Katharine was conscious that during the time she had spent in the studio
she had been taken out of herself. She had listened to what the others
had said, she had been interested in Griggs, she had speculated upon the
probable origin of his apparent friendship with Crowdie; in a word, she
had temporarily lulled the tempest which had threatened to overwhelm her
altogether in the earlier part of the morning. She was not much given to
analyzing herself and her feelings, but as she descended the stairs,
followed by Crowdie and Griggs, she was inclined to doubt whether she
were awake, or dreaming. She told herself that it was all true; that she
had been married to John Ralston on the previous morning in the quiet,
remote church, that she had seen John for one moment in the afternoon,
at her own door, that he had failed her in the evening, and that she
knew only too certainly how he had disgraced himself in the eyes of
decent people during the remainder of the day. It was all true, and yet
there was something misty about it all, as though it were a dream. She
did not feel angry or hurt any more. It only seemed to her that John,
and everything connected with him, had all at once passed out of her
life, beyond the possibility of recall. And she did not wish to recall
it, for she had reached something like peace, very unexpectedly.
It was, of course, only temporary. Physically speaking, it might be
explained as the reaction from violent emotions, which had left her
nerves weary and deadened. And speaking not merely of the material side,
it is true that the life of love has moments of suspended animation,
during which it is hard to believe that love was ever alive at
all--times when love has a past and a future, but no present.
If she had met John at that moment, on the stairs, she would very
probably have put out her hand quite naturally, and would have greeted
him with a smile, before the reality of all that had happened could come
back to her. Many of us have dreamed that those dearest to us have done
us some cruel and bitter wrong, struck us, insulted us, trampled on our
life-long devotion to them; and in the morning, awaking, we have met
them, and smiled, and loved them just the same. For it was only a dream.
And there are those who have known the reality; who, after much time,
have very suddenly found out that they have been betrayed and wickedly
deceived, and used ill, by their most dear--and who, in the first
moment, have met them, and smiled, and loved them just the same. For it
was only a dream, they thought indeed. And then comes the waking, which
is as though one fell asleep upon his beloved’s bosom and awoke among
thorns, and having a crown of thorns about his brows--very hard to bear
without crying aloud.
Katharine pressed the polished banister of the staircase with her hand,
and with the other she found the point of the little gold pin she wore
at her throat and made it prick her a little. It was a foolish idea and
a childish thought. She knew that she was not really dreaming, and yet,
as though she might have been, she wanted a physical sensation to assure
her that she was awake. Griggs was close behind her. Crowdie had stopped
a moment to pull the cord of a curtain which covered the skylight of the
staircase.
“I wonder where real things end, and dreams begin!” said Katharine, half
turning her head, and then immediately looking before her again.
“At every minute of every hour,” answered Griggs, as quickly as though
the thought had been in his own mind.
From higher up came Crowdie’s golden voice, singing very softly to
himself. He had heard the question and the answer.
“‘La vie est un songe,’” he sang, and then, breaking off suddenly,
laughed a little and began to descend.
At the first note, Katharine stood still and turned her face upwards.
Griggs stopped, too, and looked down at her. Even after Crowdie had
laughed Katharine did not move.
“I wish you’d go on, Mr. Crowdie!” she cried, speaking so that he could
hear her.
“Griggs is anxious for the Blue Points,” he answered, coming down.
“Besides, he hates music, and makes no secret of the fact.”
“Is it true? Do you really hate music?” asked Katharine, turning and
beginning to descend again.
“Quite true,” answered Griggs, quietly. “I detest it. Crowdie’s a
nuisance with his perpetual yapping.”
Crowdie laughed good naturedly, and Katharine said nothing. As they
reached the lower landing she turned and paused an instant, so that
Griggs came beside her.
“Did you always hate music?” she asked, looking up into his
weather-beaten face with some curiosity.
“Hm!” Griggs uttered a doubtful sound. “It’s a long time since I heard
any that pleased me, at all events.”
“There are certain subjects, Miss Lauderdale, upon which Griggs is
unapproachable, because he won’t say anything. And there are others upon
which it is dangerous to approach him, because he is likely to say too
much. Hester! Where are you?”
He disappeared into the little room at the front of the house in search
of his wife, and Katharine stood alone with Griggs in the entry. Again
she looked at him with curiosity.
“You’re a very good-humoured person, Mr. Griggs,” she said, with a
smile.
“You mean about Crowdie? Oh, I can stand a lot of his chaff--and he has
to stand mine, too.”
“That was a very interesting answer you gave to my question about
dreams,” said Katharine, leaning against the pillar of the banister.
“Was it? Let me see--what did I say?” He seemed to be absent-minded
again.
“Come to luncheon!” cried Crowdie, reappearing with Hester at that
moment. “You can talk metaphysics over the oysters.”
“Metaphysics!” exclaimed Griggs, with a smile.
“Oh, I know,” answered Crowdie. “I can’t tell the difference between
metaphysics and psychics, and geography and Totem. It is all precisely
the same to me--and it is to Griggs, if he’d only acknowledge it. Come
along, Miss Lauderdale--to oysters and culture!”
Hester laughed at Crowdie’s good spirits, and Griggs smiled. He had
large, sharp teeth, and Katharine thought of the wolf and the rabbit
again. It was strange that they should be on such good terms.
They sat down to luncheon. The dining-room, like every other part of
the small house, had been beautified as much as its position and
dimensions would allow. It had originally been small, but an extension
of glass had been built out into the yard, which Hester had turned into
a fernery. There were a great number of plants of many varieties, some
of which had been obtained with great difficulty from immense distances.
Hester had been told that it would be impossible to make them grow in an
inhabited room, but she had succeeded, and the result was something
altogether out of the common.
She admitted that, besides the attention she bestowed upon the plants
herself, they occupied the whole time of a specially trained gardener.
They were her only hobby, and where they were concerned, time and money
had no value for her. The dining-room itself was simple, but exquisite
in its way. There were a few pieces of wonderfully chiselled silver on
the sideboard, and the glasses on the table were Venetian and Bohemian,
and very old. The linen was as fine as fine writing paper, the porcelain
was plain white Sèvres. There was nothing superfluous, but there were
all the little, unobtrusive, almost priceless details which are the
highest expression “of intimate luxury--in which the eye alone receives
rest, while the other senses are flattered to the utmost. Colour and the
precious metals are terribly cheap things nowadays compared with what
appeals to touch and taste. There are times when certain dainties, like
terrapin, for instance, are certainly worth much more than their weight
in silver, if not quite their weight in gold. But as for that, to say
that a man is worth his weight in gold has ceased to mean very much.
Some ingenious persons have lately calculated that the average man’s
weight in gold would be worth about forty thousand dollars, and that a
few minutes’ worth of the income of some men living would pay for a
life-sized golden calf. The further development of luxury will be an
interesting thing to watch during the next century. A poor woman in New
York recently returned a roast turkey to a charitable lady who had sent
it to her, with the remark that she was accustomed to eat roast beef at
Christmas, though she ‘did not mind turkey on Thanksgiving Day.’
Katharine wondered how far such a man as Griggs, who said that he hated
music, could appreciate the excessive refinement of a luxury which could
be felt rather than seen. It was all familiar to Katharine, and there
were little things at the Crowdies which she longed to have at home.
Griggs ate his oysters in silence. Fletcher came to his elbow with a
decanter.
“Vin de Grave, sir?” enquired the old butler in a low voice.
“No wine, thank you,” said Griggs.
“There’s Sauterne, isn’t there, Walter?” asked Hester. “Perhaps Mr.
Griggs--”
“Griggs is a cold water man, like me,” answered Crowdie. “His secret
vice is to drink a bucket of it, when nobody is looking.”
Fletcher looked disappointed, and replaced the decanter on the
sideboard.
“It’s uncommon to see two men who drink nothing,” observed Hester. “But
I remember that Mr. Griggs never did.”
“Never--since you knew me, Mrs. Crowdie. I did when I was younger.”
“Did you? What made you give it up?”
Katharine felt a strange pain in her heart, as they began to talk of the
subject. The reality was suddenly coming back out of dreamland.
“I lost my taste for it,” answered Griggs, indifferently.
“About the same time as when you began to hate music, wasn’t it?” asked
Crowdie, gravely.
“Yes, I daresay.”
The elder man spoke quietly enough, and there was not a shade of
interest in his voice as he answered the question. But Katharine, who
was watching him unconsciously, saw a momentary change pass over his
face. He glanced at Crowdie with an expression that was almost savage.
The dark, weary eyes gleamed fiercely for an instant, the great veins
swelled at the lean temples, the lips parted and just showed the big,
sharp teeth. Then it was all over again and the kindly look came back.
Crowdie was not smiling, and the tone in which he had asked the question
showed plainly enough that it was not meant as a jest. Indeed, the
painter himself seemed unusually serious. But he had not been looking at
Griggs, nor had Hester seen the sudden flash of what was very like
half-suppressed anger. Katharine wondered more and more, and the little
incident diverted her thoughts again from the suggestion which had given
her pain.
“Lots of men drink water altogether, nowadays,” observed Crowdie. “It’s
a mistake, of course, but it’s much more agreeable.”
“A mistake!” exclaimed Katharine, very much astonished.
“Oh, yes--it’s an awful mistake,” echoed Griggs, in the most natural way
possible.
“I’m not so sure,” said Hester Crowdie, in a tone of voice which showed
plainly that the idea was not new to her.
“I don’t understand,” said Katharine, unable to recover from her
surprise. “I always thought that--” she checked herself and looked
across at the ferns, for her heart was hurting her again.
She suddenly realized, also, that considering what had happened on the
previous night, it was very tactless of Crowdie not to change the
subject. But he seemed not at all inclined to drop it yet.
“Yes,” he said. “In the first place, total abstinence shortens life.
Statistics show that moderate consumers of alcoholic drinks live
considerably longer than drunkards and total abstainers.”
“Of course,” assented Griggs. “A certain amount of wine makes a man lazy
for a time, and that rests his nerves. We who drink water accomplish
more in a given time, but we don’t live so long. We wear ourselves out.
If we were not the strongest generation there has been for centuries, we
should all be in our graves by this time.”
“Do you think we are a very strong generation?” asked Crowdie, who
looked as weak as a girl.
“Yes, I do,” answered Griggs. “Look at yourself and at me. You’re not an
athlete, and an average street boy of fifteen or sixteen might kill you
in a fight. That has nothing to do with it. The amount of actual hard
work, in your profession, which you’ve done--ever since you were a mere
lad--is amazing, and you’re none the worse for it, either. You go on,
just as though you had begun yesterday. Heaving weights and rowing races
is no test of what a man’s strength will bear in everyday life. You
don’t need big muscles and strong joints. But you need good nerves and
enormous endurance. I consider you a very strong man--in most ways that
are of any use.”
“That’s true,” said Mrs. Crowdie. “It’s what I’ve always been trying to
put into words.”
“All the same,” continued Griggs, “one reason why you do more than other
people is that you drink water. If we are strong, it’s because the last
generation and the one before it lived too well. The next generation
will be ruined by the advance of science.”
“The advance of science!” exclaimed Katharine. “But, Mr. Griggs--what
extraordinary ideas you have!”
“Have I? It’s very simple, and it’s absolutely true. We’ve had the
survival of the fittest, and now we’re to have the survival of the
weakest, because medical science is learning how to keep all the
weaklings alive. If they were puppies, they’d all be drowned, for fear
of spoiling the breed. That’s rather a brutal way of putting it, but
it’s true. As for the question of drink, the races that produce the most
effect on the world are those that consume the most meat and the most
alcohol. I don’t suppose any one will try to deny that. Of course, the
consequences of drinking last for many generations after alcohol has
gone out of use. It’s pretty certain that before Mohammed’s time the
national vice of the Arabs was drunkenness. So long as the effects
lasted--for a good many generations--they swept everything before them.
The most terrible nation is the one that has alcohol in its veins but
not in its head. But when the effects wore out, the Arabs retired from
the field before nations that drank--and drank hard. They had no
chance.”
“What a horrible view to take!” Katharine was really shocked by the
man’s cool statements, and most of all by the appearance of indisputable
truth which he undoubtedly gave to them.
“And as for saying that drink is the principal cause of crime,” he
continued, quietly finishing a piece of shad on his plate, “it’s the
most arrant nonsense that ever was invented. The Hindus are total
abstainers and always have been, so far as we know. The vast majority of
them take no stimulant whatever, no tea, no coffee. They smoke a little.
There are, I believe, about two hundred millions of them alive now, and
their capacity for most kinds of wickedness is quite as great as ours.
Any Indian official will tell you that. It’s pure nonsense to lay all
the blame on whiskey. There would be just as many crimes committed
without it, and it would be much harder to detect them, because the
criminals would keep their heads better under difficulties. Crime is in
human nature, like virtue--like most things, if you know how to find
them.”
“That’s perfectly true,” said Crowdie. “I believe every word of it. And
I know that if I drank a certain amount of wine I should have a better
chance of long life, but I don’t like the taste of it--couldn’t bear it
when I was a boy. I like to see men get mellow and good-natured over a
bottle of claret, too. All the same, there’s nothing so positively
disgusting as a man who has had too much.”
Hester looked at him quickly, warning him to drop the subject. But
Griggs knew nothing of the circumstances, and went on discussing the
matter from his original point of view.
“There’s a beast somewhere, in every human being,” he said,
thoughtfully. “If you grant the fact that it is a beast, it’s no worse
to look at than other beasts. But it’s quite proper to call a drunkard a
beast, because almost all animals will drink anything alcoholic which
hasn’t a bad taste, until they’re blind drunk. It’s a natural instinct.
Did you ever see a goat drink rum, or a Western pony drink a pint of
whiskey? All animals like it. I’ve tried it on lots of them. It’s an old
sailors’ trick.”
“I think it’s horrid!” exclaimed Hester. “Altogether, it’s a most
unpleasant subject. Can’t we talk of something else?”
“Griggs can talk about anything except botany, my dear,” said Crowdie.
“Don’t ask him about ferns, unless you want an exhibition of ignorance
which will startle you.”
Katharine sat still in silence, though it would have been easy for her
at that moment to turn the conversation into a new channel, by asking
Griggs the first question which chanced to present itself. But she could
not have spoken just then. She could not eat, either, though she made a
pretence of using her fork. The reality had come back out of dreamland
altogether this time, and would not be banished again. The long
discussion about the subject which of all others was most painful to
her, and the cynical indifference with which the two men had discussed
it, had goaded her memory back through all the details of the last
twenty-four hours. She was scarcely conscious that Hester had
interfered, as she became more and more absorbed by her own suffering.
“Shall we talk of roses and green fields and angels’ loves?” asked
Griggs. “How many portraits have you painted since last summer,
Crowdie?”
“By way of reminding me of roses you stick the thorns into me--four, I
think--and two I’m doing now, besides Miss Lauderdale’s. There’s been a
depression down town. That accounts for the small number. Portrait
painters suffer first. In hard times people don’t want them.”
“Yes,” answered Griggs, thoughtfully. “Portrait painters and hatters.
Did you know that, Crowdie? When money is tight in Wall Street, people
don’t bet hats, and the hatters say it makes a great difference.”
“That’s queer. And you--how many books have you written?”
“Since last summer? Only one--a boshy little thing of sixty thousand.”
“Sixty thousand what?” asked Hester. “Dollars?”
“Dollars!” Griggs laughed. “No--only words. Sixty thousand words. That’s
the way we count what we do. No--it’s a tiresome little thing. I had an
idea,--or thought I had,--and just when I got to the end of it I found
it was trash. That’s generally the way with me, unless I have a stroke
of luck. Haven’t you got an idea for me, Mrs. Crowdie? I’m getting old
and people won’t give me any, as they used to.”
“I wish I had! What do you want? A love story?”
“Of course. But what I want is a character. There are no new plots, nor
incidents, nor things of that sort, you know. Everything that’s ever
happened has happened so often. But there are new characters. The end of
the century, the sharp end of the century, is digging them up out of the
sands of life--as you might dig up clams with a pointed stick.”
“That’s bathos!” laughed Crowdie. “The sands of life--and clams!”
“I wish you’d stick to your daubs, Crowdie, and leave my English alone!”
said Griggs. “It sells just as well as your portraits. No--what I mean
is that just when fate is twisting the tail of the century--”
“Really, my dear fellow--that’s a little too bad, you know! To compare
the century to a refractory cow!”
“Crowdie,” said Griggs, gravely, “in a former state I was a wolf, and
you were a rabbit, and I gobbled you up. If you go on interrupting me,
I’ll do it again and destroy your Totem.”
Katharine started suddenly and stared at Griggs. It seemed so strange
that he should have used the very words--wolf and rabbit--which had been
in her mind more than once during the morning.
“What is it, Miss Lauderdale?” he asked, in some surprise. “You look
startled.”
“Oh--nothing!” Katharine hastened to say. “I happened to have thought of
wolves and rabbits, and it seemed odd that you should mention them.”
“Write to the Psychical Research people,” suggested Crowdie. “It’s a
distinct case of thought-transference.”
“I daresay it is,” said Griggs, indifferently. “Everything is
transferable--why shouldn’t thoughts be?”
“Everything?” repeated Crowdie. “Even the affections?”
“Oh, yes--even the affections--but punched, like a railway ticket,”
answered Griggs, promptly. Everybody laughed a little, except Griggs
himself.
“Of course the affections are transferable,” he continued, meditatively.
“The affections are the hat--the object is only the peg on which it’s
hung. One peg is almost as good as another--if it’s within reach; but
the best place for the hat is on the man’s own head. Nothing shields a
man like devoting all his affections to himself.”
“That’s perfectly outrageous!” exclaimed Hester Crowdie. “You make one
think that you don’t believe in anything! Oh, it’s too bad--really it
is!”
“I believe in ever so many things, my dear lady,” answered Griggs,
looking at her with a singularly gentle expression on his weather-beaten
face. “I believe in lots of good things--more than Crowdie does, as he
knows. I believe in roses, and green fields, and love, as much as you
do. Only--the things one believes in are not always good for one--it
depends--love’s path may lie among roses or among thorns; yet the path
always has two ends--the one end is life, if the love is true.”
“And the other?” asked Katharine, meeting his far-away glance.
“The other is death,” he answered, almost solemnly.
A momentary silence followed the words. Even Crowdie made no remark,
while both Hester and Katharine watched the elder man’s face, as women
do when a man who has known the world well speaks seriously of love.
“But then,” added Griggs himself, more lightly, and as though to destroy
the impression he had made, “most people never go to either end of the
path. They enter at one side, look up and down it, cross it, and go out
at the other. Something frightens them, or they don’t like the colour of
the roses, or they’re afraid of the thorns--in nine cases out of ten,
something drives them out of it.”
“How can one be driven out of love?” asked Katharine, gravely.
“I put the thing generally, and adorned it with nice similes and
things--and now you want me to explain all the details!” protested
Griggs, with a little rough laugh. “How can one be driven out of love?
In many ways, I fancy. By a real or imaginary fault of the other person
in the path, I suppose, as much as by anything. It won’t do to stand at
trifles when one loves. There’s a meaning in the words of the marriage
service--‘for better, for worse.’”
“I know there is,” said Katharine, growing pale, and choking herself
with the words in the determination to be brave.
“Of course there is. People don’t know much about one another when they
get married. At least, not as a rule. They’ve met on the stage like
actors in a play--and then, suddenly, they meet in private life, and are
quite different people. Very probably the woman is jealous and
extravagant, and has a temper, and has been playing the ingenuous young
girl’s parts on the stage. And the man, who has been doing the
self-sacrificing hero, who proposes to go without butter in order to
support his starving mother-in-law, turns out to be a gambler--or
drinks, or otherwise plays the fool. Of course that’s all very
distressing to the bride or the bridegroom, as the case may be. But it
can’t be helped. They’ve taken one another ‘for better, for worse,’ and
it’s turned out to be for worse. They can go to Sioux City and get a
divorce, but then that’s troublesome and scandalous, and one thing and
another. So they just put up with it. Besides, they may love each other
so much that the defects don’t drive them out of it. Then the bad one
drags down the good one--or, in rare cases, the good one raises the bad
one. Oh, yes--I’m not a cynic--that happens, too, from time to time.”
Crowdie looked at his wife with his soft, languishing glance, and if
Katharine had been watching him, she might have seen on his red lips
the smile she especially detested. But she was looking down and pressing
her hands together under the table. Hester Crowdie’s eyes were fixed on
her face, for she was very pale and was evidently suffering. Griggs also
looked at her, and saw that something unusual was happening.
“Mrs. Crowdie,” he said, vigorously changing the subject, as a man can
who has been leading the conversation, “if it isn’t a very rude
question, may I ask where you get the extraordinary ham you always have
whenever I lunch with you? I’ve been all over the world, and I’ve never
eaten anything like it. I’m not sure whether it’s the ham itself, or
some secret in the cooking.”
Mrs. Crowdie glanced at Katharine’s face once more, and then looked at
him. Crowdie also turned towards him, and Katharine slowly unclasped her
hands beneath the table, as though the bitterness of death were passed.
“Oh--the ham?” repeated Mrs. Crowdie. “They’re Yorkshire hams, aren’t
they, Walter? You always order them.”
“No, my dear,” answered Crowdie. “They’re American. We’ve not had any
English ones for two or three years. Fletcher gets them. He’s a better
judge than the cook. Griggs is quite right--there’s a trick about
boiling them--something to do with changing the water a certain number
of times before you put in the wine. Are you going to set up
housekeeping, Griggs? I should think that oatmeal and water and dried
herrings would be your sort of fare, from what I remember.”
“Something of that kind,” answered Griggs. “Anything’s good enough that
will support life.”
The luncheon came to an end without any further incident, and the
conversation ran on in the very smallest of small talk. Then Griggs, who
was a very busy man, lighted a cigarette and took his departure. As he
shook hands with Katharine, and bowed in his rather foreign way, he
looked at her once more, as though she interested him very much.
“I hope I shall see you again,” said Katharine, quietly.
“I hope so, indeed,” answered Griggs. “You’re very kind to say so.”
When he was gone the other three remained together in the little front
room, which has been so often mentioned.
“Will you sit for me a little longer, Miss Lauderdale?” asked Crowdie.
“Oh, don’t work any more just yet, Walter!” cried Hester, with sudden
anxiety.
“Why? What’s the matter?” enquired Crowdie in some surprise.
“You know what Mr. Griggs was just saying at luncheon. You work so
hard! You’ll overdo it some day. It’s perfectly true, you know. You
never give yourself any rest!”
“Except during about one-half of the year, my dear, when you and I do
absolutely nothing together in the most beautiful places in the
world--in the most perfect climates, and without one solitary little
shadow of a care for anything on earth but our two selves.”
“Yes--I know. But you work all the harder the rest of the time. Besides,
we haven’t been abroad this year, and you say we can’t get away for at
least two months. Do give yourself time to breathe--just after luncheon,
too. I’m sure it’s not good for him, is it Katharine?” she asked,
appealing to her friend.
“Of course not!” answered Katharine. “And besides, I must run home. My
dear, just fancy! I forgot to ask you to send word to say that I wasn’t
coming, and they won’t know where I am. But we lunch later than you
do--if I go directly, I shall find them still at table.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Hester. “You don’t want to go really? Do you? You
know, I could send word still--it wouldn’t be too late.” She glanced at
her husband, who shook his head, and smiled--he was standing behind
Katharine. “Well--if you must, then,” continued Hester, “I won’t keep
you. But come back soon. It seems to me that I never see you now--and I
have lots of things to tell you.”
Katharine shook hands with Crowdie, whose soft, white fingers felt cold
in hers. Hester went out with her into the entry, and helped her to put
on her thick coat.
“Take courage, dear!” said Mrs. Crowdie in a low voice, as she kissed
her. “It will come right in the end.”
Katharine looked fixedly at her for a few seconds, buttoning her coat.
“It’s not courage that I need,” she said slowly, at last. “I think I
have enough--good-bye--Hester, darling--good-bye!”
She put her arms round her friend and kissed her three times, and then
turned quickly and let herself out, leaving Hester standing in the
entry, wondering at the solemn way in which she had taken leave of her.