated again. Crowdie was one of
the gossips. It was he who had told the story of John’s quarrel with
Bright. It seemed as though he must be more repulsive to her than ever.
On the other hand, she realized that if she failed to appear as she had
promised, he would naturally connect her absence with what had happened
to Ralston. He could hardly be blamed for that, she thought, but she
would not have such a story repeated if she could help it. She felt very
brave, and very unlike the Katharine Lauderdale of two hours earlier,
and after a moment’s thought, she rang the bell and was admitted
immediately.
Hester Crowdie was just coming down the stairs, and greeted Katharine
before reaching her. She seemed annoyed about something, Katharine
thought. There was a little bright colour in her pale cheeks, and her
dark eyes gleamed angrily.
“I’m so glad you’ve come!” she exclaimed, helping her friend to take off
her heavy coat. “Come in with me for a minute, won’t you?”
“What’s the matter?” asked Katharine, going with her into the little
front room. “You look angry.”
“Oh--it’s nothing! I’m so foolish, you know. It’s silly of me. Sit
down.”
“What is it, dear?” asked Katharine, affectionately, as she sat down
beside Hester upon a little sofa. “Have you and he been quarrelling?”
“Quarrelling!” Hester laughed gaily. “No, indeed. That’s impossible!
No--we were all by ourselves--Walter was singing over his work, and I
was just lying amongst the cushions and listening and thinking how
heavenly it was--and that stupid Mr. Griggs came in and spoiled it all.
So I came away in disgust. I was so angry, just for a minute--I could
have killed him!”
“Poor dear!” Katharine could not help smiling at the story.
“Oh, of course, you laugh at me. Everybody does. But what do I care? I
love him--and I love his voice, and I love to be all alone with him up
there under the sky--and at night, too, when there’s a full moon--you
have no idea how beautiful it is. And then I always think that the snowy
days, when I can’t go out on foot, belong especially to me. You’re
different--I knew you were coming at eleven--but that horrid Mr.
Griggs!”
“Poor Mr. Griggs! If he could only hear you!”
“Walter pretends to like him. That’s one of the few points on which we
shall never agree. There’s nothing against him, I know, and he’s rather
modest, considering how he has been talked about--and all that. But one
doesn’t like one’s husband’s old friends to come--bothering--you know,
and getting in the way when one wants to be alone with him. Oh, no! I’ve
nothing against the poor man--only that I hate him! How are you,
dearest, after the ball, last night? You seemed awfully tired when I
brought you home. As for me, I’m worn out. I never closed my eyes till
Walter came home--he danced the cotillion with your mother. Didn’t you
think he was looking ill? I did. There was one moment when I was just a
little afraid that--you know--that something might happen to him--as it
did the other day--did you notice anything?”
“No,” answered Katharine, thoughtfully. “He’s naturally pale. Don’t you
think that just happened once, and isn’t likely to occur again? He’s
been perfectly well ever since Monday, hasn’t he?”
“Oh, yes--perfectly. But you know it’s always on my mind, now. I want to
be with him more than ever. I suppose that accounts for my being so
angry with poor Mr. Griggs. I think I’d ask him to stay to luncheon if I
were sure he’d go away the minute it’s over. Shouldn’t you like to stay,
dear? Shall I ask him? That will just make four. Do! I shall feel that
I’ve atoned for being so horrid about him. I wish you would!”
Katharine did not answer at once. The vision of her luncheon at home
rose disagreeably before her--there would be her mother and her
grandfather, and probably Charlotte. The latter was quite sure to have
heard something about John, and would, of course, seize the occasion to
make unpleasant remarks. This consideration was a decisive argument.
“Dear,” she said at last, “if you really want me, I think I will stay.
Only--I don’t want to be in the way, like Mr. Griggs. You must send me
away when you’ve had enough of me.”
“Katharine! What an idea! I only wish you would stay forever.”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” answered Katharine, with a smile.
Hester rang the bell, and the immaculate and magnificent Fletcher
appeared to receive her orders about the luncheon. Katharine meanwhile
began to wonder at herself. She was so unlike what she had been a few
hours earlier, in the early morning, alone in her room. She wondered
whether, after all, she were not heartless, or whether the memory of all
that had lately happened to her might not be softened, like that of a
bad dream, which is horrible while it lasts, and at which one laughs at
breakfast, knowing that it has had no reality. Had her marriage any
reality? Last night, before the ball, the question would have seemed
blasphemous. It presented itself quite naturally just now. What value
had that contract? What power had the words of any man, priest or
layman, to tie her forever to one who had not the common decency to
behave like a gentleman, and to keep his appointment with her on the
same evening--on the evening of their wedding day? Was there a
mysterious magic in the mere words, which made them like a witch’s spell
in a fairy story? She had not seen him since. What was he doing? Had he
not even enough respect for her to send her a line of apology? Merely
what any man would have sent who had missed an appointment? Had she sold
her soul into bondage for the term of her natural life by uttering two
words--‘I will’? It was only her soul, after all. She had not seen his
face save for a moment at her own door in the afternoon. Did he think
that since they had been married he need not have even the most common
consideration for her? It seemed so. What had she dreamed, what had she
imagined during all those weeks and months before last Monday, while she
had been making up her mind that she would sacrifice anything and
everything for the sake of making him happy? She could not be mistaken,
now, for she was thinking it all over quite coldly during these two
minutes, while Hester was speaking to the butler. She was more than
cold. She was indifferent. She could have gone back to her room and put
on her grey frock, and the little silver pin again, and could have
looked at herself in the mirror for an hour without any sensation but
that of wonder--amazement at her own folly.
Talk of love! There was love between Walter Crowdie and his wife. Hester
could not be with any one for five minutes without speaking of him, and
as for Crowdie himself, he was infatuated. Everybody said so. Katharine
pardoned him his pale face, his red lips, and the incomprehensible
repulsion she felt for him, because he loved his wife.