It was only an instant. Then their lips met.
“Yes,” he whispered, and drew back as the door opened.
Mrs. Lauderdale entered the room.
“Oh, are you there, Jack?” she asked, but without any surprise, as though she were accustomed to find him with Katharine.
“Yes,” answered Ralston, quietly. “I’ve been here ever so long. How do you do, cousin Emma?”
“Oh, I’m so tired!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale. “I’ve been working all day long. I positively can’t see.”
“You ought not to work so hard,” said Ralston. “You’ll wear your eyes out.”
“No, I’m strong, and so are my eyes. I only wanted to say that I was tired. It’s such a relief!”
Mrs. Lauderdale had been a very beautiful woman, and was, indeed, only just beginning to lose her beauty. She was much taller than either of her daughters, but of a different type of figure from Katharine, and less evenly grown, if such an expression may be permitted. The hand was typical of the difference. Mrs. Lauderdale’s was extremely long and thin, but well made in the details, though out of proportion in the way of length and narrowness as a whole. Katharine’s hand was firm and full, without being what is called a thick hand. There was a more perfect balance between flesh and bone in the straight, strong fingers. Mrs. Lauderdale had been one of those magnificent fair beauties occasionally seen in Kentucky, — a perfect head with perfect but small features, superb golden hair, straight, clear eyes, a small red mouth, — great dignity of carriage, too, with the something which has been christened ‘dash’ when she moved quickly, or did anything with those long hands of hers, — a marvellous constitution, and the dazzling complexion of snow and carnations that goes with it, very different from the softer ‘milk and roses’ of the Latin poet’s mistress. Mrs. Lauderdale had always been described as dazzling, and people who saw her for the first time used the word even now to convey the impression she made. Her age, which was known only to some members of the family, and which is not of the slightest importance to this history, showed itself chiefly in a diminution of this dazzling quality. The white was less white, the carnation was becoming a common pink, the gold of her hair was no longer gold all through, but distinctly brown in many places, though it would certainly never turn grey until extreme old age. Her movements, too, were less free, though stately still, — the brutal word ‘rheumatism’ had been whispered by the family doctor, — and to go back to her face, there were undeniably certain tiny lines, and many of them, which were not the lines of beauty.
It was a brave, good face, on the whole, gifted, sometimes sympathetic, and oddly cold when the woman’s temper was most impulsive. For there is an expression of coldness which weakness puts on in self-defence. A certain narrowness of view, diametrically opposed to a corresponding narrowness in her husband’s mind, did not show itself in her features. There is a defiant, supremely satisfied look which shows that sort of limitation. Possibly such narrowness was not natural with Mrs. Lauderdale, but the result of having been systematically opposed on certain particular grounds throughout more than a quarter of a century of married life. However that may be, it was by this time a part of her nature, though not outwardly expressed in any apparent way.
She had not been very happy with Alexander Junior, and she admitted the fact. She knew also that she had been a good wife to him in every fair sense of the word. For although she had enjoyed compensations, she had taken advantage of them in a strictly conscientious way. Undeniable beauty, of the kind which every one recognizes instantly without the slightest hesitation, is so rare a gift that it does indeed compensate its possessor for many misfortunes, especially when she enjoys amusement for its own sake, innocently and without losing her head or becoming spoiled and affected by constant admiration. Katharine Lauderdale had not that degree of beauty, and there were numerous persons who did not even care for what they called ‘her style.’ Her sister Charlotte had something of her mother’s brilliancy, indeed, but there was a hardness about her face and nature which was apparent at first sight. Mrs. Alexander had always remained the beauty of the family, and indeed the beauty of the society to which she belonged, even after her daughters had been grown up. She had outshone them, even in a world like that of New York, which does not readily compare mothers and daughters in any way, and asks them out separately as though they did not belong to each other.
She had not been very happy, and apart from any purely imaginary bliss, procurable only by some miraculous changes in Alexander Junior’s heart and head, she believed that the only real thing lacking was money. She had always been poor. She had never known what seemed to her the supreme delight of sitting in her own carriage. She had never tasted the pleasure of having five hundred dollars to spend on her fancies, exactly as she pleased. The question of dress had always been more or less of a struggle. She had not exactly extravagant tastes, but she should have liked to feel once in her life that she was at liberty to throw aside a pair of perfectly new gloves, merely because when she put them on the first time one of the seams was a little crooked, or the lower part was too loose for her narrow hand. She had always felt that when she had bought a thing she must wear it out, as a matter of conscience, even if it did not suit her. And there was a real little pain in the thought, of which she was ashamed. Small things, but womanly and human. Then, too, there was the constant chafing of her pardonable pride when ninety-nine of her acquaintances all did the same thing, and she was the hundredth who could not afford it — and the subscriptions and the charity concerts and the theatre parties. It was mainly in order to supply herself with a little money for such objects as these that she had worked so hard at her painting for years — that she might not be obliged to apply to her husband for such sums on every occasion. She had succeeded to some extent, too, and her initials had a certain reputation, even with the dealers. Many people knew that those same initials were hers, and a few friends were altogether in her confidence. Possibly if she had been less beautiful, she would have been spoken of at afternoon teas as ‘poor Mrs. Lauderdale,’ and people would have been found — for society has its kindly side — who would have half-surreptitiously paid large sums for bits of her work, even much more than her miniatures could ever be worth. But she did not excite pity. She looked rich, as some people do to their cost. People sympathized with her in the matter of Alexander Junior’s character, for he was not popular. But no one thought of pitying her because she was poor. On the contrary, many persons envied her. It must be ‘such fun,’ they said, to be able to paint and really sell one’s paintings. A dashing woman with a lot of talent, who can make a few hundreds in half an hour when she chooses, said others. What did she spend the money on? On whatever she pleased — probably in charity, she was so good-hearted. But those people did not see her as Jack Ralston saw her, worn out with a long day’s work, her eyes aching, her naturally good temper almost on edge; and they did not know that Katharine Lauderdale’s simple ball gowns were paid for by the work of her mother’s hands. It was just as well that they did not know it. Society has such queer fits sometimes — somebody might have given Katharine a dress. But Ralston was in the secret and knew.
“One may be as strong as cast-steel,” he said. “Even that wears out. Ask the people who make engines. You’ll accomplish a great deal more if you go easy and give yourself rest from time to time.”
“Like you, Jack,” observed Mrs. Lauderdale, not unkindly.
“Oh, I’m a failure. I admitted the fact long ago. I’m only fit for a bad example, — a sort of moral scarecrow.”
“Yes. I wonder why?” Mrs. Lauderdale was tired and was thinking aloud. “I didn’t mean to say that, Jack,” she added, frankly, realizing what she had said, from the recollection of the sound of her own voice, as people sometimes do who are exhausted or naturally absent-minded.
“It wasn’t exactly complimentary, mother,” said Katharine, coldly. “Besides, is it fair to say that a man is a failure at Jack’s age? Patrick H
enry was a failure at twenty-three. He was bankrupt.”
“Patrick Henry!” exclaimed Ralston. “What do you know about Patrick Henry?”
“Oh, I’ve been reading history. It was he who said, ‘Give me liberty, or give me death.’”
“Was it? I didn’t know. But I’m glad to hear of somebody who got smashed first and celebrated afterwards. It’s generally the other way, like Napoleon and Julius Cæsar.”
“Cardinal Wolsey, Alexander the Great, and John Gilpin. It’s easy to multiply examples, as the books say.”
“You’re much too clever for me this evening. I must be going home. My mother and I are going to dine all alone and abuse our neighbours all the evening.”
“How delightful!” exclaimed Katharine, thinking of the grim family table at which she was to sit as usual — there had been some fine fighting in Charlotte’s unmarried days, but Katharine’s opposition was generally of the silent kind.
“Yes,” answered Ralston. “There’s nobody like my mother. She’s the best company in the world. Good night, cousin Emma. Good night, Katharine.”
But Katharine followed him into the entry, letting the library door almost close behind her.
“It will be quite time enough, if you come and tell me on the evening before it is to be,” she whispered hurriedly. “There’s no party to-morrow night, but on Wednesday I’m going to the Thirlwalls’ dance.”
“Will any morning do?” asked Ralston, also in a whisper.
“Yes, any morning. Now go — quick. That’s enough, dear — there, if you must. Go — good night — dear!”
The process of leave-taking was rather spasmodic, so far as Katharine was concerned. Ralston felt that same strange emotion once more as he found himself out upon the pavement of Clinton Place. His head swam a little, and he stopped to light a cigarette before he turned towards Fifth Avenue.
Katharine went back into the library, and found her mother sitting as the two had left her, and apparently unconscious that her daughter had gone out of the room.
“He’s quite right, mother dear. You are trying to do too much,” said Katharine, coming behind the low chair and smoothing her mother’s beautiful hair, kissing it softly and speaking into the heavy waves of it.
Mrs. Lauderdale put up one thin hand, and patted the girl’s cheek without turning to look at her, but said nothing for a moment.
“It’s quite true,” Katharine said. “You mustn’t do it any more.”
“How smooth your cheek is, child!” said Mrs. Lauderdale, thoughtfully.
“So is yours, mother dear.”
“No — it’s not. It’s full of little lines. Touch it — you can feel them — just there. Besides — you can see them.”
“I don’t feel anything — and I don’t see anything,” answered Katharine.
But she knew what her mother meant, and it made her a little sad — even her. She had been accustomed all her life to believe that her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, and she knew that the time had just come when she must grow used to not believing it any longer. Mrs. Lauderdale had never said anything of the sort before. She had been supreme in her way, and had taken it for granted that she was, never referring to her own looks under any circumstances.
In the long silence that followed, Katharine quietly went and closed the shutters of the windows, for Ralston had only pulled down the shades. She drew the dark curtains across for the evening, lit another gaslight, and remained standing by the fireplace.
“Thank you, darling,” said Mrs. Lauderdale.
“I do wish papa would let us have lamps, or shades, or something,” said Katharine, looking disconsolately at the ground-glass globes of the gaslights.
“He doesn’t like them — he says he can’t see.”
There was a short pause.
“Oh, mother dear! what in the world does papa like, I wonder?” Katharine turned with an impatient movement as she spoke, and her broad eyebrows almost met between her eyes.
“Hush, child!” But the words were uttered wearily and mechanically — Mrs. Lauderdale had pronounced them so often under precisely the same circumstances during the last quarter of a century.
Katharine sighed, a little out of impatience and to some extent in pity for her mother. But she stood looking across the room at the closed door through which Ralston and she had gone out together five minutes earlier, and she could still feel his last kiss on her cheek. He had never seemed so loving as on that day, and she had succeeded in persuading him, against his instinctive judgment, to promise her what she asked, — the maddest, most foolish thing a girl’s imagination could long for, no matter with what half-reasonable excuse. But she had his promise, which, as she well knew, he would keep — and she loved him with all her heart. The expression of mingled sadness and impatience vanished like a breath from a polished mirror. She was unconscious that she looked radiantly happy, as her mother gazed up into her face.
“What a beautiful creature you are!” said Mrs. Lauderdale, in a tone unlike her natural voice.
CHAPTER V.
KATHARINE HAD NO anxiety about the future, and it seemed to her that she had managed matters in the wisest and most satisfactory manner possible. She had provided, as she thought, against the possibility of any subsequent interference with her marriage in case she should see fit to take the step of which she had spoken. The combination seemed perfect, and even a sensible person, taking into consideration all the circumstances, might have found something to say in favour of a marriage which should not be generally discussed. Ralston and Katharine, though not rich, were decidedly prominent young people in their own society, and their goings and comings interested the gossips and furnished food for conversation. There were many reasons for this. Neither of them was exactly like the average young person in the world. But the great name of Lauderdale, which was such a real power in the financial world, contributed most largely to the result. Every one who bore it, or who was as closely connected with it as the Ralstons, was more or less before the public. Most of the society paragraph writers in the newspapers spoke of the family, collectively and individually, as often as they could find anything to say about it, and as a general rule the tone of their remarks was subdued and laudatory, and betrayed something very like awe. The presence of the Lauderdales and the Ralstons was taken for granted in all accounts of big parties, first nights at the opera and Daly’s, and of other similar occasions. From time to time a newspaper man in a fit of statistics calculated how many dollars of income accrued to Robert Lauderdale at every minute, and proceeded to show how much each member of the family would have if it were all equally divided. As Robert the Rich had made his money in real estate, and his name never appeared in connection with operations in Wall Street, he was therefore not periodically assailed by the wrathful chorus of the sold and ruined, abusing him and his people to the youngest of the living generation, an ordeal with which the great speculators are familiar. But from time to time the daily papers published wood-cuts supposed to be portraits of him and his connections, and the obituary notice of him — which was, of course, kept ready in every newspaper office — would have given even the old gentleman himself some satisfaction. The only member of the family who suffered at all for being connected with him was Benjamin Slayback, the member of Congress. If he ever dared to hint at any measure implying expenditure on the part of the country, he was promptly informed by some Honourable Member on the other side, that it was all very well for him to be reckless, with the whole Lauderdale fortune at his back, but that ordinary mortals had to content themselves with ordinary possibilities. The member from California called him the Eastern Crœsus, and the member from Massachusetts called him the Western Millionaire, and the member from Missouri quoted Scripture at him, while the Social-Democrat member from Somewhere — there was one at that time, and he was a little curiosity in his way — called him a Capitalist, than which epithet the social-democratic dictionary contains none more biting and more offensive
in the opinion of its compilers. Altogether, at such times the Honourable Slayback of Nevada had a very bad quarter of an hour because he had married Charlotte Lauderdale, — penniless but a Lauderdale, very inadequately fitted out for a bride, though she was the grand-niece of Robert the Rich. Slayback of Nevada, however, had a certain rough dignity of his own, and never mentioned those facts. He had plenty of money himself and did not covet any that belonged to his wife’s relations.
“I’m not as rich as your uncle Robert,” he said to her on the day after their marriage, “and I don’t count on being. But you can have all you want. There’s enough to go round, now. Maybe you wouldn’t like to be bothering me all the while for little things? Yes, that’s natural; so I’ll just put something up to your credit at Riggs’s and you can have a cheque-book. When you’ve got through it, tell Riggs to let me know. You might be shy of telling me.”
And Benjamin Slayback smiled in a kindly fashion not at all familiar to his men friends, and on the following day Charlotte received a notice from the bank to the effect that ten thousand dollars stood to her credit. Never having had any money of her own, the sum seemed a fortune to her, and she showed herself properly grateful, and forgave Benjamin a multitude of small sins, even such as having once worn a white satin tie in the evening, and at the opera, of all places.
Katharine was perfectly well aware that the smallest actions of her family were subjects for public discussion, and she knew how people would talk if it were ever discovered that she had been secretly married to John Ralston. On the other hand, the rest of the Lauderdales were in the same position, and would be quite willing, when they were acquainted with the facts, to say that the marriage had been a private one, leaving it to be supposed that they had known all about it from the first. She had no anxiety for the future, therefore, and believed that she was acting with her eyes open to all conceivable contingencies and possibilities. Matters were not, indeed, finally settled, for even after she was married she would still have the interview with her uncle to face; but she felt sure of the result. It was so easy for him to do exactly what he pleased, as it seemed to her, to make or unmake men’s fortunes at his will, as she could tie and untie a bit of string.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 661
