Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  She was very nervous herself that evening, and as Griggs had said, she was anxious about her husband. There was no real foundation for her anxiety, but since her recent experience, she was very easily frightened. Crowdie had spoken excitedly to her about Ralston’s conduct at the club that afternoon, and she had fancied that there was something unusual in his look.

  “Oh, Hester, what is it?” asked Katharine, bending nearer to her and laying a hand on hers.

  “Don’t look so awfully frightened, dear!” Hester smiled, but not very naturally. “It’s nothing very serious. In fact, I believe it’s only that Walter saw him at the club late this afternoon and got the idea that he wasn’t — quite well.”

  “Not well? Is he ill? Where is he? At home?” Katharine asked the questions all in a breath, with no suspicion that Hester had softened the truth almost altogether into something else.

  “I suppose he’s at home, since he’s not here,” answered Mrs. Crowdie, wishing that she had said so at first and had said nothing more.

  “Oh, Hester! What is it? I know it’s something dreadful!” cried Katharine. “I shall go and ask Mr. Crowdie if you won’t tell me.”

  “Don’t!” exclaimed Mrs. Crowdie, so quickly and so loudly that the people near her turned to see what was the matter.

  “You’ve told me, now — he must be very ill, or you wouldn’t speak like that!” Katharine’s lips began to turn white, and she half rose from her seat.

  Mrs. Crowdie drew her back again very gently.

  “No, dear — no, I assure — I give you my word it’s not that, dear — oh, I’m so sorry I said anything!” Katharine yielded, and resumed her seat.

  “Hester, what is it?” she asked very gravely for the third time. “You’re my best friend — the only friend I have besides him. If it’s anything bad, I’d much rather hear it from you. But I can’t stand this suspense. I shall ask everybody until somebody tells me the truth.”

  Mrs. Crowdie seemed to reflect for a moment before answering, but even while she was thinking of what she should say, her passionate eyes sought for her husband’s pale face in the crowd — the pale face and the red lips that so many women thought repulsive.

  “Dear,” she said at last, “it’s foolish to make such a fuss and to frighten you. That sort of thing has happened to almost all men at one time or another — really, you know! You mustn’t blame Jack too much—”

  “For what? For what? Speak, Hester! Don’t try to—”

  “Katharine darling, Walter says that Jack was — well — you know — just a little far gone — and they had some trouble with him at the club. I don’t know — it seems that my brother tried to hold him for some reason or other — it’s not quite clear — and Jack threw Ham down, there in the hall of the club, before a lot of people — Katharine dearest, I’m so sorry I spoke!”

  Katharine was leaning back against the cushion, her hands folded together, and her face set like a mask; but she said nothing, and scarcely seemed to be listening, though she heard every word.

  “Of course, dear,” continued Mrs. Crowdie, “I know how you love him — but you mustn’t think any the worse of him for this. Ham just told me it wasn’t — well — it wasn’t as bad as Walter made out, and he was very angry with Walter for telling me — as though he would keep anything from me!”

  She stopped again, being much more inclined to talk of Crowdie than of Ralston, and to defend his indiscretion. Katharine did not move nor change her position, and her eyes looked straight before her, though it was clear that they saw nothing.

  “I’m glad it was you who told me,” she said in a low, monotonous tone.

  “So am I,” answered her friend, sympathetically. “And I’m sure it’s not half as bad as they—”

  “They all know it,” continued Katharine, not heeding her. “I can see it in their eyes when they look at me.”

  “Nonsense, Katharine — nobody but Walter and Ham—”

  “Your husband told my mother, too. She spoke very oddly. He’s been telling every one. Why does he want to make trouble? Does he hate Jack so?”

  “Hate him? No, indeed! I think he’s rather fond of him—”

  “It’s a very treacherous sort of fondness, then,” answered Katharine, with a bitter little laugh, and changing her position at last, so that she looked into her friend’s face.

  “Katharine!” exclaimed Hester. “How can you talk like that — telling me that Walter is treacherous—”

  “Oh — you mustn’t mind what I say — I’m a little upset — I didn’t mean to hurt you, dear.”

  Katharine rose, and without another word she left her friend and began to go up the side of the room alone, looking for some one as she went. In a moment one of her numerous young adorers was by her side. He had seen her talking to Mrs. Crowdie, and had watched his opportunity.

  “No,” said Katharine, absently, and without looking at him. “I don’t want to dance, thanks. I want to find my cousin, Hamilton Bright. Have you seen him?”

  “Oh — ah — yes!” answered the young man, with an imitation of the advanced English manner of twenty years ago, which seems to have become the ideal of our gilded youth of to-day. “He’s in the corner under the balcony — he’s been — er — rather leathering into Crowdie — you know — er — for talking about Jack Ralston’s last, all over the place — I daresay you’ve heard of it, Miss Lauderdale — being — er — a cousin of your own, too. No end game, that Ralston chap!”

  Katharine lost her temper suddenly. She stopped and looked the young dandy in the eyes. He never forgot the look of hers, nor the paleness of her lips as she spoke.

  “You’re rather young to speak like that of older men, Mr. Van De Water,” she said.

  She coolly turned her back on the annihilated youth and walked away from him alone, almost as surprised at what she had done as he was. He, poor boy, got very red in the face, stood still, helped himself into countenance by sticking a single glass in his eye and then went in search of his dearest friend, the man who had just discovered that extraordinary tailor in New Burlington Street, you know.

  Katharine had been half stunned by what Hester Crowdie had told her, which she felt instinctively was not more than a moiety of the truth. She had barely recovered her self-possession when she was met by what rang like an insult in her ears. It was no wonder that her blood boiled. Without looking to the right or to the left, she went forward till she was under the great balcony, and there, by one of the pillars, she came upon Bright and Crowdie talking together in low, excited tones.

  Bright’s big shoulders slowly heaved as in his anger he took about twice as much breath as he needed into his lungs at every sentence. His fresh, pink face was red, and his bright blue eyes flashed visibly. What the young dandy had said was evidently true. He was still ‘leathering into’ Crowdie with all his might, which was considerable.

  Crowdie, perfectly cool and collected, leaned against the wooden pillar with a disagreeable sneer on his red mouth. One hand was in his pocket; the other hung by his side, and his fingers quietly tapped a little measure upon the fluted column. Almost every one has that trick of tapping upon something in moments of anxiety or uncertainty, but the way in which it is done is very characteristic of the individual. Crowdie’s pointed white fingers did it delicately, drawing back lightly from contact with the wood, as a woman’s might, or as though he were playing upon a fine instrument.

  “It’s just like you, Walter,” Bright was saying, to go about telling the thing to all the women. Didn’t I tell you this afternoon that I was the principal person concerned, that it was my business and not yours and that if I wished it kept quiet, nobody need tell? And you said yourself that you hoped Hester might not hear it, and then the very first thing I find is that you’ve told her and cousin Emma and probably Katharine herself—”

  “No, I’ve not told Katharine,” said Crowdie, calmly. “I shan’t, because she loves him. The Lord knows why! Drunken beast! I shall leave the club
myself, since he’s not to be turned out—”

  Crowdie stopped suddenly, for he was more timid than most men, and his face plainly expressed fear at that moment — but not of Hamilton Bright. Katharine Lauderdale was looking at him over Bright’s shoulder and had plainly heard what he had said. A man’s fear of woman under certain circumstances exceeds his utmost possible fear of man. The painter knew at once that he had accidentally done Katharine something like a mortal injury. He felt as a man must feel who has accidentally shot some one while playing with a loaded pistol.

  As for Katharine, this was the third blow she had received within five minutes. The fact that she was in a measure prepared for it had not diminished its force. It had the effect, however, of quenching her rising anger instead of further inflaming it, as young Van De Water’s foolish remarks had done. She begun to feel that she had a real calamity to face — something against which mere anger would have no effect. She heard every word Crowdie said, and each struck her with cruel precision in the same aching spot. But she drew herself up proudly as she came between the two men. There was something almost queenly in the quiet dignity with which she affected to ignore what she had heard, even trying to give her white lips the shadow of a civil smile as she spoke.

  “Mr. Crowdie, I wish to speak to Hamilton a moment — you don’t mind, do you?”

  Crowdie looked at her with undisguised amazement and admiration. He uttered some polite but half inaudible words and moved away, glad, perhaps, to get out of the sphere of Bright’s invective. Bright understood very well that Katharine had heard, and admired her calmness almost as much as Crowdie did, though he did not know as much as the latter concerning Katharine’s relations with Ralston. Hester Crowdie, who told her husband everything, had told him most of what Katharine had confided to her, not considering it a betrayal of confidence, because she trusted him implicitly. No day of disenchantment had yet come for her.

  “Won’t you come and sit down?” asked Bright, rather anxiously. “There’s a corner there.”

  “Yes,” said Katharine, moving in the direction of the vacant seats.

  “I’m afraid you heard what that brute said,” Bright remarked before they had reached the place. “If I’d seen you coming—”

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference,” Katharine answered. Then they sat down side by side. “It’s much too serious a matter to be angry about,” she continued, settling herself and looking at his face, and feeling that it was a relief to see a pair of honest blue eyes at last. “That’s why I come to you. It happened to you, it seems. Everybody is talking about it, and I have some right to know—” She hesitated and then continued. “He’s a near relation and all that, of course, and whatever he does makes a difference to us all — my mother has heard, too — I’m sure Mr. Crowdie told her. Didn’t he?”

  “I believe so,” answered Bright. “He’s just like a — oh, well! I’ll swear at him when I’m alone.”

  “I’m glad you’re angry with him,” said Katharine, and her eyes flashed a little. “It’s so mean! But that’s not the question. I want to know from your own lips what happened — and why he’s not here. I have a right to know because — because we were going to dance the cotillion together — and besides—”

  She hesitated again, and stopped altogether this time.

  “It’s very natural, I’m sure,” said Bright, who was not the type of men who seek confidences. “Crowdie has made it all out much worse than it was. He’s a — I mean — I wish I’d met him when I was driving cattle in the Nacimiento Valley!”

  Katharine had never seen Bright so angry before, and the sight was very soothing and comforting to her. She fully concurred in Bright’s last-expressed wish.

  “You’re Jack’s best friend, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Oh, well — a friend — he always says he hasn’t any. But I daresay I’d do as much for him as most of them, though, if I had to. I always liked the fellow for his dash, and we generally get on very well together. He’s just a trifle lively sometimes, and he doesn’t go well on the curb when he’s had — when he’s too lively—”

  “Why don’t you say when he drinks?” asked Katharine, biting on the words, as it were, though she forced herself to say them.

  “Well, he doesn’t drink exactly,” said Bright. “He’s got an awfully strong head and a cast-iron constitution, but he’s a queer chap. He gets melancholy, and thinks he’s a failure and tries to cheer himself with cocktails. And then, you see, having such a nerve, he doesn’t know exactly how many he takes; and there’s a limit, of course — and the last one does the trick. Then he won’t take anything to speak of for days together. He got a little too much on board last Monday — but that was excusable, and I hadn’t seen him that way for a long time. I daresay you heard of it? He saved a boy’s life between a lot of carts and horse-cars, and got a bad fall; and then, quite naturally — just as I should have done myself — he swallowed a big dose of something, and it went to his head. But he went straight home in a cab, so I suppose it was all right. It was a pretty brave thing he did — talk of baseball! It was one of the smartest bits of fielding I ever saw — the way he caught up the little chap, and the dog and the perambulator — forgot nothing, though it was a close shave. Oh — he’s brave enough! It’s a pity he can’t find anything to do.”

  “Monday,” repeated Katharine, thoughtfully. “Yes — I heard about it. Go on, please, Ham — about to-day. I want to hear everything there is.”

  “Oh — Crowdie talks like a fool about it. I suppose Jack was a little depressed, or something, and had been trying to screw himself up a bit. Anyway, he looked rather wild, and I tried to persuade him to stay a little while before going out of the club — it was in the hall, you know. I behaved like an ass myself — you know I’m awfully obstinate. He really did look a little wild, though! I held his arm — just like that, you know—” he laid his broad hand upon Katharine’s glove— “and then, somehow, we got fooling together — there in the hall — and he tripped me up on my back, and ran out. It was all over in a minute; and I was rather angry at the time, because Crowdie and little Frank Miner were there, and a couple of servants. But I give you my word, I didn’t say anything beyond making them all four swear that they wouldn’t tell—”

  “And this is the result!” said Katharine, with a sigh. “What was that he said about being turned out of the club?”

  “Crowdie? Oh — some nonsense or other! He felt his ladyship offended because there had been a bit of a wrestling match in the hall of his club, that’s all, and said he meant to leave it—”

  “No — but about Jack being turned out—”

  “It’s all nonsense of Crowdie’s. Men are turned out of a club for cheating at cards, and that sort of thing. Besides, Jack’s popular with most of the men. I don’t believe you could get a committee to sit on his offences — not if he locked the oldest member up in the ice-chest, and threw the billiard-table out of the window. He says he has no friends — but it’s all bosh, you know — everybody likes him, except that doughy brother-in-law of mine!”

  Katharine was momentarily comforted by Bright’s account of the matter, delivered in his familiar, uncompromising fashion. But she was very far from regaining her composure. She saw that Bright was purposely making light of the matter; and in the course of the silence, which lasted several minutes after he had finished speaking, it all looked worse than it had looked before she had known the exact truth.

  She felt, too, an instinct of repulsion from Ralston, which she had never known, nor dreamed possible. Could he not have controlled himself a few hours longer? It was their wedding day. Twelve hours had not passed from the time when they had left the church together until he had been drunk — positively drunk, to the point of knocking down his best friend in such a place as a club. She could not deny the facts. Even Hamilton Bright, kind — more than kind, devoted — did not attempt to conceal the fact that Ralston had been what he called ‘lively.’ And if Bright co
uld not try to make him out to have been sober, who could?

  And they had been married that morning! If he had been sober — the word cut her like a whip — if he had been sober, they would at that very moment have been sitting together — planning their future — perhaps in that very corner.

  She did not know all yet, either. The clock was striking twelve. It was about at that time that John Ralston was brought into his mother’s house by a couple of policemen, who had found his card-case in his pocket, and had the sense — with the hope of a handsome fee — to bring him home, insensible, stunned almost to death with the blow he had received.

  They had waked him roughly, the conductor and the other man, who was really a prize fighter, at the end of the run, in front of the horse-car stables, and John had struck out before he was awake, as some excitable men do. The fight had followed as a matter of course, out in the snow. The professional had not meant to hurt him, but had lost his temper when John had reached him and cut his lip, and a right-handed counter had settled the matter — a heavy right-hander just under John’s left ear.

  The policemen said they had picked him up out of a drunken brawl. According to them, everybody was drunk — Ralston, the prize fighter, — who had paid five dollars to be left in peace after the adventure, — the conductor, the driver and every living thing on the scene of action, including the wretched horses of the car.

  There was a short account of the affair in the morning papers, but only one or two of them mentioned Ralston’s name.

  Katharine had yet much to learn about the doings on her wedding day, when she suddenly announced her intention of going home before the ball was half over. Hester Crowdie took her, in her own carriage; and Mrs. Lauderdale and Crowdie stayed till the end.

  Now against all this chain of evidence, including that of several men who had met John in Fifth Avenue about six o’clock, with no overcoat and his hat badly smashed, against evidence that would have hanged a man ten times over in a murder case, stood the plain fact, which nobody but Ralston knew, and which no one would ever believe — the plain fact that he had drunk nothing at all.