Ralston was mistaken in supposing that Katharine had abandoned all idea
of leaving the house on the Park because it was so late. Depressed as
she was, and in almost constant pain from her arm, the atmosphere was
altogether too melancholy for her to bear. Moreover, she saw how utterly
unnatural her staying must seem in the eyes of the world, should her
acquaintances ever find out that she had remained all alone in the great
house after her uncle’s death. After Mrs. Ralston had left her, she had
made up her mind to leave in any case, had caused her belongings to be
got ready, and had ordered a carriage. But she had not quite decided
whither she would go, and Ralston found her in the library still turning
the matter over.
“Oh, Jack!” she cried, “I’m so glad you’ve come, dear!”
“I came this morning,” he answered. “But you weren’t awake yet. You’re
dressed to go out--surely you’re not going to move at this hour? Tell
me--how’s the arm? Does it hurt you much?”
“Oh--it hurts, of course,” said Katharine, almost indifferently. “That
is--it’s numb, don’t you know? But Doctor Routh says there’s nothing to
be done for a day or two, and he hasn’t moved the bandages. Now don’t
talk about it any more--there are other things much more important. Sit
down, Jack--there, in uncle Robert’s chair. Poor uncle Robert!” she
exclaimed, in a different tone, realizing that the old man would never
sit beside her again.
“Poor man!” echoed Ralston, with real sorrow in his voice.
There was silence for a moment while they both thought of him. The
stillness of the whole house was oppressive. There was an odour of many
fresh flowers, and the peculiar smell of new black stuffs which the
disposers of the dead bring with them. With a sort of instinct of
sympathy, John bent down and kissed the gloved wrist of Katharine’s left
hand as it lay on the arm of the easychair. She looked at him quickly,
moved her hand a little towards him in thanks, and smiled sadly before
she spoke.
“Jack--I can’t stay here,” she said. “I’m not nervous, you know, but I’m
not quite myself after all this. It’s too awfully melancholy. Every time
I go to my room I have to pass the door of the room where he’s
lying--and then I go in and look at him. It’s got to be a fixed idea--if
I go near the door I have to go in. And it brings it all back. Then all
the people--they come in shoals. There have been ever so many who’ve
wanted to look. It’s that horrible curiosity about death. All the
relations. Even the three Miss Miners came. I thought they’d never go.
Of course I don’t see them, so I have to be always dodging in here or
into the drawing-room, or the gallery, or else I have to stay in my
room. It will be worse to-morrow.”
“Yes,” answered Ralston. “You ought not to stay.” He paused a moment.
“Dear,” he added, “I want you to know it at once--I’ve told my mother
that we’re married--”
“Oh, Jack!” exclaimed Katharine, taken by surprise.
“It was much better. I am not sure that it wouldn’t have been better to
tell her long ago. She was hurt, because I’d kept it from her--but she’s
very glad, all the same. You see, she would have had to know it all some
day--don’t you think I was right to tell her?”
“Yes--I suppose so. Do you know? I’m a little bit afraid of
her--well--not exactly afraid, perhaps--I don’t know how to express
it--”
“You needn’t be. She thinks there’s nobody like you!”
“I’m glad she’s fond of me,” said Katharine. “I’m glad you’ve told
her--I was a little surprised at first, that was all. Yes--I’m glad that
she knows.”
She was evidently thinking over the situation, wondering, perhaps, what
her next meeting with her mother-in-law was to be like.
“She’s been here with you, hasn’t she?” asked John, resuming the
conversation after a short pause.
“Yes, and my own mother, too--and then Mr. Allen, and dear old
grandpapa. Poor old gentleman! He sat in a chair and cried like a baby
when he went in. And then the reading of the will--and the endless
people--the people who have to do with the funeral, you know. All those
things jar on me. I must get away. I can’t stand it another hour--at
least--not alone. I think I shall go home, after all.”
“Home?” repeated Ralston, in surprise. “But how can you, after all this?
Just think how your father will behave! Especially since he’s heard of
the will. I’m sure he expected to divide everything with my mother,
unless he managed to get it all for himself. I see why you promised not
to tell after uncle Robert had told you--”
“No--you don’t see, Jack,” answered Katharine, thoughtfully. “I wonder
whether it would be right for me to tell you now. I suppose so. It may
make a difference, though I suppose it can’t, really.”
“Do just as you feel, yourself,” said Ralston. “You know what he said--I
don’t. I can’t judge for you.”
Katharine was silent for a few moments. Then it seemed best to confide
in him, and she turned towards him suddenly.
“I’ll tell you, Jack. This is not the will he told me of. It’s quite
different in every way. It was only made a few days ago.”
“Well, then, this is the valid one.”
“Yes--of course. The secretary knew where it was--in a drawer of this
desk, here. Uncle Robert had told him it was there, only two days ago,
in case of his death. The key was on his chain, on the dressing-table
upstairs. You see the secretary was one of the witnesses.”
“That’s an advantage, anyway. Witnesses are often hard to find, I know.
So this will is quite different from the old one?”
“Oh--quite! The one he told me about left everything to you and
Charlotte and me--in three trusts, I think he said. We were all to give
half our income to the parents--papa and my mother and your mother--and
we were all to support grandpapa. The Brights were to have a million,
and there was something for the Miners.”
“Why, that would have given you and me two-thirds of the fortune! That
would hardly have been fair.”
“No--it seemed a great deal. But you see he changed his mind before he
died. It’s much more just, as it is--though it does seem as though
grandpapa and papa ought to have more than the Brights.”
“I don’t see why, if you look at it logically--they’re descended just as
directly from our great-great-grandfather--”
“Yes--but what had he to do with it? The money didn’t come from him.”
“No--still--to avoid all quarrelling, there was no other way. Only--it’s
going to make the biggest family quarrel there’s ever been since wills
were invented. That’s the real logic of events. Things always turn out
like that. ‘Better is the enemy of good,’ you know. Now, let me see.
Your father is going to try and break the will, of course. Your
grandfather will go with him, because if there’s no will, he’ll get
half--for his asylums and charities. Then I suppose I ought to advise my
mother to go with him against the will, too, if there’s any good ground
for breaking it. Of course we don’t want half of what he’s left us, as
it is--but still, if it’s law, it’s law, and there’s no reason why we
shouldn’t have what belongs to us, if it does belong to us. The Crowdies
are as prosperous as possible. Ham Bright’s getting rich, I know--and
then--I say, Katharine, if this will breaks down, would the will he told
you about be good, if we could find it? That’s a curious question. I
must ask a lawyer.”
“I don’t know anything about those things. But it’s getting late, Jack.
I must be going--somewhere, but where, I can’t tell! I think I’d much
better go home and face it out with papa. I’m right, and he’s wrong, and
he’s got to give in sooner or later. I’d much better go, and put an end
to all this--this tension.”
“You’re brave enough for anything!” exclaimed Ralston, with admiration.
“Still, if I were you, I wouldn’t go till after the funeral, at all
events. Don’t you think if my mother came here and stayed with you--”
“No, no, Jack! I can’t stand it any longer. I can’t help going to look
at him--I should go in the night--and it’s making me nervous.”
“How funny! But if you don’t want to go into the room, why do you go?”
“I can’t help it--I don’t know. I’m a woman, you know, and those things
take hold of one so!”
“Somebody ought to stay. I think I will. But you’d much better go to the
Crowdies’. I know you can’t bear him, but it would only be for a couple
of days. You’d be with Hester all the time, and you like her, and you
needn’t see much of him.”
“I thought of going to the Brights’. Old Mrs. Bright and I are great
friends.”
“No--don’t! It’s hard on Ham. He’s so awfully in love with you.”
“Yes--perhaps he is. But he’s down town all day--I should only see him
at dinner, and a little in the evening.”
“Don’t be ruthless, Katharine!” exclaimed John, with almost involuntary
reproach in his tone.
“Ruthless?” she repeated. “I don’t understand. What is there that’s
ruthless in that? I could see you so much more freely.”
“Why--don’t you know how it hurts--that sort of thing? To go and stay
under the same roof with a man who loves you, when you know, and he
knows, that you can never possibly love him?”
“I suppose it does,” answered Katharine, vaguely. “I hadn’t thought of
that. But then, you know, Ham would never say anything, any more than if
he knew we were married.”
“That just makes it so much the harder,” replied Ralston, smiling at her
woman’s view of the case. “Don’t you see?”
“Well--of course, if you don’t want me to go, Jack, I won’t. I believe
you’re jealous of Ham!” She laughed a little and looked at him lovingly.
“There’s no fear of that,” he said. “But he’s always been a good friend
to me. I know what he’d suffer for those two or three days, though you
can’t understand it, I suppose. I don’t want him to suffer on my
account.”
“Oh, very well. It seemed simpler, that’s all. I dislike Walter Crowdie
so--I can’t tell you! I thought of going to your house. I suppose you
thought of it, too--but, of course, it wouldn’t do at all.” She laughed
again, a little nervously this time.
“It’s not to be thought of,” answered Ralston, gravely.
“Then there’s nothing for it but to go to the Crowdies’. Will you take
me down there? I’ve ordered the carriage, and I suppose it’s ready by
this time. There can’t be any harm in our driving down together, can
there?”
“Oh, no--I should think not. We’ll pull the shades half down. Is it one
of uncle Robert’s carriages?”
“No--I sent to the livery stable. The men have no mourning coats--and I
thought it would be odd if the carriage were seen driving about as
though nothing had happened.”
Ralston could not help contrasting the tactful foresight of this
proceeding with Katharine’s readiness to inflict any amount of pain upon
Hamilton Bright. It was quite true that he could see her alone more
easily at the Brights’ than at the Crowdies’, but his own consideration
for his friend altogether outweighed the thought. Katharine saw that it
did. She returned to the discussion when they were in the carriage.
“I should have thought you’d prefer to see me at the Brights’, Jack,”
she said. “It would be so much nicer. Of course, at the Crowdies’ I
can’t be always sending Hester off whenever you come. How strange you
are sometimes! You don’t seem to see things as I do.”
“Not this, anyway,” cried John, arranging the shades as the carriage
turned into Fifth Avenue. “I’m sorry for Ham.”
“I should think you’d sacrifice him a little for the sake of seeing me.”
Her tone showed that she was a little hurt.
“Oh--of course! That is--” he interrupted himself--“that is, you know,
if it were very important.”
“But isn’t it important--as you call it? I wonder whether it means as
much to you as it does to me?” She looked at him.
“What?” he asked.
“Our meeting just as often as we can, for a minute, for an hour, to be
together as long as possible. You don’t seem to care as much as I do?”
“Indeed I do!” protested John, laying his hand on hers. “How can you say
such a thing, dear? You know how much I care!”
“Yes--but I sometimes wonder--” She hesitated. “You don’t think that
means that there is any difference in our love, do you?” she asked
suddenly, as though she could not help it.
“Why, no! What difference should there be? We both care just the
same--only each in our own way, I suppose.”
Ralston’s experience was limited, and he was not to be blamed for being
a little obtuse and slow to understand. This was a new phase, too, and
he was ready to reproach himself with having inadvertently been the
cause of it.
“That’s just it,” answered Katharine. “You say, each in our own way--it
seems to me that there’s only one way--and that’s the very most that can
be. That’s what I mean, dear. There mustn’t be two ways. There’s only
one way of caring.”
“Well--that’s our way, isn’t it?” asked Ralston, watching her tenderly.
“Not if it isn’t just the same for both of us. Because you’re a man and
I’m a woman--that’s not a reason for there being any difference--I’m
sure it isn’t, Jack!” she added, earnestly.
“Of course not!” he answered, not at all seeing what else he could say.
“Yes--but--” She stopped again and looked into his eyes.
John was not good at phrases. Under great emotion he could be eloquent
in few words--with the short, burning syllables, trembling like
fire-tongues from a furnace, which break through a man’s outer self now
and then. But at the present moment he felt no deep emotion--scarcely
any emotion at all, in fact. For months he had been used to the idea
that the beautiful young girl by his side was his lawful wife. For
months he had been accustomed to short, half-clandestine meetings. The
great thing, his real life with her, was as far off as ever, in his
heart’s sight, though his reason told him that the long period of
probation was drawing to a close. A habit had formed itself in his heart
of taking for granted, without words, that each loved the other truly,
and that each was waiting for the other. He had won her long ago. His
business of late had been to overcome circumstances, and he felt that
his actions might speak for him now, without language to help them. Yet
he felt sorely at the present moment the need of the phrase, and the
absence of the heart-beat that might prompt it. He saw that she missed
it, but though he loved her so dearly he could not force it to come. She
should have been thankful that he could not, and grateful to fate for
his inexperience.
It is a long drive from the corner of the Park to Lafayette Place, where
the Crowdies lived. The distance is fully two miles and a half, and John
realized that in the twenty minutes before him there was time for many
misunderstandings. With his natural directness, he spoke out.
“Darling,” he said, “don’t let’s be foolish, and quarrel over
nothings--”
“Quarrel? With you? Why--I’d rather die, Jack dear! It’s not that. I was
only thinking--”
She stopped, evidently with no intention of completing the sentence,
which meant, doubtless, a great deal to her, though it was vague to him.
But he had begun his explanation, and was not to be hindered from
pursuing it to the end.
“Yes, I know,” he replied, as though setting aside all her possible
objections. “Let’s look at it sensibly. It amounts to this. We both love
each other with all our hearts. You always say ‘care’ instead of ‘love.’
I suppose it’s a euphemism. But I say it just as it is. Do you think we
should have gone through all we have for each other if we didn’t love
with all our hearts? I know we couldn’t. And as for me, I’m perfectly
sure I never cared two straws for any one else. Aren’t you?”
“Jack!” exclaimed Katharine, almost offended at the idea.
“Yes--well,” he continued, rapidly, “it isn’t possible to say which has
done the most, or said the most, for the other’s sake. I think you’ve
done more for me than I have for you, if you want to know--but that’s
been the result of circumstances. You know I’d have done anything under
the sun, at any moment, don’t you?”
“Of course I do! Do you think I’d have made you marry me if I hadn’t
known that?”
“Well--that’s all right. As for saying things--I’ve said a great deal
more than you have. I’ve told you I love you several hundred thousand
times in the last year or two--haven’t I?”
“Yes--I’ve not counted.” Katharine smiled, but Ralston did not see his
advantage.
“I don’t say that I’ve found many new words to say it with,” he pursued.
“It doesn’t always seem to need new words, and if it did--well, I’m not
an author, you know. I’m not Frank Miner. I can’t go about with a
dictionary in my pocket, looking up new suits of clothes for my feelings
every time I want to air them. And sometimes I’ve said it to please you,
just because I knew you wanted me to say it and would be disappointed if
I didn’t. You see how frank I am.”
“Yes--you’re very frank!” She laughed a little, but rather hardly, as
though something hurt her.
“Don’t misunderstand me, dear,” he said, quickly. “You do--I see you do.
It’s just because I won’t be misunderstood that I’m talking as I am.
What I’m driving at is this. It isn’t true that words never mean
anything, as some people say--”
“Who says so? What nonsense!”
“Oh--people say it--books do--when the authors can’t find the words
people really say when they mean things. But it’s not true. Words mean a
great deal, when they do--when they just come because they must, you
know, in spite of everything and everybody--when they’ve strength enough
to force themselves out, instead of being dragged out, like olives out
of a bottle, and presented to you on a plate. But when they’re real,
they’re very real, with all of one, like pain or pleasure. Actions
always mean something. That’s the point. There’s no possible mistake
when a man does things that need a lot of doing, and don’t come easily.
Then you know he’s in earnest, if you’ll only look at what he does.
Don’t you think that’s true, Katharine?”
“Yes--oh, yes! That’s true enough. But it needn’t prevent a man from
saying that he cares--”
“Of course not--but if he doesn’t happen to want to say it just at that
moment--”
“But you should always want to say it. Don’t you always feel it?” She
looked at him in an odd surprise.
“Feel it--yes--always,” he answered, quickly. “But I don’t always want
to say just what I feel. Do you?”
“No. But that’s different. It makes me so happy when you say it, as you
can say it sometimes.”
“And don’t you think it makes me happy when you say it?” he retorted.
“And you don’t say it half as often as I do, I’m sure.”
“Don’t I? But I feel it, Jack.” Her eyes sought his, and found them
looking at her.
“Well--then--don’t you understand?” he asked.
But his voice was low, and it hardly reached her ears as the carriage
rumbled along, though she knew that his lips moved, and she tried hard
to catch the sounds. For a few seconds longer they looked into one
another’s eyes. Then, without word or warning, Ralston took his wife in
his arms and kissed her passionately again and again.
No one in the street could have seen, for the shades were half down and
the evening light was waning. The sun had just set, and the dark red
houses were floating in the afterglow, as everything seems to float when
twilight lifts reality from the earth into its dreamland. And the
carriage rolled and rumbled steadily along. But within it there was
silence for a while, as heart beat with heart and breath breathed with
breath.
“Jack--let me go to the Brights’,” said Katharine, suddenly, after what
had seemed a very long time.
Her voice was quite changed. It sounded so soft and touching that
Ralston could not resist it, being taken unawares.
“Dear--if you’d so much rather,” he answered, with hardly any
hesitation.
“Then tell the coachman, please,” she replied at once, without giving
him time to change his mind.
It was instinctive, and she could not help it. He yielded almost without
reluctance, and lowering the window in the front of the carriage, spoke
to the coachman. Katharine breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’m so glad--oh, I’m so glad!” she cried, leaning far back in her seat.
“I couldn’t have stood Crowdie for a whole evening!”
Ralston said nothing in answer, for he was already repenting of his
weakness, and the vision of his friend’s face rose before him, with all
its habitual calm cheerfulness suddenly twisted out of it.
“Thank you, dear,” said Katharine, softly laying her sound hand upon
his. “That was sweet of you. You don’t know how I feel about it. And
you’ll come in this evening, won’t you? Then perhaps Ham will go out.
And Mrs. Bright always goes to bed early, so we can have an hour or two
all to ourselves.”
“Certainly,” answered Ralston, a little absently, for he was thinking
more of Bright than of himself just then.
Katharine withdrew her hand from his, not quickly, nor so that he should
think she was hurt again by his tone. And she really suppressed the
little sigh of disappointment which rose to her lips.
They had been already in Fourth Avenue when Ralston had given the new
direction to the coachman, and he had turned his horses and was driving
back. The Brights lived in a small but pretty house in Park Avenue, on
Murray Hill. It was some distance to go back.
“Jack,” said Katharine, quietly, “Hamilton Bright’s your friend. Don’t
you think you’d better tell him that we’re married, and put him out of
his misery? Don’t you think it would be much more kind? You can trust
him, can’t you?”
“Just as I’d trust myself,” answered Ralston, without hesitation. “It’s
for your sake, dear--otherwise, I should have told him long ago. But you
know what most people think of secret marriages, and Ham’s full of queer
prejudices. Even the West couldn’t knock them out of him. He’s the most
terrific conservative about some things. That’s the reason why I never
thought of suggesting that I might tell him. Of course--if you’d rather.
It would be a blow to him, I think, but at the same time it’s much
better that he should know, for his own sake. Only--I’d rather not tell
him while you’re in the house.”
“Oh--if it’s going to make any difference about my staying there, we’d
better wait,” answered Katharine. “Of course--I hadn’t thought of that.
I suppose it would make it all the worse, just at first. He wouldn’t
like to see me. But he must have known, long ago, that we were engaged,
and that he had no chance.”
“The one doesn’t follow the other,” answered Ralston. “A man like Ham
doesn’t give up hope until the girl he loves is married and done for.”
“Married and done for! Jack! How you talk!”
“Oh--it’s a way of saying that she’s out of reach, that’s all. I’ve
heard you say it lots of times. No,” he continued, after a moment’s
pause, “I think it would be kinder to wait till you come away. But of
course I could tell him any day, down town.”
“Do as you think best, dear. Whatever you do will be right. Only--” She
stopped, and looked out of the window on her right, away from Ralston.
“Only what?” he asked.
“Only love me!” she cried, almost fiercely, and turning upon him so
quickly that she pressed her injured right arm against the side of the
carriage. “Only love me as I want to be loved--as I must be loved--”
The passion in her outran the pain of the physical hurt, that crept
after it and reached her a moment later, so that she turned a little
pale. Jack did not know of that, and in his eyes the pallor was of the
heart, as the voice was, and the words. It made her more beautiful, and
made love seem more true. Then his own heart beat hard, answering the
call of hers, as wave answers wave, and his arms were around her again
in an instant.
But at that moment the carriage stopped before the Brights’ house. A
smile came into the face of both of them as they drew back from one
another. Then Ralston opened the door and got out.
It might not have been easy to explain to Mrs. Bright exactly why
Katharine had arrived unexpectedly with a box and a valise to stay three
or four days with her, instead of going to her own house at such a time.
She knew, of course, that the young girl had been at Robert Lauderdale’s
during the last twenty-four hours. But Mrs. Bright wanted no
explanations, and was overjoyed to have Katharine for any reason, or
without any. She received her with open arms, ordered her things to be
taken upstairs, asked Ralston to stay and have some tea, and at once
began making many enquiries about Katharine’s arm. Ralston went away
immediately, however. After being alone with Katharine in the carriage,
as he had been, he did not care to sit still and listen to the excellent
Mrs. Bright’s questions.
“Thank you, dear,” said Katharine again, in an undertone, as he bade her
good-bye. “Come this evening. May Jack come this evening, aunt Maggie?”
she asked, turning to Mrs. Bright.
“Of course, my dear--whenever he likes,” answered the cheerful lady.
Mrs. Bright was a great-granddaughter of the primeval Alexander. Her
mother had been Margaret Lauderdale. By no possible interpretation of
the relationship was she entitled to be considered the aunt of any
member of the tribe. But they one and all called her aunt Maggie. Even
the three Miss Miners, who were nieces of Mr. Bright’s father, called
her so, and the custom had become fixed and unchangeable in the course
of many years. Of late, even grandpapa Lauderdale, the philanthropist,
had fallen into the habit, much to the amusement of everybody.
Mrs. Bright was a huge, fair, happy-faced woman with an amazingly kind
heart and a fresh face, peculiar from the apparent absence of
eyebrows--which existed, indeed, but were almost white by nature. She
had the busy manner peculiar to a certain type of very stout people.
When she was not asleep she was doing good to somebody--but she slept a
great deal. Her tastes were marvellously good, highly refined, and very
fastidious. Cleanliness is a virtue next to godliness, according to the
proverb--and since a number of persons have relegated godliness to the
catalogue of obsolete superstitions, cleanliness with them, at least,
should stand first of all. But Mrs. Bright’s mania was specklessness
surpassing all dreams of cleanliness, as pure spring water surpasses
soap as a symbol of purity. She took care to see that her house was
swept, and she garnished it herself. She exhaled a faint suggestion of
sprigs of lavender.
Hamilton Bright inherited his fresh complexion, sturdy build, and solid
good humour from her, but a certain shyness and reserve which were among
his characteristics had come to him from his father.
To Katharine’s surprise, he was already at home, and came down to see
her as soon as he heard that she was in the house. He sat down by the
little tea-table which stood between her and his mother, and he wondered
inwardly why she had come. He was pleased, however, and it seemed to him
that her coming crowned the day which had brought him such vast and
unexpected good fortune. There are men who love with all their hearts
and who are not loved in return, nor have any hope of such love, whose
greatest happiness is to see the vainly worshipped object of their
misplaced affections under just such circumstances. Bright was delighted
that Katharine should be his guest and his mother’s--she was his guest
first, in his thoughts, and it gave him the keenest pleasure to see her
drinking his and his mother’s tea out of his and his mother’s old
Dresden teacups, just as though it were her own, and thinking it just as
good.
He asked no questions, and he thought of no answers which she might give
if he asked any. He was simply pleased, and wished nothing to interfere
with his satisfaction as long as it might last.
“It’s awfully jolly to see you here,” he said, after he had looked at
her for nearly a minute.
“Well, you can’t be half as pleased as I am,” she answered. “I was there
all last night, you know, and all to-day. It’s grim. I couldn’t stand it
any longer. And I knew they didn’t exactly expect me at home--and I
didn’t want to go to Hester’s, so I thought I’d drop down upon you
without warning, as I knew you had nobody staying with you. But it was
rather a calm thing to do, now that I think of it--wasn’t it, aunt
Maggie?”
Mrs. Bright beamed, smiled, kissed her fingers to the young girl, and
then did perfectly useless things with the silver tea-strainer, rinsing
it again with boiling water, and touching it fastidiously, as though it
might possibly soil her immaculate hands.