“Katharine! This is too much!” cried Alexander Junior, his anger rising
in his eyes.
The man’s heavy hand fell emphatically upon the mantelpiece, making the
old-fashioned gilt clock and the Chinese vases tremble and rattle. Mrs.
Lauderdale was not a nervous woman, but she rose from her seat and stood
beside her husband, not exactly as though she meant to take his side,
and yet not exactly as a peace-maker. She felt herself accused as much
as he did by the pale, strong girl who stood before them, one hand
hanging by her side, the other pulling nervously at the little silver
pin at her collar as though she felt that it was choking her. Of the
three, at that moment, Mrs. Lauderdale was by far the most
self-possessed.
“It’s true,” answered Katharine. “Every word of it’s true!”
As she spoke she caught her breath, and was obliged to stop, white with
anger.
“Katharine--my child! Don’t!” cried Mrs. Lauderdale, fearing she was
going to faint.
“I think you’d better go, my dear,” said Alexander to his wife. “She’s
beside herself. I’ll bring her to her senses.”
The passionate blood rose in the girl’s face and the words came again.
“No, mother--stay here!” she said. “You have no right to go away. Yes--I
say that for months you’ve been doing your best, both of you, to destroy
my happiness--and you’ll destroy my life with it, if I stay with you
longer. You’ve tried to separate me from the man I love, and you’ve been
trying every day and every hour to make me marry another man--pushing
him on, encouraging him, telling him that I would accept him--for all I
know, telling him that I loved him. I’ve not forgotten the things you’ve
done--I’ve not forgotten the day when you, mother, you who had stood by
us so long, suddenly turned without reason and told Jack to go away.
Here, in this very room, last winter--and you, papa--I’ve only to make
you remember how you took that letter when it was brought, and kept it
all day, and repeated all the lies that people told about Jack--and
mother read me the things in the papers--and you made me believe that he
had written to me when he was drunk. It was all a lie, a miserable,
infamous lie! And you liked it, and repeated it, and turned it over and
embroidered it and beautified it--to make it hurt me more. It did hurt
me--it almost killed me--but for Jack’s sake, I wish to God it had!”
“Katharine, this is blasphemy!” exclaimed her father, his cold eyes
glittering with rage--but he was not fluent, he could find no words to
dam the stream of hers.
“Blasphemy!” she cried, indignantly. “Is it blasphemy to pray--unless
your God is my Devil?”
Beside himself with passion, her father made a step forward, and with a
quick movement covered her mouth with one hand and grasped her arm with
the other. But he miscalculated her quickness as against his strength.
With a turn of the hand and wrist she was free and sprang backwards a
step.
“It’s like you to lay your hands on a woman, after trying to sell her!”
she cried, her lips turning a dull grey, her eyes colder and brighter
than his own.
Being roused, they were terribly well matched. Mrs. Lauderdale threw
herself between them. To do her justice, she faced her husband, with one
hand stretched out to warn him back.
“No, no, mother! don’t come between us. I’m not afraid--I only got my
mouth free to tell him that he’s a coward to lay his hands on me. But
that was his only answer, because the things I say are true--every one
of them, and more, too. That’s your one idea--both of you--to marry me
off and get me out of the house, because you can’t look me in the face
after the things you’ve done--after coming between me and Jack, as
you’ve tried to do, and would have done, if we’d loved each other
less--after trying to force me upon the first man who took a fancy to my
face--after tormenting me to betray uncle Robert’s confidence--and it’s
all been for money, and for nothing else. Money, money, money!”
“My child, you’re mad!” cried Mrs. Lauderdale. “What has money to do
with it? What are you talking about? Do you know that you’re making the
most insane accusations?”
“Let her talk,” said Alexander, in a low, sullen voice. “She doesn’t
know what she’s saying.”
Ashamed of his outbreak, perhaps, or in sheer helplessness against
Katharine’s desperate speech, he had fallen back again and stood leaning
against the mantelpiece, his arms folded over his broad chest, his hands
twitching at his sleeve, his pale mouth set like a steel trap, a dull,
dangerous light in his eyes.
“You’re mistaken,” continued Katharine. “It’s all for money. Money’s at
the root of every action of your life. You didn’t want me to marry Jack
because he’s poor, and because uncle Robert might not leave him
anything. Money! You thought at first you could make me take Hamilton
Bright, because he’s cared for me so long--and because he’s beginning to
be rich and is a partner in Bemans’--money, again! Archie
Wingfield--how many millions will he have? Money--of course. Uncle
Robert’s will--what shall you get by it? Money--and you’d tear the
figures out of my head with red hot pincers if you could--just to know
how much you’ll have when the poor man’s dead. Ever since we were
children, Charlotte and I, you’ve preached economy and saving and
poverty--you’ve let my mother--your wife--and you’re the nephew of the
great Robert Lauderdale--you’ve let her work her hands and her eyes till
they ached to make a little money herself--not for herself only, but for
us. No--don’t smile contemptuously like that. She’s done it all my life,
and she’s doing it still. Your children could scarcely have been
decently dressed, if she hadn’t earned a few hundred dollars for them.
There’s hardly a thing I have on that she’s not paid for out of her
earnings. We couldn’t have gone to our first ball, Charlotte or I, but
for her. And still, day after day, you say you’re poor. Do you think I
don’t see all the little meannesses? Do you think I can’t smell the vile
cigars you make grandpapa smoke, to save those few cents? Is there a
house among all our friends, poor as some of them are, where there isn’t
a fire in the library, at least in the evening, even when there’s nobody
asked to dinner? Economy, saving, meanness of all sorts--even the poor
housemaid who broke her arm on the kitchen stairs! You sent to the
hospital the day before she was to leave, half-cured and helpless, and
made her sign the declaration that she made no further claim upon you.
She came here when you were down town. Mother gave her five dollars--out
of her earnings--but I heard her story. Oh, they’re endless, your ways
of saving that filthy, miserable money of yours!”
“Are you really mad, Katharine?” asked her father, in a dull, monotonous
voice.
“Child! You know we’re comparatively poor,” said Mrs. Lauderdale.
“Come--dear child--”
She laid her hand on the girl’s arm as though she would lead her away
and end the violent scene, but Katharine stood firm.
“Poor!” she cried, indignantly. “Comparatively poor! Yes--compared with
uncle Robert or Mr. Beman, perhaps. But papa is not poor, though he has
told you so for years, though he lets you work for money--you! Though he
borrows five dollars of you--I’ve seen it again and again--and never
returns it--borrows the poor little sums you earn by hard work! Oh, it’s
not to be believed! Borrows without ever meaning to give it back--like
an honest man--oh, he wouldn’t dare to do that with his dearest friend.
But you! You can’t help yourself--”
“My dear, he keeps an account--”
“I know, I know! He pretends that he keeps the money for you and allows
you interest! I’ve heard him say so. Interest on five dollars. And have
you ever had it? Sordid--mean--there’s no word! And he keeps telling you
that he’s poor, and that we must pinch and scrape or we shall go beyond
our income--when he has over a million of dollars put away--”
“Be silent!” cried Alexander Junior, with sudden vehemence, his cheeks
as grey as ashes.
“I won’t be silent! I’ll say every word I have to say. Look me in the
face. Deny, if you dare, before God, that what I say is true--that you
have that money put away somewhere. Is it true, or not, as you hope to
be saved?”
Mrs. Lauderdale came between them again, laying her hands on Katharine’s
arm and trying to make her leave the room.
“Take care, take care!” she cried, anxiously, and hardly knowing what
she said. “Alexander--Katharine! Don’t--oh, please don’t quarrel like
this--my child, my child! You’re beside yourself!”
“I’m not--it’s true as life and death!” answered the girl, resisting the
pressure. “Ask him if it’s not! Make him swear that it’s not true--make
him say, before heaven, that he has less than a million, while he’s
selling his daughters and forcing his wife to work. Wait--don’t
speak--listen to what he says! If he can’t say it, his whole life has
been a lie, and he knows it--wait--hush!”
Katharine held her mother fast by the hands, and seemed to hold her own
breath, her angry eyes fixed on her father’s face. Mrs. Lauderdale
turned her head instinctively, and looked at him. He met their glances
for a few seconds, and his dry, pale lips parted as though he were about
to speak, but no sound came. In the waning light his eyes had a glassy
look. It only lasted a moment, and then his mouth was twisted with an
expression meant for a smile.
“Take her away--she’s mad,” he said, and his voice seemed to be suddenly
weak.
Katharine laughed aloud, bitterly and cruelly, in her triumph.
“If I were mad, as you say I am,” she said, a moment later, “that would
not make it impossible for you to tell the truth. Yes, mother--I’m going
now. I’ve said it all--and you know it’s true.”
She dropped her mother’s hands, turned contemptuously away, and left the
room. Neither her father nor her mother moved as she went, though they
followed her with their eyes until the door closed behind her with a
soft click.
Alexander Lauderdale was torn by the strongest emotions of which he was
capable--anger and avarice. But avarice was the stronger. So long as
Katharine had accused him of unkindness, of dishonesty in his treatment
of Wingfield, of meanness in his household, his wrath, though powerless,
had kept the upper hand. But at the sudden and unexpected accusation of
possessing a fortune in secret, he had been cowed. It was characteristic
of him that even in that moment he would not swear falsely, and he saw
the folly of denying the statement if he could not support his denial
with something like an oath. When passions have reached such a crisis,
they are not satisfied with less than they demand. On the whole, it had
been wiser to say nothing. He could admit afterwards that he had saved
something--he would assure his wife that Katharine’s statement had been
exaggerated--little by little, calm would be restored. And there would
not necessarily be any increase of expenditure. At that crucial moment
two thoughts had been uppermost in his mind. The miser’s dismay at the
discovery of his wealth, and the miser’s visions of ruinous expense in
the immediate future. In a flash, he had seen himself forced to spend
fifty or sixty thousand a year, instead of ten or twelve, and all
possible forms of reckless extravagance had appeared to him in a horror
of kaleidoscopic confusion. It was torture to think of it--to realize
that his secret was out.
The strong man stood, half-stunned, leaning against the mantelpiece,
pulling nervously at the bit of embroidered velvet which covered it,
his face drawn in an expression of suffering and fear. He dreaded the
question which he knew that his wife would ask him, but he had not even
the power to speak at that moment, in order to ward it off.
Mrs. Lauderdale hesitated a moment, wondering whether it might not be
better to follow Katharine to her room and try to calm her and make her
more reasonable. Never, in all the girl’s life, had her mother seen her
so passionately angry nor heard her use the tone of defying strength
which had rung in her voice as she accused her father. Mrs. Lauderdale
herself was frightened, and almost feared for Katharine’s reason. But
there had, nevertheless, been so much assurance of truth in what she had
said, that her mother was half convinced. Before she left the room to
follow her daughter, she turned to her husband, and the inevitable
question came. It could not be otherwise. The girl’s accusation had
vividly brought before Mrs. Lauderdale the labour she had expended in
all the past years, and of which the result had been to give her
children what it was their father’s duty to give them if he had anything
to give. Many a time, too, she herself had chafed under the necessity of
lending him small sums for an emergency, accepting a promise of payment
which was never fulfilled, and forced to be satisfied with the assurance
that he kept an account of what he owed her. He seemed never to have
money about him. He always said that he was afraid of losing it--he, the
most careful of men! The cumulative force of those many small meannesses
extending over a quarter of a century of married life was tremendous
when they were brought up in a body and made to face the positive
statement that he was in reality a rich man. A good wife she had been to
Alexander Junior in every sense of the word, but of that early trusting
love which hides more sins than the multitude of them which charity can
cover, there was not left even the warmth where the spark had glowed.
There was no ‘a priori’ judgment of one heart against all possible
offence and sordid meanness in the other. Katharine’s blow had been
heavy and direct, and had gone straight to its mark. Her mother loved
her--in spite of her terrible envy of her. It would need the man’s
solemn oath to outweigh the girl’s plain statement. The inevitable
question came, as Alexander knew that it must. He moved nervously as she
began to speak.
“Alexander, dear,” she said, speaking gently from force of habit, “it
would be very easy for you to deny this.”
He had thought of what he should say.
“My dear, I think that after spending half a lifetime together, during
which you’ve had occasion to find out that I’m truthful, it’s scarcely
necessary to pay any attention to an angry child’s ravings.”
But Mrs. Lauderdale was not satisfied with this poor excuse. Katharine
had roused her own resentment, and she remembered many things now, which
Katharine herself did not know--little things--the dry sticks that will
make a smouldering fire blaze.
“It’s precisely because you’re so truthful that it seems strange when
you refuse to answer a simple question, Alexander,” observed Mrs.
Lauderdale, quietly enough.
She did not wish to take up Katharine’s quarrel, nor to give the present
conversation the air of an argument. She therefore did not stay beside
him, as though they were discussing any point, but moved about the room,
pretending to arrange small objects and books and generally to set the
room in order, which was a work of supererogation, to keep herself in
countenance while she renewed the attack.
“You admit that I’m truthful,” said Alexander, coldly. “I’m glad you do.
That settles the question at once. If I’ve been a rich man all these
years, then I’ve not been telling the truth, nor acting it, either. It’s
all too absurd for discussion. I confess that at first I was angry. The
girl spoke to me in the most outrageous manner. I don’t remember that
any one has ever said anything of the kind to me in my life. It’s
wrong to be angry, and I repent of it, but I think I may be
pardoned--considering what she said. It’s been a disgraceful scene. I’m
sincerely thankful that none of the servants were present.”
“Oh--it was natural that you should lose your temper, of course!”
“Human, at all events,” said Alexander, with dignity; “I don’t think
I’ve ever made any pretence of possessing superior virtues. A man may
justifiably lose his temper sometimes. ‘Be angry and sin not.’ I did not
intend to be violent.”
“No--of course not! Still--”
“Yes. I took her by the arm and deliberately laid my hand upon her
mouth. That was not violence. Few men of sincere convictions would have
done less, considering the blasphemous words she was uttering. It’s the
duty of parents to hinder their children from committing such sins, when
they can. In the case of a man, I should have used my strength to
enforce silence. As it was, I merely covered her mouth with my hand. I
recollect that you came between us, as though you thought I meant to be
violent. Nothing could have been further from my thoughts, I assure
you.”
“I trust so,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, taking a package of envelopes out of
the little stationery rack on the writing-table, turning it round and
putting it back again.
“With regard to Archibald Wingfield,” continued Alexander, getting
further and further from the question of the money, “you know as well as
I do, that we have treated him precisely as we treated Slayback, when he
wished to marry Charlotte. As for me, I told him that I saw no reason
why Katharine might not--‘might not ultimately,’ mind you--accept an
offer which was so agreeable to me personally. I fail to see anything
which can be criticised in that answer. I should by no means like to say
positively, even now, that Katharine ‘might not ultimately’ accept him.
That would amount to denying the existence of an evident possibility,
which is absurd. She may, so far as that goes. I don’t say she will. I
say, she may. Young women frequently change their minds, and sometimes
for the better. Let us hope for the best. Of course I don’t know every
word of what you said to him, though you did your best on each occasion
to tell me all about it. I gathered that you gave him very much the same
sort of negative encouragement that I did. Practically, we told him to
try his luck.”
Mrs. Lauderdale had rarely heard her husband speak so long
consecutively. He was not fluent, as a rule, and in the recent quarrel
with Katharine he had been almost speechless. But now he was talking for
his life, as it were. If he lost the position of domination which he had
held so long with his wife, his existence must be shaken to its
foundation. He barely gave her a chance to introduce a word.
“I’m not so positively sure, myself,” she said. “Of course I didn’t mean
to convey any wrong impression to young Wingfield, but--”
“But you may perhaps have pardonably exceeded your powers,” interrupted
Alexander, anxious that she should not commit herself. “Very pardonable,
my dear, very pardonable. Such things happen constantly, even in
business. Of course the party who goes beyond his instructions bears the
responsibility in case anything goes wrong. Just so in the present case.
If there is any responsibility, which may be doubted, it’s yours and not
mine, for I’m positively certain of the words I spoke--of the very
words. I said ‘might not ultimately accept’--I recollect very
distinctly, and you know how accurate my memory is.”
“Yes--I know,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, in a tone which might have been
thought to give the words a doubtful meaning.
“Of course you do, my dear. If Wingfield got a wrong impression,--‘if he
did,’ mind you,--he must have got it from you. I think you might perhaps
explain that to Katharine--when she’s a little calmer. I can’t allow her
to think that her father, whom she’s bound to respect, should have done
such a thing. A man’s actions carry much more weight than a woman’s. I
couldn’t allow her to think that I’d taken her feelings for granted.
There’s no immediate hurry, Emma, but I should be glad if you would
explain it to her. It will help to restore peace. As for her reasons for
rejecting Wingfield,” he continued, without pausing for his wife’s
answer, “I regret them very much. It’s a miserable thing to see such a
girl wasting her chances of happiness on such a reprobate as Jack
Ralston, and I do her the honour to say that such an affection can’t
possibly be lasting. As for her marrying him, of course that’s
altogether outside the question. I’m sure she clings to the attachment
far more out of a desire to oppose my wishes in everything, than because
she really cares for that vagabond. I’ve not the slightest fear that
she’ll ever marry him. I’m sure you don’t think so, either.”
“Unless she runs away with him,” suggested Mrs. Lauderdale.
She was annoyed by the skill with which he, who was ordinarily less
keen, had passed from the main subject in question to a side issue. She
did not know how a great passion like avarice can sharpen wits under
danger of discovery.
“Oh, well!” exclaimed Alexander, with much dignity. “If she runs away
with the fellow, that puts her altogether beyond the pale of our love,
and we shall have done with her. We won’t discuss that. The objection
to this pretence of loving Ralston--for I’m convinced that it’s nothing
else--is that it keeps her from marrying a man worthy of her, like
Archibald Wingfield. Of course there are people far richer than the
Wingfields--uncle Robert, for instance, besides the others who are so
much richer even than he, and count their millions by the hundred; but
taking him all in all, there’s not a better match in society--for looks,
and education, and position, and health, too, which I regard as a very
important consideration. You must agree with me, my dear--Wingfield
would have made an excellent husband.”
“Of course I agree with you, Alexander. What an unnecessary question!”
“My dear, when the very foundations of one’s life are being torn up and
thrown out of the window by a silly girl, it becomes necessary to ask
all the simplest questions over again.”
This extraordinary simile produced no very convincing effect on Mrs.
Lauderdale, who had listened to phrase after phrase of his long tirades
with exemplary outward resignation, for the sake of allowing peace to be
restored by the overflow of self-conscious virtue, but with little
inward patience.
“I think the best thing to do is to let the whole matter drop, and hope
that Katharine will change her mind,” she said, sensibly.
“Yes. Let’s hope that, at all events. Emma, we can’t have any more
scenes like this. If Katharine breaks out in this way again, I shall
refuse to see her. You may, if you please. But I will not. When I’m at
home she shall stay in her room.”
“But that’s impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale, in astonishment.
“You wouldn’t treat a child like that!”
“I would,” answered Alexander, and his lips snapped on the words. “And I
will, if there’s any repetition of such conduct. That’s a matter for me
to judge, Emma, and I don’t wish you to interfere. She has accused her
own father of being a liar, of selling her, of being a miser, and of
stealing his wife’s money. You can’t deny that, and I presume you’ve no
intention of supporting the accusations. Yes, even as it is, I prefer
that Katharine should not appear this evening. When she’s begged my
pardon for what she’s done, I’ll consent to see her. Not before. Pray
tell her that this is my decision, Emma.”
“But, Alexander, I never heard of such a thing! Of course she lost her
temper and was awfully rude to you, and I’m very much displeased with
her. But really--you can’t treat a grown woman like a baby. It’s too
absurd.”
“It’s not absurd, my dear. You must excuse me if I adopt Katharine’s
method of contradiction. The only way to treat her is to treat her as a
child. If we consider her to be a grown woman, we must either resent
what she’s done--as though she were any other woman--or else take it for
granted that she is temporarily insane, and drive her out to
Bloomingdale Asylum to-morrow morning to be cured. But so long as we
regard the whole thing as childish, it’s sufficient to tell her that
she’s not to come to table until she’s begged my pardon. Don’t you see?”
Mrs. Lauderdale was aware that he was talking nonsense, approximately
speaking, and she saw that he meant to do a very unwise thing. But as he
put it, the only good argument against his course would have been to
prove that Katharine was right and that he was wrong, which, with some
allowance for undue and angry exaggeration, would be equivalent to
proving him a miser and anything but a straightforward person. Mrs.
Lauderdale’s trouble was considerable at that moment.
“You may be right in theory,” she said, almost despairingly, “but in
practice I think you’re quite wrong. One doesn’t do that sort of thing
nowadays. If we’ve all got to fight like mad people, let’s keep it to
ourselves--”
“That’s precisely what I’m thinking of,” interrupted Alexander, whose
resolution was growing stronger every moment.
“Yes--but, my dear! The servants--and your father, too! I don’t think
he’s very discreet--”
“Yes, exactly, my dear Emma. That’s just how I look at it. I think I
know Katharine quite as well as you do, and I’m sure that if she has an
opportunity of attacking me, she will, before the servants and before my
father. I should much rather let people know that I had told Katharine
to stay in her room until she could treat me with proper respect, than
have such a conversation as has just taken place here repeated all over
New York. I’m sure you see that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, suddenly comprehending his point of
view. “But it seems to me that if there’s to be such an open break, it
would be better to let Katharine go down to Washington for a few days
and stay with Charlotte.”
“Certainly not!” exclaimed Alexander. “You know what Charlotte is, and
what trouble we have had with her. The two girls would make common
cause. Not at all. Not at all, Emma. I shall be glad if you will go at
once and tell Katharine what I’ve said--that I don’t wish to see her
until she has made amends for her outrageous conduct.”
“But, Alexander,” protested Mrs. Lauderdale, “it will be so
inconvenient--sending her dinner upstairs!”
“I daresay it won’t be for long. She’ll understand in a day or two, I’ve
no doubt.”
“I can’t do it,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, trying to make a stand. “It’s too
utterly--extraordinary--”
“My dear, I’m the master in this house,” answered Alexander, coldly. “I
wish it to be so. But if you’d rather not speak to her, I’ll go myself.
She irritates me, but I’m glad to say she doesn’t intimidate me. As for
such domestic difficulties as serving Katharine in her own room, they
can be got over. Let your maid take the child her dinner.”
“Well--if you insist, I’ll go,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, weakly yielding.
“I couldn’t let you go--you’d quarrel again.”
“I don’t insist upon your going, my dear--I have no right to. But I
insist upon the thing being done.”
Mrs. Lauderdale went towards the door. She paused before she went out.
“I think you’re going too far, Alexander,” she said. “I think you’re
tyrannical.”
“I think not,” he answered, coolly. “I should refuse to sit down to
table with a man who had used such language to me. I don’t see why I
should submit to it from Katharine.”
“Well--”
Mrs. Lauderdale closed the door behind her, and slowly went upstairs,
feeling as though she had been driven from the field after a crushing
defeat. Yet she had made very little resistance. With her, the man’s
cold, arrogant personality was dominant. She had always submitted to it
because there seemed to be no other course. She was conscious of wishing
that during the last five minutes she might have possessed her
daughter’s character and fighting qualities, especially when her husband
had quietly thrust all the blame about the treatment of Wingfield upon
herself, without considering for a moment that his own words might have
been misinterpreted.
She did not altogether sympathize with him against Katharine. For many
years she had felt the galling of his miserable meanness, and had many
times suspected that he was by no means as poor as he chose to declare
himself to be.